Flying Robots Join Cirque Du Soleil

 Ten years ago I saw Cirque du Soleil at the Albert Hall.  At the end of the first act of Alegria, the whole theatre was turned magically into a snow-storm while a single forlorn clown staggered across the stage.   Wonderfully done and only surpassed this month when Kate Bush did something similar during her residency at the Apollo theatre in London [a performance I should eulogise about another time].  With that in mind, I came across this short film this week which is rather lovely and sort of mind-boggling at the same time.  Cirque du Soleil have partnered with a Swiss technology firm to develop a short film featuring 10 quad-copters in a flying dance performance. The collaboration resulted in a unique, interactive choreography where humans and drones move in sync. Precise computer control allows for a large performance and movement vocabulary of the quad-copters and opens the door to many more applications in the future.

At the theatre again, I remember being hugely impressed when the producers of Chitty Chitty Bang managed to get a car to seemingly fly over the audience (well the first few stall seats at least) at The Palladium.  The mechanics and engineering behind that 'show-stopper' was massively complex and expensive.  Suddenly, with Cirque and partners' innovation, special effects opportunities may well explode: props that fly, furniture and scenery that moves itself and interiors on stage that interact with actors.  The dynamic and value of objects suddenly takes on a whole new dimension.  Whether there will ever be a production of Noises Off that can made any funnier by such marvels I am less sure, but certainly any play where "things go bump in the night" might.  This movement could be terrifying, and remarkable, even beyond the boundary of the first few rows.    

 You can see the film here:



Welcome to the Hotel Deja Vu

Caberet style

I have been fortunate to be involved in hundreds of business events over the years.  From glamorous six-star 'retreats' for top-performing managers to ‘down in the basement’ team-meetings. Unfortunately, events are a victim of their own success and, whether big or small, the gravitational pull towards the 'repeat performance' is often over-powering. Too often, these annual events are then repeated in the same format, often in the same venue, with much the same content the following year. But where's the creativity?  Where's the much needed fresh perspective? [So - with a gentle nod to the various production teams, faculty, speakers and event designers I have had the pleasure of learning from; herewith a slightly unoriginal 'top ten tips' to consider before you begin organising your next event.]   

Involve your AUDIENCE.  The design should have in mind, from the off, active participation, engagement, discussion, dialogue and debate which aims to involve everyone.  As soon as the event looks like a lecture, or a trip to the theatre, cancel the bus, or better - simply take the team to a real theatre instead.  [Remember, cinemas have popcorn, art galleries have a shop and theatres have a curtain. Events that engage employ a facilitator.]

Avoid SEQUELS.  How many movie sequels are better loved than the original?  Your over-riding concern should be to move on from last year.  However successful, don’t simply redo what you did again.  Challenge the team to start the planning with this goal in mind.  You might want to replicate the success of last year’s event, but in design terms, try to start with a blank canvass.
   
Reflect on the NEGATIVES.  The only useful feedback from the previous year's event is the negative.  Too many events are damned with a kind of 'faint praise' that can be at best summarised; 'I was in no way harmed' and rosy-cheeked praise for the hotel, shuttle-bus driver and charismatic keynote.  But could anyone remember the content?  If you are spending real money on an event, then take note of the attendees who hated it last year, not just the one's who loved it.   Design the feedback form as a learning tool, not an easy way to capture platitudes.  

Think NEXT GEN.  Your organisation team should include some young people.  Search out the youngest tech-savvy cynic you can find.  Get a 20 year old involved on the planning team.  When they grimace at your ideas, sit up.  Seek their input: it’s valuable, important and a reality check.  You can learn lots from them. Don't ban technology (phones, iPads, etc.) from the hall, make them an integral part of the way the event works.  

Make it LOOK different.  Throw out the set design, the pedestal, the comfy panel seating, the 4:3 ratio screen.   Hire someone new to re-design it.   Explain what you are trying to do, and ask them what they think. You might find their radical ideas provide a breath of fresh air.

