Peach Elba

It's not often that I watch things on iPlayer having already caught it live on TV, but the final ever episode of Luther was just peachy.  This was series three but after tuning in for the first two episodes of series one, I found it insufferably implausible and over-acted, with more ham than a leg of swine.  However, after office colleagues spoke about the approach of the third series in glowing terms, I decided to give it a second chance.  They way to come at Luther is that it is hyper-reality, that is why snow is quite explicit in some scenes even though they know it will be scheduled to appear in July.  This provides the grounding for the regular occurrence of serial killers and the ability of John Luther, played by Idris Elba, to apprehend them ultimately.  I even learnt for the first time last night that the title music was done by Massive Attack, which explained its seductiveness.
The first three episodes of this series had a few annoying tics (like a soon-to-be victim hiding in a closet, duh!) but were gripping enough to keep me watching, the death of Justin Ripley, Luther's partner, quite shocking and made me think that the removal of such a major character meant this was the last series before it was confirmed the next day.  As it's now left iPlayer, I'm going to go spoil faster than cream left outside in the sun.
The final episode was inventive and taut, with surprises such as the reappearance of Alice, plus ramming home what a bastard mass-murderer Tom Marlow when he kidnapped a pregnant woman to advance his agenda; the acting was at the right pitch; and ultimately the whole came together as very satisfying with the monomaniac dickhead George Stack getting his just deserts first getting the blast of a gas grenade in his face and then beaten with a truncheon and then later with a shotgun blast to the chest (and really only death would stop his paranoid pursuit of Luther) and Erin Gray left wounded and looking foolish (even when her life was in mortal danger she was still trying to take down Luther).  Marlow was stabbed and in begging for life to end (in return for revealing where the pregnant woman was), had it saved, to really hurt him for killing Ripley.  There were still a few moments where disbelief struggled to be suppressed such as Luther struggling up many, many flights of stairs despite being shot in the thigh.  The ending though was very appropriate with Luther meeting up with Alice again on a nearly deserted central London bridge (as at the end of the very first episode, despite bridges further on being packed with traffic - hyper-reality as I say) and throwing his trademark coat into the Thames, signifying a conclusion to Luther overall better than any words could.

For British audiences, Elba is also the main character in Pacific Rim, an excellent reworking on robots fighting monsters as in traditional Japanese sci-fi (and the Beastie Boys' video for Intergalactic).  None of the actors are true A-list, the closest being Ron Perlman as monster smuggler Hannibal Chau, so you don't know who'll survive and who'll make it to the end.  Guillermo del Toro even has it so on edge that it's possible that the monsters - the kaiju - might even win.  The jaeger robots are true works of imaginative genius.  The terms kaiju and jaeger are explained in dictionary format at the beginning and I was recently unkind about my friend Simon Savory doing the same with chimera, but the Japanese and the German term are less embedded in our language than chimera and anyway, these terms are not explained later in the film, making their presence this way relevant.
There are a welter of personal touches that lift this movie out of the usual disaster flick shtick - a jaeger being pushed to the very edge of the harbour, stopping just in time but not without gently tilting a few iron bollards causing kamikaze seagulls to depart only at this moment.  That same robot's arm crashing through an office block and as it slides along one level the inertia takes to slightly bump a desk, setting a Newton's cradle in motion; using a ship with which to bash a kaiju around the head; and underwater nuclear explosion evaporating the seawater before the force flings the fish in the vicinity (though far away enough not to be vaporised) onto the temporarily dry ocean bed.  My favourite moments are when (ahem, watch out) Chau gets eaten by a baby monster in the same unceremonious way that he had stuck his knife into the seemingly lifeless creature's nose seconds before; and the best - one of the boffins having shared a neural 'drift' with his fellow scientist and the brain of a dying kaiju is left feeling overwhelmingly nauseous and finds an intact toilet thrown from a building incongruously into middle of the street and lifts the lid to retch into it, so formal is his decorum (and the happy coincidence of a toilet being there).
Elba plays jaeger commander Stacker Pentecost with suitable authority; sometimes his British accent slips through his American but this just adds to his air of mystery.  The cast is suitably multicultural and the majority of the action takes place in Hong Kong (which may have counted against it at the US box office).  There is even a little political commentary with the politicians discontinuing the jaeger programme in favour of building a Maginot Line of a wall.  Barack Obama gets two seconds of cameo after the first kaiju attack, but after more than a decade of the 'war', a Mitt Romney-alike promises withdrawal to the safe areas, omitting that this is just for the rich people.   The inventiveness and clever plotting of Pacific Rim sets it out as the benchmark for all future monster mashes - for me it falls just short of five stars because the material is, when all is said and done, derivative, but it is of the very best of its kind. 4 and a half out of five.

The ball rolls still

Christian Benítez's death at 27 from a cardiac arrest that occurred as a result of a multiplicity of ailments that struck him just shows that even the fittest can succumb to an early grave.  For every miracle of Fabrice Muamba, there is a Marc-Vivien Foé.  Little can be done in the face of such capricious fate - though more rigorous checks can be carried out, there will always be gaps in the net, just as there is with prostate cancer.

I remember Benítez when Birmingham city played Manchester United, the latter recording a narrow win but Benítez almost equalised late on.  This prompted one match reviewer to comment that Benítez had once again almost thwarted Sir Alex Ferguson (riffing on the Scot’s feud with then-Liverpool manager Rafa Benítez).  It was a small mention and Benítez’s career at Birmingham City was hardly stellar, yet it is one of those indelible memories that stay with you far longer than would be thought possible.

It should have been Elvis

I can say I am quite glad that William and Kate didn't follow the Albanian example where Britain would have eventually King Zog, though like George VI, he might have chosen to disregard his first name.  I would quite like baby Windsor (he is not baby Cambridge or Wales as Windsor is the real family name, after Saxe-Coburg Gotha of course) to ignore his first name in place of his second as Alexander I has a ring to it.  Henry would have been nice as then we would be one away from double regnal figures and the significant 'X' (Henry IX).  As it is, George VII doesn't advance the cause as well, though it is the next most popular name.  The third name, Louis, made it through 19 variations in France (and even 'Charles' made it to ten iterations), though Louis XVII never ruled, dying before the defeat of Napoleon and Louis-Philippe took on a double name to become the first of his kind (Louis Napoleon cyncially disregarded his first name to cash in on a popular family name as Napoleon III).  That Louis should be so popular for French kings is even more striking that in 150 years to 1793, only three kings ruled (natch, all named Louis).  The way things look at the moment though, Georgie Boy, you won't be getting to flash that regnal number til you're in your seventies.

All-of-a-Twitter

Lewis Hamilton has tweeted something sublime, turning the form into art, showing the possibilities of Twitter.  Having separated from Nicole Scherzinger for a second time, he lets his followers (of which I am not one, having declined to join Twitter in the first instance despite a friend's invitation) know that "Nicole said Vienna was beautiful, she was right."  Having broken up, this was his valediction to her, echoing the phrase 'Goodbye Vienna'.  Others in my office, however, think that he was not being subtle, rather that Hamilton had actually journeyed to the capital of Austria and found it was just as his ex had described it.  I remain unconvinced and think that even a Formula One driver can have poetry in his soul.

Served piping hot!

The woman who took her horse into McDonald's after being refused service at the drive-thru, whereupon  the animal relieved itself on the floor.  No matter, the jargon deployed by McDonald's about 'distress to customers and disruption to the restaurant' (though in another light admirably concise), the real horseshit was probably fresher and warmer than anything served in that branch that day.  The line "The health and safety of our customers and staff is our top priority," is amusing given the Grand Guignol down the years (staff working in up to two inches of raw sewage, lizards and mouses in fajitas and burger buns, etc.), so comprehensive that it even merited a spot on Have I Got News For You in the 'Odd One Out Round' where contestants had to find out which culinary catastrophe did not occur at a McDonald's (after they worked out the clues that McDonald's was the subject).
Just as well, the rider didn't try to take her equine to Burger King as it might have 'unwittingly' ended up as mincemeat.  Just as the hysteria over the horsemeat scandal was starting to subside, I was eating at an establishment in central London with Ed Saxby and Jamie Mill and suddenly a siren went off and a flashing light started swirling above the staff entrance door next to the counter.  I mused that the alarm was sounded as a horse had got loose in the kitchen, Jamie adding that the four-legged friend was trying to escape from the grinder.  I imagine staff fleeing from a skittish, freedom-loving horse, careering along the food preparation aisles sending utensils and other paraphernalia scudding along the stainsteel surfaces, while someone got out the tranquiliser dart rifle. Surreal quips they may have been but in the days when Burger King was implicated in having served horsemeat, it sounded plausible as well.

No face, no name, no (regnal) number

Move along, nothing to see here, absolutely nothing to see.  William and Kate couldn't be sure about controlling the release of news of the birth, hence the brief statement from Kensington Palace, before the easel display, but they have total control over when the baby will be seen and when his name will be released.  And good luck to them, enjoying their first-born to themselves before showing him off to the world.

A king (but one, but one, but one) is born

So Kate finally squeezed out the sprog.  I'm glad it's a boy because frankly after a lifetime with a queen, I'm ready for a few kings.  It also makes a mockery of the proposed change to the law of succession, as barring a horrific tragedy, if he lives to the current age of Liz II and doesn't abdicate (as seems the rage these days), he'll be on the throne until the turn of the century.  Mind you, the way things are turning out with longevity that may only buy him a couple of decades of rule and as an old man.  He then may be succeeded by his daughter who was first-born but you never know, it could be another son first-born.
Given all the media attention, the boy should be glad he didn't follow Emperor Chosroes II and be crowned still in the womb - then the hype would be stratospheric.  Such a scenario is highly unlikely ever again though. Having decrepit monarchs ascend the throne however, gives royalty a bad name and abdication after several decades seems the way forward (though in Prince Charles' case that length of tenure may take him to the end of his life anyway).  Just a few weeks after the Netherlands, Belgium is following suit as Albert II steps down in favour of his son Philippe, the seventh monarch of this fissiparous state.  I think the ex-king is being as Machiavellian as his predecessor a century ago, Leopold II, if not as depraved as setting up a slave empire in central Africa.  He reads the signs and it will not be on his watch that Belgium splits in two - it is his son that can pick up the constitutional mess if separatists get their way (and nationalist sentiment amongst both the Flemish and Walloons is rising).  Very clever.

Alas Smith

Though I hadn't seem him for the best part of a decade onscreen (for I missed that edition of Celebrity Mastermind), as he increasingly took to a role behind the camera, it still is a shock that Mel Smith has been cut down still in the prime of life at three score years.  Like another recent heart-attack victim, James Gandolfini, Smith did not cut a trim figure, but all the same, cardiac arrests are that most capricious of ailments.  Although he was part of the quartet from Not the Nine O'Clock News (and arguably the one whose profile was the least in 2013), I always remember in particular one skit from Alas Smith and Jones (punning the short-lived western television series Alias Smith and Jones).  Here Griff Rhys Jones played the Ottoman sultan inspecting his harem after an unusual number of pregnancies borne by his concubines despite his absence on campaign the previous two years.  Interviewing his harem-master and chief eunuch, Smith, they go through the motions of standard answers and replies about families and job aspirations, until Jones asks that if were to hit him very hard with a mallet in the private area he would not feel a thing.  After some protestation by Smith, Jones follows through on this.  Not satisfied with his first attempt, as Smith manfully takes being unmanned, Jones has a run-up with his second go.  Again, Smith smothers his pain and the sultan Jones apologises for having doubted chief eunuch Smith and leaves the room.  His son (eunuchs 'run in the family') enquires, "I didn't know you were a eunuch, father."  To which Smith exclaims, "I am now!"

Star Trekking (across the universe)

With Benedict Cumberbatch in Japan to further promote Star Trek Into Darkness that he was in, it’s probably about time I got it off my chest (or at least the handwritten A4 note that I wrote in Mongolia when absent from an Internet connection.  In fact, not just English understatement ‘probably, but definitely.  As always there are spoilers.

The latest edition (albeit canonically in a parallel universe) starts off with Captain Kirk (Chris Pine) rescuing Mr Spock (Zachary Quinto – still nothing on Leonard Nimoy) and violating the Prime Directive in the process, albeit saving an entire planet as well.  It is a very clever way to introduce the main characters quickly e.g. Zoe Saldana as Uhura, Karl Urban as Bones and Simon Pegg as Scotty.  Following this feel-good entrance, after the opening credits it gets darker.  We cut to what one thinks is a standard American family before the reveal that this is London.  I was a little tickled to see St. Paul’s Cathedral surrounded by vertiginous skyscrapers - obviously the restrictions on sightlines have been removed and the project to transform London’s skyline by Ken Livingstone at the beginning of the 21^st century has reached its apotheosis.  The couple we see with their dog are parents and their little girl is slowly dying.  The father is offered a cruel deal, essentially becoming a suicide bomber after his daughter revives.  For the sake of my own child’s life and not having to make a split-second decision, I do not think I could kill 41 other people and inflict wanton misery on their families, though this man could not understand he would be putting their blood on his daughter’s head.  So begins the many faceless deaths of the movie.

Cumberbatch is the principal bad guy and after he shoots up a meeting of Star Fleet chiefs (I was sad that Pike’s duration in this parallel universe was cut short), he flees to the Klingon homeworld.  Kirk is ordered by Admiral Marcus (Peter Weller), after some initial hesitation, to pursue Cumberbatch and fire off some photon torpedoes in the ‘uninhabited’ part of the planet where Cumberbatch is in hiding.  That he was initially called just John Harrison was a nice touch, meaning the speculation about him being Khan was neatly deferred.  This was quite a political moment in the plot, implicitly criticising drone strikes with their collateral damage when killing one terrorist.  Kirk disobeys his orders (after counsel by Spock) and arrests Khan.