Don’t serve CHEESE  Never turn the event into some kind of "healing".  Emotional manipulation and stunts are like so last year.  No one should be made to walk across coals, cry, describe their childhood pet or open up in a way that embarrasses or, worse, nauseates.  Keep it real and inspiring through the participation of the many, not the life-changing out-pouring of the few emotive types.  

Go ELSEWHERE.   Einstein said : “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result each time.” Forget the usual venues, the same old same old safe cities, hotel chains and conference halls.  Surely an organisation that makes enough money to justify a leadership conference or team offsite has the imagination to look beyond the safety of same old, same old. 

Re-think THE ROOM.  Think about the organisation of the room itself.  Everyone knows that they are going to come in to this big room, there are going to find lots of seats, and they are all going to be pointed at the front. SO CHANGE IT. Radical times call for radical change — and that’s a good point to get across. Unsettle.  Disrupt.  Give attendees an ability to shape space, or explore, not be static and inert.  

Don't obsess on BAD FOOD.  When choosing the venue - don't get too hung up on the catering.  If great food and drink is the priority, book a restaurant and buy the team dinner.  Everyone knows how awful the buffet will be - so stick a big sign above it saying: “Eat if you dare.”  Engaging the stomach is not the same as engaging hearts and minds.  

PROGRAMME it differently.   Invite a speaker your audience have never heard of.  Invite someone to talk from an industry wholly unrelated to the normal operation of your business.   Order the sessions differently.  If your CEO typically does the opening address because that is what she/he expects to do, then that's exactly how your audience will react.  Yawn.  Go on. Put the CEO on after lunch.  I dare you.  

CONFRONT BORING. The fact that there are articles like this circulating on the the inter-web is not a good thing.  The corporate events world is suffering from a lack of imagination. The same programmes. The same content.  The same table settings.  The same stuff.  The same places. The same things. The same phrases.  The same “motivational’ speakers.  The very fact that you confront this dullness, even in the smallest way, for your audience will be like an energising shot in the arm.  And remember, if some of it misfires, use the feedback and re-shape for next year. 

Yes, and I know that’s a top ten list with eleven items.  I'm just mighty impressed you stayed with me this far.  

In with the new 'In Crowd'

Forty years ago, Bryan Ferry throatily boasted "I'm In With In Crowd".  Now, I'm sure Bryan had more lascivous pursuits on his mind than raising finance for a new business start-up, but either way, the "in crowd" has been for decades the only realistic route to obtaining finance.  

Unfortunately, most 'Angel' investors and private equity types went to a different sort of party to the average entrepreneur.  Short of self-humiliation in The Apprentice, or deep-freeze incubation of your brilliant idea for a rare chance to appear on Dragon's Den, the options may have seemed painfully narrow.  Despite being roundly castigated and shamed by governments, regulators, the media and their own customers, the major Banks have appeared immutably slow and inflexible [does everything have to be secured against your home?] Maybe there is a more balanced debate needed about the real costs and risks of credit, but funding for small and start-up enterprises is not a story Bank's have told well.  In recent years, fresh-faced "challenger" banks may well have appeared, but their financing and securitisation model is pretty much the same - just branded differently, with the option of longer branch opening hours.  

Amidst this numbing inertia, entrepreneurs have had to look elsewhere and the business of Crowdfunding has exploded into life.  Unlike the 'dull thud' of old-fashioned banking, Crowdfunding's growth has also been accompanied by wonderful headline-grabbing stories. In 2013, USD10 million was raised for something called the Pebble watch (even though Apple was well-known to have 200 engineers already refining an 'iWatch' of its own). In securing the rights to what may well be the worst name ever for a device ever, rock dinosaur Neil Young has easily raised over USD6 million for a music player called the "Pono".  Meanwhile, almost 100,000 subscribers flooded Kickstarter with enough cash for the feature film 'Veronica Mars' to actually get made, be derided and go straight to video.  

Neil's Pono, USD 6 milion

Neil's Pono, USD 6 milion

Pebble, USD 10 million

Pebble, USD 10 million

Veronica Mars, too much

Veronica Mars, too much

The Crowdfunding fundraising business is now worth over USD5.1 billion world-wide. In global corporate finance terms this is slightly less than 'diddly-squat' [being less than 10% of the total UK Market Cap of Lloyds TSB].  The opportunity then is enormous.  E-normous!  And here's why...