That Admiral Marcus was the secret villain was signposted long in advance by the presence of his daughter Carol (Alice Eve) abroad the Enterprise - though she turns out to be less of a red herring than an ordinary one.  Weller suffers a scarcely worse fate than that in Robocop but I did like his character’s model-illustrated history of powered flight, specifically rocketry, on his desk.

A secret warship built by Marcus from instructions by Khan to be used to engineer war between the Klingons and Starfleet is commandeered by Khan for his own ends of being betrayed by Marcus (this makes it unclear if this is ‘the wrath of Khan’ or if that is to follow in a sequel).  Spock and Bones, however, manage to cripple the spaceship.  Nevertheless, Khan heads for Earth and crashes it into San Francisco Bay in a bid to annihilate Starfleet Headquarters but narrowly fails (despite tremendous urban destruction).  After Kirk falls unconscious after restarting the Enterprise’s engine power source, it is left to Spock and Uhura to capture a fleeing Khan.

As Kirk slips away (a role reversal from Star Trek II, with Spock’s ‘death’), amusingly, it seems Pine can’t part his fingers like a Vuclan and so the shot of him conversing with Spock through the decontamination chamber glass cuts to a hand that could belong to any film extra with special joints.  Like with Marcus’ ‘surprise’, it’s also abundantly clear how Kirk will be saved.  For the religious set in America, it is made clear that Kirk does not die to be resurrected by Khan’s blood (as was the little girl in London and unlike the Tribble, which was clinically dead), but almost died.  Clever.

Already there is a merging of the two biggest space franchises as SkywalkerSound played a big part in this.  Obama’s Jedi mind-meld gaffe just put him in the vanguard as JJ Abrams will helm Star Wars: Episode VII.  Moreover, many of the cast have fantasy links: Simon Pegg in the Mission: Impossible series, Zachary Quinto from Heroes, Zoe Saldana from Avatar, Peter Weller from Robocop and Robocop 2, Alice Eve in Men in Black 3, Benedict Cumberbatch from Sherlock (which is played hyper-real) and of course Leonard Nimoy, not only from the original Star Trek seasons, cartoons and films, but also the remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Of Eve, either she sacn’t do an American accent, Weller can’t do an English voice or neither can do a ‘trans-Atlantic’ (Azores? Bermuda?) dialect.

Coincidentally, given Abrams forthcoming link with a galaxy far, far away, in their official grey suits, Starfleet look like the evil Galactic Empire’s high command or at least like the officer corps in Starship Troopers.  There are other things that don’t make sense on a level other aesthetic.  Despite being in cryogenic storage for 300 years, in the space of 12 months, Khan knows how to build a bigger, better starship than all the combined talents since he was frozen and can remember the entire schematics.  He may have been genetically enhanced in both in physical attributes and intelligence but it’s a bit of  a stretch.  Likewise, his strength varies.  At one point he is knocked out by one stun blast from a phaser, yet towards the end and even accounting for adrenalin it takes several to floor him.

So Abrams does it again with an enjoyable blockbuster.  He’s getting a little cocky though, dicking around with the end credits as if he’s some sort of auteur who makes his own rules.  I stayed till it finally finished and right to the very close he was messing with the traditional ordering.  Also, it’s a bit rich to call Khan a genocidal maniac when tens of thousands die in San Francisco, following on from the destruction of Vulcan in the first film, all to satisfy the actionlust of Abrams and his team.  It appears that Hollywood has truly recovered from the events of 11^th September 2001.  The victory achieved by the crew of the Enterprise is kind of hollow (instead of the Klingon homeworld being trashed, Earth is instead, all for one person) and this is not resolved by a trite speech warning against the evil in others awakening evil in ourselves.

On a side note, I can understand why Mark Kermode dislikes 3D so much – when one already wears spectacles to gain focus, 3D glasses sit awkwardly on top of these and, more importantly, with one visual removes between the eyes and the £D specs, the experience becomes slightly disorientating, thus detracting from the pleasure.  Here, the 3D only really was effective at the start, with spears coming out of the screen at you.

Overall Star Trek Into Darkness is a bundle of fun. It’s not lost in space but don’t expect it to make much sense.

Doctor for hire

I was a little surprised that Lord (Alan) Sugar chose Dr Leah Totton over Luisa Zissman.  Not over the former’s plan, which even the other candidates acknowledged as exceptional, but because of the verbal cues that Sugar gave.  Last season he turned down Tom’s wine hedge fund, which would start slow but could earn millions after a few years.  On that occasion, Nick Hewer counselled Sugar that Tom’s proposal could bring out the ‘devil’ in Sugar in taking a risk in investing in it.  This year, Sugar used the exact same phraseology as Nick last year (and even name-checked Nick in regard to it), saying the ‘devil’ in him was drawn to Leah’s cosmetic services business because though it was a bit of a gamble in terms of damage to reputation should anything go wrong with a client, it was extremely lucrative.  That’s why I thought he would go for Luisa (earlier in this series, I would have been deadest against this but warmed to her in the last few weeks).  But of course, it was a bluff, probably encouraged by the BBC producers, to make it more unexpected that Leah won.  And it worked.  Naturally, her ‘launch’ in the final episode will be immediately discarded and rebranded in a proper corporate experience.

Not quite Euromillions but still a gamble

The agitation among some to leave the European Union altogether leads to some addled thinking.  To correct that, the idea of the IEA Brexit Prize was conceived.  However, it is immediately compromised by its very name.  Maybe because os many European officials and media tarts are referring to ‘Brixit’, the organsiers had to come out with something very British for a very British exit.  Gisela Stuart says we cannot debate leaving the EU properly without a good idea of what it would mean – language instantly framing the terms of discussion on leaving rather than the merits of staying inside the club.  Though Labour MP for Birmingham Edgbaston, she joins usual right-wing anti-EU suspects in Lord Lawson, David Starkey, Roger Bootle and Tim Frost judging entries for this, in her words, “prestigious academic endeavour.”

Lord Lawson is already compromised.  While his daughter is going through a very public divorce, if he truly believes what he says then he is divorced from reality.  However his conversion was greatly helped by the reality of financial remuneration by Big Coal rather any rational commitment to the greater good, as the EU is increasingly setting new caps on emissions and renewable energy targets (a Polish coal conglomerate funds much of his climate change-denying institute).  With Britain out of the EU, a major energy consumer is no longer bound by EU targets and might weaken anti-pollution legislation that gets passed as it will be of lesser scope.  David Starkey might frame the EU as ‘black culture’, but of course it’s all a misunderstanding because he’s ‘the rudest man in Britain’.  Maybe he feels intimidated that he may not be the rudest man in the EU.  It would be interesting to know how Bootle and Frost have always felt out the EU.

What most drew my eye to this story which otherwsie is the usual blah-blah is what the winner will receive.  In standard tabloid language, you couldn’t make it up, as the first prize awarded to EU-phobes talking to each other is 100,000 euros.  Is this a joke?  It certainly sounds like it, on all levels.