Crowdfunding platforms didn't all go to the same school.  They don't huddle down and compare betting slips in private member's clubs.  They are accessible, urbane, unpretentious, impartial and - now here's the genius - 'democratic' in the best sense possible. One of the newest-shiniest we have seen just launched at the end of August in London. Crowd2Fund was founded by Chris Hancock, who may or may not have gone to the right parties to get started, but indisputably has moved mountains to build and launch something very cool. In an era when caution or replication is the default mode, hats off to Chris and his team in creating something that broadens and deepens the crowd-funding model as a full-service platform that allows potential investors not just to browse and cherry-pick, but to create and build a portfolio of diversified investments.  Here at Wave Your Arms, we have no vested interest of our own other than to wish Chris and his team all the best and, we hope in time, to watch them fly.  Now obviously, when they do, we hope to get invited to the party.  

But as Ferry sang in 1974, "If it's square, we ain't there."  

Putting the cool into collaboration

Walk Off The Earth share the one about only remembering one guitar for the gig.  

Walk Off The Earth share the one about only remembering one guitar for the gig.  

A few years ago I was sent a great video by Canadian band Walk off the Earth, playing a cover version of Gotye's Somebody I Used to Know.   Five musicians, all playing just one guitar simultaneously, was not just quirky to watch, the song was brought vividly to life (perhaps more than the dark original) by the wit and fun of it all.  A few years later and a meagre 170 million YouTube views hardly seemed to do it justice.  If you never saw it, it's posted CLICK HERE.

Then just this week, I came (somewhat late to the party) across Pentatonix, a five piece vocal harmony group doing the same song; this time without the guitar, but with beat-box and an extraordinary array of voices from very high to deeply low.  You can watch, open-mouthed I guess, a showcase of their talent here.  Which got me thinking.  Is it the fact that the music produced is good, or is it that the challenge of the creative process itself that amazes?  If these were just audio recordings, rather than videos, would we have taken much notice, or is there something in the fascination of watching great creative collaboration that inspires us?  

I was reminded of the wonder of collaboration when The Tate in London curated a work of art created by the artist Kusama.  But the artist did not work alone, she involved every single visitor to the exhibition to take part in the creation of the work [see Kusama's Obliteration Room below].  All visitors were invited to apply stickers: dots of colour, exactly where and how they saw fit to a blank white room. The more the collaboration was extended, the more colour was added, the more personality and variety added.  If you have a few minutes to watch the film, or just skim through, the results are rather wonderful.  

Over the past few years, I have designed a series of collaborative exercises for teams that mix the wonder of that creative process, but with the added 'business' fuel of real world competitiveness and pace.  The remarkable thing is not just the resultant work, which is often amazing, but that there is also something deeply involving and engaging in the use of art itself as the object of collaboration.  Way better than running over a muddy field.  There is something in simply creating together which teams would do well to hold fast to when they return to the workplace.  

Then this week via StumbleUpon, we discovered another form of artistic collaboration which is intriguing and strangely compelling.  In Bb 2.0 is a collaborative music and spoken word project conceived by Darren Solomon (website link here) and developed with contributions from users all over the world. The videos can be played simultaneously - the soundtracks will work together, and the mix can be adjusted with the individual volume sliders.  Sometimes, to these ears, it sounds a mess, but every now again through the serendipity of a the right mouse click at the right moment, it can sound rather lovely.  [Think making Talk Talk's Spirit of Eden in your own office!]  And by its very nature, every single "collaborative composition" you create in the comfort of your own home - is uniquely yours.  So, invest in headphones.  Enjoy. 

You can play with In Bb2.0 here, or just browse the short film below. 


Go on...get a room!

Unknown.jpeg

We recently had a debrief on the Cannes Lions festival.  I didn't get an invite to go to the actual bash, but hearing a breathless attendee or two positively gush about how amazing the "work" was this year was both moving, humbling and a little annoying.  Its a bit like the Cannes Film festival that you read about in the papers, but since it has none of the glamour of the movie festival, nor is it as riotous as MIPM (the massive property offsite for Europe), you may not have heard of it.  Its Cannes for Advertising and media types.  The week includes various (well, dozens) of awards for creativity, innovation, technology, directing, etc.  The Grand Prix this year went to a quite wonderful advert for Volvo Trucks with Jean Claude Van Damme doing the splits between two massive Volvo's going backwards.  You can see it here.  

But the award which raised the most smiles (in the debrief at least) was a wonderfully clever 'knowing' film about the reality and perversity of Conference calls.  A thousand times (well it feels that many) I have sat in an airless office, alone, shouting my name at a blackberry on mute trying to ineffectually participate in the wonderful nonsense that is the Conference call.  When all I had to do to avoid the stress, the hassle and banality of it all, was get on the plane.  Read a book.  Get off the plane.  Meet the people who I needed to see.  Get to know them, like them and become friends with them.  And, maybe - become good colleagues, collaborate better and be more productive.  I know about the ozone, and the expense, etc., but please do watch this and then perhaps mention to your boss.  After the 'austerity drive'...shouldn't we get the team together this year?  You know, in the same room?    



A long time ago, in a city-centre far far away

The new cast of the next Star Wars movie join the old to read through the script.  

I was, like many other millions around the world, completely blown away by this great photo of the new cast for Star Wars 7.   The chosen cast are a wonderful mix of iconic American cinema heroes (plus Mark Hammill) and up and coming Brits who very few have heard of today, but who will have their visages imprinted on billions of viewers minds two years from now.

Like many readers here, I excitedly queued around the block, in my case outside the Odeon Cinema, Bradford, to see the original Star Wars.  The movie had already been out for some months in the US, but in the pre-internet era, reviews and glimpses of the film were scarce and enigmatic.  It came as a complete and utter smack in the mind when we eventually saw it.  The cinema even illuminated the overhead spinning mirrorball as the titles came up.  Like some ancient tale, writ-large with feisty princesses, knights with light-sabres and a masked bad guy who needed an inhaler.  And like all great cinema, at it's heart a (yet undiscovered) dysfunctional father-son relationship to end all others.  

I recently went back to Bradford.  The grand old (vast!) cinema now looks like this:  

Ironically perhaps, the derelict building (click to see the trees growing around the domed-roofs) stands just yards from the snappily named National Media Museum, which used to be called the less snappily named National Museum of Photography, Film and Television.  With even more delicious irony, the site where one of this much loved cinema once flung open its doors is now officially at the heart of the World's First UNESCO City of Film.  A derelict cinema stands next to The Alhambra theatre, which, by all accounts thrives.  

In the foreground you can see a pond.  Yes.  A pond.  And there lies just one aspect of a sorry tale or ambitious property developers and incompetent Councillors, misguided by a post-millennium vision of City Centres as "urban communal congregation hubs for civic integration", or something.  Several million of investment resulted in the civic heart of the City becoming a pond and the rest of the City centre being laid to waste.    

In 2006, the shopping district of the City Centre was sold off to Westfield, an Australian property developer who have since successful developed 'high-end' retail destinations in West and East London.  While the Westfield millions were well executed in London, after they had finished demolishing Bradford City Centre, the global financial markets crashed and this rather inconveniently left a once proud City with (literally) a hole in the middle. The project was mothballed until 2008 when work began on creating a temporary park on part of the site. In January 2014, some eight years after demolition work resumed on the construction of some shops.  A tragic tale for the City, though not tragic enough to make headlines elsewhere.  

I am writing this a couple of days after visiting the cinema to see another tragic tale, King Lear.  This was part of The National Theatre's creative scheme for broadcasting key productions as live and on Thursday evening I was sat in a packed cinema watching Simon Russell-Beale as the mad old King who loses everything while his gullible friend has his eyes gouged out.  The simulcast was live to over 1,000 cinemas around the world.  A massive audience who would never have seen the production on London's South Bank.  And a third of the cost of the normal seat.  It's an unusual experience, compelling, but not really cinema and not really theatre.  But I am probably about a decade behind the adoption curve and simulcast will undoubtedly grow and grow as the technology, sound-scape and visual impact becomes even more profoundly good than it already was this week.  So in Bradford, live theatre thrives (with a very healthy public subsidy, I am sure) and the cinema dies and grows trees.  Maybe in a cinema in Beckenham this week, there was a glimpse of something that might save other old cinemas?   