Less Bondage

When I read that Sam Mendes was to direct the next Bond film, his second, my immediate reaction was 'yay'.  My mood darkened when I read, to secure his services, the 24th Bond film will be in 2015, three years after Skyfall.  Though the 50th anniversary movie had script deficiencies once you knew of all the surprises, Mendes' direction was stylish and innovative, hitting all the right notes.  But he was committed to his stage play of Charlies and the Chocolate Factory for at least a year.  This means that Daniel Craig, already having suffered a four-year hiatus between Quantum of Solace and Skyfall, might not make Bond 25, given his age - though a fifth time as 007 will mark him out only behind Sean Connery and Roger Moore in appearances.  It need not be this way as Martin Campbell made Goldeneye in 1995 and then returned in 2006 to make Casino Royale.  With this precedent, Mendes surely could have waited out one movie.
It's all a far cry when Connery made four spy adventures in four years and Moore racked up Live and Let Die in 1973 followed by The Man with the Golden Gun in 1974 (although made to wait three years for The Spy Who Loved Me to tie in with the 15th anniversary).  By contrast, in the days before the release of Bond 24, Craig will have appeared as Bond only once in seven years.  If he had been allowed to follow the example of these two exemplars, there could have been a very lucrative tie-in with the year 2007, but the opportunity was missed (and then incredibly the makers of Quantum of Solace in 2008 admitted they didn't do a very good job because they were short of time (!))The trend to let 007 loose every two years started with You Only Live Twice when Connery wanted to explore other acting avenues and Cubby Broccoli wanted his volcano.  I just hope that Barbara Broccoli doesn't follow the Star Wars franchise (as it was ill-advised to do with Moonraker) and make a release every three years.  Please Barbara, it's not the way to go.

Strutting to impress

I read recently in The Daily Telegraph that men are more likely to carry a suitcase up a flight of stairs for someone else if that other person is an attractive woman.  I can’t tell you how exact this was for one of my experiences.  One might say it's obvious that men do gratuitous things to impress women but I was tickled by the example used as an opening illustration for the report.  I was on the London Underground, ooh, about a decade ago and I saw this stunning lady - flowing light brown hair, lovely legs and curves - about to attempt to hump a huge suitcase up a flight of stairs (no lift was at the station).  Immediately, I offered my assistance, she surrendered the handle and I built up a sweat hauling it to the top because she had certainly been ergonomical in packing it.  I expected no pay-off, after she thanked me, expressed I was glad to be of assistance and strode off, good deed done for the day.

In the slovenly way that all newspapers report science stories, latching on to any press release before the research is peer-reviewed, some social scientists had discovered that (of course in a controlled, artificial environment) men were more likely to give to invest in a group-share scheme if they knew a woman was watching, rather than a man watching or no-one at all, whereas women were unaffected in each case.  Hence, a ‘peacock’ factor was evident (or so they claim).  I can’t say I would have not have helped out someone else in the same situation if they were not struggling (or looked like they might encounter difficulties), but I do remember, vividly, the unexpected surge of motivation to help out a damsel in potential distress.

Chipping off the old block

The obituary of Kay Matheson, who was one of four Scottish nationalists to steal (or as they would see it re-appropriate) the Stone of Scone in 1950 from Westminster Abbey, sums up my feeling about this chippy political organisation.  As a stunt, it may have some merit (certainly more than Alex Salmond unfurling the Scottish saltire from his wife’s handbag only after Andy Murray had won) as it is an emotive slab.  But in their zeal in prising it loose, about a quarter of the stone was split off from the bulk of it.  Worse still, when Matheson was transporting the smaller piece the car boot swung open and the smaller piece fell out, which can’t have done it any good.  So, in trying to bolster Scottish nationalism, they engage in cultural vandalism of an ancient relic that belongs to both England and Scotland.  To compound it, Matheson had no regrets about the raid except for the two broken toes she suffered when the larger part had fallen on her foot and she was fine about that in the grand scheme of things.  No regrets about damaging national heritage?  I see.  No charges were brought as it was returned eventually (via the altar of Abroath Abbey, draped in, what else, a saltire) and the authorities probably viewed as youthful high jinks but I am not so carefree.  Cultural relics are destroyed, descrated or damaged every year by fanatics or natural disaster and Matheson exposes herself as just such a fanatic, possibly a force of nature.  But both phenomena are unthinking about what their action may wring.

Florida Vice

The acquittal of George Zimmerman of the charge of second-degree murder of 17-year old Trayvon Martin is disgusting but in hindsight maybe not such a surprise in hindsight.  Not one of the six female jurors was black (for which the prosecution team must take the blame) and so maybe their prejudices tallied with that of Zimmerman who is on record as saying that punks and assholes are always getting away with their crimes, even though Trayvon Martin was minding his own business (though maybe ultimately riled that he was being stalked).  I am certain that is the ethnicities had been reversed, there would have been a conviction - I mean, the jury were given a second option of manslaughter and declined that as well.  Even Barack Obama has said that his own grandmother felt fear of black men at the bus stop, even though she was raising a black boy of her own in the future president.  In this case, he said that if he had had a son, the male offspring would have looked like Trayvon i.e. the slim dividing line of fate.
Naturally, after a few declines, some lawyers who bury their morals with their clients' victims were found - the kind who make Lionel Hutz from The Simpsons look like an exemplar of probity.  One of the defence team so overstepped the mark that a public inquiry was launched into his conduct.  Yet they got the result they wanted and that's all that matters to such people.
The law as it stands in Florida is flawed as well because a person is allowed to discharge lethal force if they 'reasonably believe' that their life or that of another is in danger or that a forcible felony is in progress and can be prevented.  It is called 'stand-your-ground'.  The fact that Zimmerman did not stand his ground but pursued Martin, despite two police requests to desist when he called them to express his concerns, is telling.  The defence team may have been morally dubious but they were no fools and argued self-defence.  Given that a murder trial requires proof beyond reasonable doubt, Zimmerman in his racist paranoia may well have believed that his life was in danger when he got into a scuffle with Martin.  Under such technical facts, the law backs him up, even though Martin would still have been alive if Zimmerman had not followed him out of suspicion of the colour of Martin's skin.  It is irrespective that a gunshot expert (old white guy) asserts that Martin was on top of Zimmerman when the shot went off - this was a fight that Zimmerman chose to pick (which makes the jury ignoring the manslaughter option even more stupid).  As Gary Younge writes, after this ruling, under what circumstances can a young black man defend himself?
A Tampa Bay Times investigation found that of 200 cases in which Florida's stand-your-ground law was invoked, almost 70% of the accused had gone free.  The accused were much more likely to face no penalty if a black person had been killed (73%) than if a white person had been killed (59%).
Of course, Zimmerman's family and friends gave glowing character references on the stand but the measure of the family is that Zimmerman's wife is on trial for perjury after pleading poverty to reduce the bail tariff.  If they can lie about their financial situation, then why not on the far graver consequences of second-degree murder?
A civil trial to squeeze the Zimmerman's dry must now be launched as the balance of probabilities is more lenient than beyond reasonable doubt.  Hopefully, the prosecution team assembled there will be more competent in who they select for the jury.

Not allowed to rest in peace

The conviction of human rights lawyer Sergei Magnitsky in a Russian court yesterday, despite having been dead for four years, is another example where the rule by law rather than the rule of law applies in Vladimir Putin’s realm.  The siloviki (former officials in the forces and security services) maintain their ascendancy despite making their country look a laughing stock.  Whereas Silvio Berlusconi tries to stretch out his appeal process over being barred from public office until the statute of limitations expires (a ridiculous law that he himself as prime minister introduced), in Russia there seems no statute of limitations, even in death.

Magnitsky accused several members of the deep state of tax fraud and evasion.  Instead of any action towards these men, they arrested Magnitsky and accused him of the same.  Some time later he was found no longer alive in his cell.  Even the Kremlin’s own human rights organisation says he was most likely beaten to death in his cell.  Russians are using the courts in greater numbers than ever but when elite interests are at play, the courts are avoided due to the prevalence of ‘telephone law’.  The US Congress implemented sanctions against 70 Russians suspected of being involved in eliminating the lawyer but they are still free men in Russia.  Magnitsky’s co-accused (and found guilty), a British hedge fund manager in New York, derides Putin over the judgement but it is unclear how much control Putin still has – it seems that he might be a captive of the deep state rather than its master, since the siloviki have said officially on several occasions that Putinism will continue, with or without Putin.

It is all reminiscent of the treatment of Pope Formosus in the ninth century.  A man of exceptional talents and a wily diplomat, he collected enemies like the soldiers of Caligula collected shells on the north coast of Gaul in an abortive invasion of Britannia.  He didn’t help his case with his papal name which means ‘good-looking’.  Though serving for just five years, his legacy was much disputed.  Within a year (after an interlude of a pope with a very short reign), a successive occupant of the throne of St Peter, had the corpse of Formosus exhumed, dressed in the vestments of the pontiff, propped up on the throne and tried for his alleged crimes.

The pope who berated his decomposing predecessor was Stephen VII or VI in the official records (there had been a Stephen II in the seventh century but he had died three days after his election and before he could be consecrated and so it is moot whether he is really a pope or not, affecting all regnal numbers thereafter).  A clerical (literally) error also resulted in John XVI acquiring a number, even though he was an antipope, while further along John XX never existed as John XXI was consecrated even though there had only been 19 previous (including the antipope) Johns and no-one noticed the mistake.  It may be as a result of this embarrassing situation that John XXIII, in 1958, was the first Bishop of Rome to adopt the name since the fourteenth century.  John called the progressive Second Vatican Council that brought the Holy See’s practices more into the modern world.  Now he is being elevated to sainthood alongside John Paul II, despite lacking a second recorded miracle linked to his invocation.  It’s the closest the Roman Catholic Church gets to ancestor worship and is theologically suspect, along with the doctrine of consubstantiation, but at least they are honouring worthwhile people who have passed on rather than denigrating them.

Hiring and firing

When this series of The Apprentice started, the ‘boys’ looked strong and the ‘girls’ couldn’t have looked more clueless.  It seemed a certainty that for the third consecutive year Lord Sugar’s business partner would be a man (and indeed four of the remaining five from last year were male).  This year, three out of the first four firings were women and the only reason it wasn’t connect four was because in the second week one of the guys was transferred and put in charge of running the girls and paid the price for their incompetence.  In Week 5, a bit of balance was restored with a guy going, but in the following two weeks, two girls and one boy were sent packing from the process.  By the start of Week 8, there were five boys to three girls.  Leah seemed a candidate to make it through to at least the interview stage but it seemed for certain that the back-biting Luisa and Francesca would face the chop sooner rather than later. 

But then a strange thing happened.  Over weeks 8, 9 and 10 (and let’s be honest, they aren’t really weeks, though the contestants are contractually obliged to say that they are because the whole process is filmed in under a total of four weeks), each task saw a boy depart – although at 39, I’m not sure Myles really qualifies as a ‘boy’.  So by the time of the interview stage, the most incredible thing happened where the girls outnumbered the boys three to two.

And when Jason and Neil crashed and burned with their business plans (I would have liked to have seen the urbane and experienced Myles defend his case against the interrogators but after being responsible for two failed tasks in a row, he had to go), only the girls remained.  Incredible.  When Leah was chosen as one of the final two, I thought Luisa’s lack of focus at running three concurrent businesses (and if successful a fourth) would be costly but TV protocol dictated that two blonde, white women could not be the ones battling it out and so Francesca was shown the door for lacking ‘spark’.

And now, after being dumped for two seasons, the final episode is where all the bumblers return to throw a spanner in the works of those who pick them (or are forced to take them).  The interview stage seemed a more natural conclusion for an entrepreneur but sagging ratings demands a revamp.  Thus, instead of another task set by Sugar (i.e. the BBC), Leah and Luisa must start-up their businesses in the most unrealistic of circumstances.  Bet that was hailed as genius at the BBC brainstorming session.

A Night at the Pictures

I attended my first ever film premiere last night as my friend Simon Savory screened his debut movie at Hackney Picturehouse via the good offices of the London East End Film Festival.  Bruno & Earlene go to Vegas was a shaggy dog road trip of a picture with a lot of charm, which is not surprising as Simon wrote, directed and produced the film – as one person said on conclusion of the credits, that story is Simon all over.

I was almost derailed in seeing the picture as my plan to get the Victoria Line to Highbury and Islington and then change to Overground to Hackney Central was kyboshed when the Overground line between Richmond and Stratford was closed (allegedly due to a fire) and I had just fifteen minutes to go (though luckily the screening began at nine).  Seeing Dalston Junction was not too far from Hackney Central, I hopped on the Overground to there and then with the direction of a friendly station assistant, I caught the no. 38 bus to Hackney Central and then ran up the street to get to the Picturehouse (quite easy to find from there as it was opposite the distinctive Hackney Town Hall.).  Altaa unfortunately I had been attending a conference at Liverpool Street and I sent her to Stratford, not knowing the Overground Line was closed.  Of course, once there and without my guidance (as she is still very naïve when travelling by herself), there was no way she could reach the cinema, let alone in time.  So she had to traipse back home (after instructions from me about how to get back to Victoria) but at least relieved my mum as babysitter earlier than expected.

I had booked the night before and though getting a central seat, I was in row B and rather close to the screen which filled pretty much the whole wall, meaning I often had to turn my head from side to side to catch certain details of the action or scenery, though in some ways this made it a more immersive experience.    I could have clambered over to the seats behind me in row C but I felt this would be undignified and draw unwanted attention to me.

Of course, the East End Film Festival promotes lesbian, gay, bisexual, transsexual (LGBT) flicks.  It also encompasses three other letters (QIA), though I can only guess the first of these mean queer- though after Googling I now know ‘I’ stands for intersex and ‘A’ is classified as asexual.  Basically, it gives a platform to those creations that are not explicitly heterosexual, unlike Hollywood which marginalises other sexualities to the point where Behind the Candelabra – for which I saw a poster on the Underground - cannot get distribution in the USA, even though homosexuality is not its selling point.