That was the year that was Once

January 2013 started with a rainbow.  Early morning, on the coast path, heading home to coffee and toast,  we were stopped in our tracks.  It was a sign.  Of a better year than the last.  Indeed, an excellent one.  So in classic web-log fashion, after The Times 'best books of the year', or Q’s 'top fifty albums', or NME’s 'records of the year'...  Herewith, a few reasons why there was indeed gold at the end of the rainbow.  MUSIC  It started with Bowie who tricked everyone.  Everyone.  Where Are We Now sounded weary and tenorous.  Like an old man singing listfully for the artist he was once was.  A decade or more before.  But then the album landed.  Guitars, tunes, solos, choruses.  It rocked.  The Stars Are Out Tonight, in particular.  Still, an artist.  A wonderful retrospective of 'stuff' at The V&A in March only reinforced the sense of wonder.  Bowie grew up less than a quarter of a mile from where I've lived for the past twenty years.  I pick up my dry-cleaning at the end of THAT road.  My kids remain unimpressed however much I eulogise.  Meanwhile, Night Beds produced a lovely record and then Foals released a monster single, Inhaler, and one of the albums of the year, with horses on the cover and a pop tune called My Number which was never topped all year.  Ben Howard won awards and filled my office with Keep Your Head Up.  Imagine Dragons teased momentarily, then The Boxer Rebellion released a magic record called Promises, which played better out of speakers and on video than it did live.  Why the band didn't hire a keyboard player for the tour rather than have Nathan Nicholson 'trying' to rock out while stood behind an electronic rack on stuff, I don't know.  It killed the shows for me.   The National plumbed new wonderful depths of morose shoe-gazing gloom with Trouble Will Find Me.  Karl Wallinger played live in London, World Party stripped down and brilliant.  He seemed a well man, alive in his music.  My daughter bought a guitar the same colour as Taylor Swift's.  More records this year tested on flights to New York, Hong Kong and Shanghai included ballsy-ness from Editors, electronic squeakiness from Chvrches and absolute knock-outs from Volcano Choir and London Grammar (I know).  Peter Gabriel and The Waterboys both did '25-year anniversary' tours of classic albums.  Fisherman's Blues won hands-down.  FILMS  Last year I found a historic melodrama from late eighteenth century Denmark as my film of the year.  This February I fell for Elizabeth Olsen in Josh Radnor's Liberal Arts, an altogether more cheery offering than Martha Marcy May Marlene and I've not had much come close.  Woody Allen's To Rome From Love was an entertaining postcard to a place I hold dear, but not scripted with the wit and wonder of Midnight In Paris. [I have yet to see Blue Jasmine, but hear great things.]  Gravity lived up to all the pre-release hype and even 3D-phobe Mark Kermode made it one of his films of the year. Sound City (a documentary homage to an analogue sound-desk) was fascinating.   Blockbusters mainly blustered, though the Costner mid-section of Man of Steel was wonderfully done.  Hobbit II was stunningly done - and looked extraordinary, but was way too long and spoilt by a strange 'Monty Python'- esque second act, with Stephen Fry annoying, not entertaining.  BOOKS were fab in 2013, with complete immersion in the Hugh Howey's Wool trilogy (now optioned by Ridley Scott) and Benedict Jacka's Alex Verus series took another step forward to awesome with a fourth volume. But amidst much that was wonderful, it was in the Phoenix Theatre in London, where I found the best moment of 2013.  Once is the stage adaptation of the film of the same name, which won an oscar for Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova for the song Falling Slowly.  The stage adaptation won 8 Tony awards on Broadway and the London show is awe-inspiring.  Usually, for a stage musical show, the band is in the pit, hidden from view.  Here they are on the stage (which is a pub), playing, and singing and performing like their lives depend upon it.  The lead, Declan Bennett (who plays Guy), is charismatic and holds attention throughout.  The cast are brilliant character actors and can PLAY.  The interval drinks are served on the stage, from the bar, blurring the line between performers and audience in a way that is not contrived or trite, but somehow genuine.  The music is the thing.  Not the Oscar song, but Gold, the song that ends the first half and is reprised in the second.  Wonderful.  Once will close in mid 2014.  It has none of the special effects of a West End 'spectacular' like Charlie [see review], but it is the best thing I have seen in a long time.