Simon made his baby for $70,000 which sounds a lot to most of us in our everyday lives but considering the definition of a micro-financed film is $250,000 or less, it’s a pretty tight budget.  As such, the strength of the motion picture is in the script and the acting.  I can say it did not disappoint.

It starts off with Earlene, a down-on-her-luck alcoholic who meets up with a homeless Australian called Bruno who ‘couch-surfs’ – staying in holiday homes of absentee owners.  A bond develops and when Bruno attends a creepy photo-session for money, Earlene rescues him from degradation.  Meanwhile, a police partnership are chasing up couch-surfers and are intent on finding Bruno – who started the local craze.  As Bruno has a fondness for Paris and specifically the Eiffel Tower, Earlene proposes they go to Las Vegas as there he will be able to see the next closest thing – “It’s a replica but isn’t that what America does best?”  They move off and stay the night in a motel, the Atomic Inn.  There they hook upwith a blond beefcake (who washes his car with phallic spouting hose) and when Earlene’s car receives a police visit because she has stolen it from her boyfriend, the blond man dumps his (slightly clichéd) ever-so-precious bimbo of a girlfriend and takes off with Bruno and Earlene in his now ex’s dad’s jeep.  In the middle of nowhere, they break down but luck is in hand as after a long trek they find an oasis - a town in the middle of a desert, the only one we are told for 100 miles around.  It is an oasis in other ways, refreshing our heroes.  All through this trip we find out, bit by bit, secrets of the protagonists.  Understandably, this town is a place of oddballs where people go to be themselves in a place that won’t judge them.  The main characters are a bereaved ex-showgirl who now runs a bar, two Scottish men who used to strip in Las Vegas but now practice music and a platonic middle-aged female couple who have the normal spats and make-ups in a romance – when one delivers a breakfast in the shape of a (frowning) face, the other, cantankerously, squirts ketchup into the centre – “Now it's herpes!” 

Love blossoms between the blond guy (who it transpires is from conservative heartland of Oklahoma) and one of the Scottish men.  Bruno reveals that he is a chimera – when his mother conceived there were two eggs, male and female, that – instead of becoming twins – merged, to give Bruno female organs in a male body.  As a result, he wishes to stay in the town as he feels he has a family here, one that understands and accepts him for the first time.  Earlene, seeking some cathartic release by helping Bruno achieve his dream of seeing the Eiffel Tower, is upset that Bruno wishes to settle down there and departs, but not before telling Bruno she is pregnant (from her last boyfriend). 

This destabilises the dynamic that had been built and though Earlene soon returns, Bruno has returned to the slimeball photographer in Los Angeles who trades in intimate photos of inter-sex genitalia.  With the blond guy in the repaired jeep, both he and Earlene head off to rescue Bruno from himself.  The police buddy act, after revealing some home truths about each other as they stakeout a couch-surfing site, are also heading towards the palatial mansion, after being tipped off by their arrested suspect that the couch-surfing ‘ringleader’ is to be found there (after a chance encounter earlier in the film).  Earlene drags him out from his session but the photographer is in hot pursuit and pulls a gun on them from the inside balcony, and Earlene does the same, while indicating to Bruno that she has a gun tucked into her waistband on her back.  Outside, the blond guy brandishes a pistol and the police draw their weapons after their knocking on the door goes unanswered but they hear raised voices inside.  The ingredients of a Mexican stand-off.  The scene evaporates in blinding white light and we see Bruno and Earlene cavorting below the Eiffel Tower (in Vegas) and then making their way through a Scottish street (no doubt in actuality London but given a gritty hue with the grey weather) to meet the two Scottish guys and the blond guy in a park.  Are these last two scenes real (the cinematography is slightly surreal)?  Their dreams flashing through their minds as they die from being shot, never to be fulfilled? Heaven for them?  It is a good way to finish the movie, with questions posed.

The characterisation was very strong throughout with interesting and intriguing plot twists and overall gives a fresh approach to the road trip genre.  There were some very juicy quips and lines to lighten the subject matter which could be very dark.  The narrative structure was a little happy-go-lucky but it worked thanks to the strong central pairing of Bruno and Earlene (especially Ashleigh Sumner as the latter).  The acting was spot-on, capturing the quirks of their respective parts – I related them rather than thinking here is over-acting.  It was excellent in that regard.  I liked the visual trick achieved when Bruno introduces (an unaware) Earlene into her first couch-surfing adventure and as they prepare drinks in the kitchen, it appears as if we are peering at them through a porthole-shaped window; in fact, we are seeing their reflection in a mirror.  The up-close shots I admired, showing the blotchy skin that we are all really. 

The opening had the sound of a buzzing fly and I was reminded of the opening scene to Once Upon a Time in the West, where purely by chance a fly lands of the gun barrel of one of the waiting assassins who subsequently traps it for a while inside the barrel, though here the sound was to introduce Flyswot Films as the company fronting the movie. The chance occurrence of a lightning storm (and a quick camera pan) provided that unexpected backdrop to the story’s progression here – gold dust for a director.

I was overjoyed to see Ronnie K Rogers appearing, late in the scheme of things, in the cameo role of Selma, a tourist; she displayed a splendid singing voice.  As with Alfred Hitchcock, Simon had a vignette of an appearance himself (on the rolling credits as ‘asshole’, though not ‘arsehole’ I noted).  There was copious cussing stretching the boundaries of a ‘15’ certificate, but love sequences were handled tastefully, thus avoiding an ‘18’.

It seems churlish to criticise a picture on a micro-budget but there were a few aspects that could have been improved.  Some of the sound quality could have been improved, especially in the moving road scenes, where some of the dialogue was as intelligible as Tom Hardy’s portrayal of Batman super-villain Bane, but without access to plentiful (if any) time in a recording studio, this could not be avoided.  There were a couple of black gaps (that could have served as commercial breaks) in the editing.  I’m undecided if the dictionary definition of a chimera at the beginning was well-judged (as it had an integral section in the plot) or overly arty and pretentious (as it was explained in the dialogue anyway). The picture credits (in the manner of Scream) were a bit zippy to read.  And the plot device of Eiffel Tower earrings never really figured in any meaningful way after seeming to be ‘the gun in the first act’ (as Earlene was saving for them for when the moment was right). These are mere trifles though in comparison to the film and its ambience as a whole.

The Q&A session at the end was a hoot, with Simon inebriated and affectionately dictating to his cast and crew present and all recorded for posterity for the film festival  With the background explained that he and Ronnie used to work in Upper Norwood film store, Tarantino-esque ideas hove into my mind’s eye, though Simon would probably be appalled (not least because he walked out of Django Unchained at the profuse use of racial epithets).. Altogether, what Simon has achieved is immense and stands out professionally from all of his university friends, even Joel and Mark earning mega-bucks on Jersey.  It was a privilege to be there and watch his marvellous production.

Scoundrels all!

Last Friday, there was a meaningless vote that nonetheless threw red meat to the anti-EU members of parliament, particularly in the Conservative Party. To reaffirm his leadership of his party, David Cameron made it a three-line whip.  They were joined in unlikely coalition with the likes of Dennis Skinner and the odious Kate Hoo-ey, I mean Hoey, to give the vote the slimmest of veneers of cross-party support.  Skinner can usually be relied upon to issue invective when any prime minister hoves into view, but here he declared his Bennite anti-EU (née EEC) credentials, saying that he had voted against involvement with our European neighbours at every opportunity, before modestly claiming that if everyone had listened to him we wouldn’t be in this mess.  Given that the mess seemed to be mostly inside the Tory party, it was a curious form of ‘I told you so’.  If he meant our relationship with Europe, then despite EU-phobes trying to bat the charge away as insulting to their reasoning faculties, nothing will change Skinner’s position and he really is deserving of EU-phobic.

Of a different political ilk that is firmly an EU-phile, Alex Salmond revealed the chippy nature of the Scottish National Party.  Just after Andy Murray had won Wimbledon, he unveiled a huge Scottish saltire behind David Cameron.  Now, I have no problem with people waving the saltire, for despite the clumsy efforts of American sports hacks to label him English, Andy Murray is indubitably Scottish and this was the first time a man from ‘north of the border’ had won the British Tennis Open since 1896.  But he is also British and Murray specifically made this point in his acceptance speech that he knew how long the crowd had waited for a British champion and he hoped he had made them proud (i.e. he was defining himself as British).  Even if Salmond had been brandishing his huge flag regularly throughout the match, I would not have a problem.  But to try and tie Andy Murray’s victory to his own political point-scoring was vulgar in the extreme.  And this a week after he presumed to know the mind of Sir Walter Scott (apparently, were he alive today Sir Walter would vote for independence).  History is littered with political leaders trying to spin sporting achievement to their own advantage from Harold Wilson calling a snap General Election in the wake of England’s football World Cup victory, to the Argentinian junta’s boosting of their own fortunes with a successful World Cup on home soil in 1978 to fascist regimes of Italy and Germany appropriating the achievements of sporting figures for their own ends.  At which point, Godwin’s Law has been reached and this entry is at an end.

Unbelievable but outstanding!

Finally, there is a British Men’s Singles Wimbledon Championship.  Every time it was repeated, it was like magic dancing in the air.  People have lived long lives without this happening in their lifetime.  Andy Murray is also the first British player to win the British Open in shorts, as Fred Perry did it in trousers.  Now, over a calendar month, Murray has won Olympic Gold (at Wimbledon), the US Open and now Wimbledon and has to be a shoe-in for sports Personality of the Year, no matter what Chris Froome or others do (or indeed Justin Rose has done) between now and 31^st December.  If not Sir Andy Murray, he will definitely be richly rewarded in the New Year’s Honours List.  Also, as Boris Becker pointed out, he holds two out of the four Open championships, by which by any conventional measure makes him world number one (he also won Queens to make his British career summer complete).

Novak Djokovic made a few mistakes with his forehand, probably still weary after the longest ever Wimbledon semi-final (at 4hrs 44 mins), but Murray reached seemingly impossible balls to loft winners.  Even Djokovic broke Murray’s serve, the latter broke back.  To win in three sets against such a formidable player as Djokovic is quite incredible as well.  Murray didn’t just win Wimbledon, he deserved to win Wimbledon.  How long before a bronze statue?  He will get one eventually, no doubt about it.

Hoist by his own bastard(ry)

When Lord Justice Leveson was holding hearings into the press, he produced a report that was anything but a whitewash.  Shocked by the immorality and amorality of tabloid journalists in particular, his conclusions were very sobering to the industry.  Rupert Murdoch was hauled over the coals at the hearings and by the Select Committee on Culture, Media and Sport, where he said he was very humble at the latter before almost getting hit by a foam pie.  But like a child, he was only feeling sorry for himself – he was self-humbling, he had been humbled but he allowed the distinction to be confused, as when he said he didn’t tell prime ministers what to do (as Sir John Major said, this was technically true, though PMs were left in no doubt what Murdoch wanted).

Now, he has been caught in a technique that he would have lauded had it been against anyone other than him and his confidantes – the secret recording.  Here, he shows himself to be the opposite of humble, stating he would help out his journalists, even if they were jailed (of which, as with all News International statements, the explanatory note following this was made a mockery – he wasn’t just presuming innocence until proven guilty but afterwards too, even if jail sentences followed).  He thinks bribing public officials and hacking phones are as “next to nothing,” adding that the police are “incompetent.”  That will make an interesting Annual Police Awards (sponsored by The Sun) next time around.   

Charlotte Church said he settled with Murdoch instead of examining their dirty laundry in the public arena of a court because News International lawyers wanted to put her emotionally fragile and potentially suicidal mother on the stand, as a deliberate ploy to force Church to settle.  This she said, that despite everything, News International were still the aggressive same as always, incapable of showing contrition.  He words ring truer than ever after this revelation.

Out of the frying into the fire and back into the frying pan

‘Be careful what you wish for’ is a classic cliché ending in a preposition but it is apt in Egypt at the moment.  All the protestors demanding the intervention of the army to remove President Mohammed Morsi are forgetting that the army they are calling their friend is the same way one that abused their rights when ruling as the Supreme Command of the Armed Forces (SCAF, but in reality a SCAB) post-Hosni Mubarak.  It also undermines the idea that the army is under civilian control.

Yet Morsi and his Muslim Brotherhood have only themselves to blame for failing to understand compromise is an essential part of democracy.  They were as gauche politically as they were economically.  They saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to decisively change Egypt into their own image and, while being decisive will always be divisive, it was seen too much as a creeping civilian coup.  They forced early elections before the passing of a constitution to maximise their own advantages of organisation to the weaknesses of a nascent opposition, even though it only benefited them and the ancien régime.  They reneged on their pledge not to run for the presidency after winning the parliamentary elections.  They pushed through a constitution with basic human right flaws.  And in the showdown, when the army set a 48-hour deadline for them to reach an accommodation with the protestors, instead of peeling off the moderates from the radicals they held firm to their course. 

A belief in the legitimacy of elections would have found favour Joseph Schumpeter, but, as Barack Obama warned, democracy is about more than just elections (especially ad hoc plebiscites that were skewed to exclude many voices).  After all, Vladimir Putin is democratically elected.  The Muslim Brotherhood failed to understand that and thought that they would be seen as a firewall between the secularists and the Salafists.  They instead fell between two stools.

Now that the hardline Field Marshal Mohamed Tantawi has been pensioned off in one of the few positive moves made by Morsi, it remains to be seen how committed the army is to restoring democratic procedure, given that Morsi was overthrown by his own defence chief.  The mood in the West is ambivalent, glad that the destabilising, increasingly authoritarian president has been removed but unhappy about the means and unsure about the end.  One can only hope that rule by decree is only temporary.

Snowed-in

With Edward Snowden’s sojourn at Sheremtyevo Airport increasingly resembling the film The Terminal (itself based on a true life story of an Iranian stuck in Charles de Gaulle airport following the revolution in his country), I wonder if he is beginning to fear the worst.  As Bertie Wooster would say, if you’re in a drama, you don’t want it to be a Russian one.  Of course, being at the airport’s transit hotel (which must be charging a fortune, given that the one in Beijing charges at an hourly rate) means he is officially not on Russian territory and, with Vladimir Putin’s ‘dictatorship of the law’, there will no Entebbe-style raid to inveigle Snowden out of the terminal.

The twists and turns are becoming increasingly bizarre.  By chance, the presidents of Venzuela and Bolivia, Nicholas Maduro and Evo Morales respectively, who are favourable to Snowden were in Moscow to discuss energy deals with Putin.  When Morales tried to return to his country he was forced to land in Austria as Portugal, France and Italy (all founding NATO members) denied his plane permission to use their airspace, believing Snowden aboard his plane.  This was clearly motivated by pressure from the USA and is a form of air piracy, effectively stating to Morales (and any would be diplomatic flight) “Stand and deliver,” like a highwayman of the past.  While Snowden’s father reveres him like Paul Revere, the US government is inclined to see him more as another Revolutionary War figure, Benedict Arnold, who tried to deliver West Point fortress into the hands of the British and sent plans of the stronghold via a spy, who was uncovered, forcing Arnold to flee into exile.  But this is a pretty shabby way for the sole superpower to act (though George Washington himself ordered a kidnap mission to retrieve Arnold that narrowly failed – a first case of attempted extraordinary rendition?).

Snowden is probably correct that he would be subjected to inhumane treatment prior to trial and not receive a fair hearing, were he to return, as can be seen in the case of Bradley Manning.  The USA was similarly punitive in the case of Gary McKinnon and was furious when his extradition was – eventually – denied (the right thing given his medical condition); there was dark talk of withdrawing legal co-operation with Britain (something that had so terrified New Labour), though IRA organisers, who have never stood trial for their activities, are always beyond any treaty signed.  The police stationed outside the Ecuadorean embassy are just for show to our US allies – Julian Assange cannot leave the country as there has been a block placed on him at all national exits, unless he tries to float across the sea on a raft.  Indeed, he could not get 100 yards of this embassy bolthole without being nabbed as he is very recognisable – the difference with Snowden, Manning and McKinnon is that he is under investigation for rape and he is going to Sweden, which, being a traditionally neutral country, may or may not subsequently extradite him to the USA.

This is primarily about deterrence – if one needs to sacrifice a few individuals along the way to emphasise this, then so be it.  The Roman Empire was implacable to any domestic resistance, crushing brutally if necessary.  America is following the same pattern.  Ultimately, Snowen has done a service to Americans and the world, providing an impediment to technocracy replacing democracy (however flawed).  Amusingly, Russia has aid it would consider any embassy car that went to collect him as foreign territory, probably as they really don’t want anything to do with them and are encouraging Ecuador, who has said nothing can be done about granting citizenship unless he is on their territory, to take him away to Quito.  If given, it will be interesting to see Snowden’s itinerary to avoid over-flying Western Europe; the US will be even more keenly interested.

Once more around the block

The late, great Alexander Walker believed that as a critic it was his job to entertain as well as inform and he approached his critiques academically, almost stripping every film of surprise.  As I do this to primarily remind myself of the experience, the same will apply.

While people may turn up their noses at The Fast and the Furious 6, it was everything Die Hard 5 should have been.  There are snappy lines, genuinely surprising plot twists and ambitious action.  The former even entertains intercontinental carnage the way A Good Day to Die Hard should have done, given the progressively wider spaces of the Bruce Willis vehicle (upper floors of a skyscraper, an airport, New York City and state, the entire Eastern Seaboard), rather than swapping one trancontinentalism for another.

The baddies this time are English, which I suppose was an inevitable turn for such a long-running franchise (a trend seemingly set to continue with no.7, as testified by Jason Statham’s uncredited role).  With the rest of the population characterised by pettifogging auctioneers and bureaucrats, there is a dearth of counter-balancing English heroes, apart from three transport policemen who have their arses handed to them by the chief villain at Waterloo Underground (presumably filmed at around 2-3am when the station would be closed), serving as a warm-up before he does the same to two of the crew.

Of course, the London scenes are unrealistic as much as I imagine the Rio ones were in The Fast and the Furious 5.  Oxford Circus is only this quiet, even at night, when there is heavy snow (as I have witnessed).  A meeting for an illegal street race would not take place in the august surrounds of what looks suspiciously like Admiralty Arch (off Trafalgar Square), especially as one line of dialogue has it that London is the worst city in the world in which to commit a crime because of a camera on every corner.  It does skewer the widely held idea that English girls are unattractive, even if the meet comes across as a particularly sluttish episode of Made in Chelsea.

It is interesting that Battersea Power Station still has the international cachet to be all but name-checked, though it is also useful to film crews as a prime piece of central London real estate that is empty along with the grounds within which it sits (I remember The Tomorrow People used it and the interior served as a backdrop to war-torn Eastern Europe in MacGyver: Lost Treasure of Atlantis).  The action transfers to Spain towards the end, with attempts to stop a seventy-ton tank (‘We’re not going to need a Plan B, we going need a Plan C, D, E and the whole alphabet!”).  The final ‘proper’ action sequence concludes on a military airbase, though even given such an environment, the runway seems unfeasibly long.

Though the group gain pardons and get to live back in Los Angeles, they ultimately finish at a disadvantage, reacquiring one member previously thought dead but – apparently – losing two (conveniently a self-contained couple within the team).  Once love between the two was mentioned, I waited for the inevitable tragedy.  To avoid slipping into predictability, the characters have to be ‘touchable’. Scrapes and bruises and bullet wounds can be easily erased but mortality is another matter.  If they were always invincible, the danger of tedium would be ever-present – it is why most of Sean Connery Bonds toyed with the character’s death (From Russia With Love, Thunderball, You Only Live Twice in the opening credits, Diamonds Are Forever in both Amsterdam and the Las Vegas Crematorium), while Roger Moore lapsed into self-parody, though there was almost always the righteous vengeance to be exacted in payment for the death of an ally.

I digress.  That one of the core looks to have been murdered in the final reel (a tradition to have a last twist after some credits have rolled that I was apprised of by a few in-the-know audience members for The Fast and the Furious 5) cannot be left unanswered – there will be a further instalment.  I say, bring it on.  There’s a lot of juice left in the tank.

Welcome to the club

It doesn't happen every day that the European Union greets a new member, so before it's too late and the 1st July is out, I extend a warm embrace towards Croatia - a lovely country and the only one in the world whose capital's name begins with 'Z'.  The EU's geographical position in the Balkans now resembles that of Austria-Hungary in 1908, prior to the latter's annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina that year (incidentally, going well beyond a recreation of Charlemagne's Europe as envisaged by some in Germany and France).  The dynamic a century on though is that Serbia is being lined up to join after handing over it war criminals to The Hague.  I say the more that join, the merrier.