Some Kind of Wonderful

John-Cusack-in-Say-Anythi-002.jpg

Just back from seeing Peter Gabriel's Back2Front concert at the 02.  OK, seeing a Peter Gabriel gig is not quite in the category of 'guilty pleasures' yet, but the busy crowd was thoroughly pre-screened (not allowing anyone vaguely under 40 through the door) and the set was spaced and paced in a way that there were plenty of loo breaks. Peter Gabriel had Hamish Hamilton on site making a movie of the show, so much of the performance seemed to be played with the Blu-Ray release in mind, more than the old-dears down the front waiting for Shock The Monkey.  Unfortunately, Mercy Street was ruined by Gabriel on his back, cowered in pain, being persecuted by a dozen 3D cameras.  Still, at least he played some hits stood up and the best moments were stunningly played (with the original line up who played 'So' 25 years ago) and the gig ended wonderfully with In Your Eyes.  

Apparently when Gabriel played the show in Los Angeles, John Cusack made a cameo appearance, coming on stage to reprise his 'boom box' above the head routine from the Cameron Crowe move Say Anything.  It's the memorable scene in an OK movie and one of the best fusions ever of great soundtrack in lieu of wordy script.  Cusack stands in the yard and lets Ione Skye's character know everything she ever needs to know about how he feels, without, ahem, saying anything.  Crowe went on to make some good films, and in Jeremy Maguire a really great movie, packed full of memorable characters and lines ['you complete me,' 'show me the money', 'you had me at hello'] and  a rare likeable performance from Tom Cruise.  But Say Anything for me is less remembered as a Cameron Crowe film than as a close cousin of a whole series of 1980s 'rites of passage' movies like The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Some King of Wonderful and, of course, Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  Those John Hughes movies are rooted deep in the psyche and loved to this day.  Wonderful interwoven stories of just how awfully tough it was to be a middle-class kid from a decent neighbourhood, with your whole life ahead of you, chasing down a date with Molly Ringwald, set to a soundtrack of The Psychedelic Furs and The March Violets.  They just don't make them like they used to anymore.

Care, Care, Care and Care Again

On Screenwriting, I completely re-wrote Leicester Square again this year.   Humbly, I can now confirm it is definitely four-fifths of wonderful!  But, as anyone who writes and reads screenplays knows, four-fifths of wonderful is still, a considerable mind-numbingly-bloody-long-way-to-go.  The plot is now tighter than a rat catcher's glove and the set-pieces are tenser than an Elvish archer's weapon of choice, but once you put romance at the heart of a drama, you need to have your audience fall in love with the characters and care, care, care all the way to the titles.  Still, I know what needs to be done and think I have the stuff in the kit-bag to take it from good to great.  But, I also know to get there you need to care enough to really make it as good as it could be.  I'm reminded of the story of Blue Valentine, which was made by Derek Cianfrance. He reportedly knocked out more than 70 drafts of the script before the film was finally wrapped.  Seventy!  You have to more than care about the tale to deliver 70 drafts.  You have to have to be obsessed.   A little like the hero of Leicester Square, Tom Horner, who spent nine months of his life obsessively, painstakingly, crafting his masterpiece panorama of London in isolation, battered by the elements. Tom almost lost everything in the pursuit of his obsession.  All I need to do is re-open Final Draft.

*See more on creative writing and current projects here.

Imagine, a right proper Charlie

Douglas Hodge plays Wonka

A new stage musical version of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory opened last week at The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.  The show will garner awards for production and Douglas Hodge as a charismatic Willy Wonka will be feted and adorned with well-deserved gongs.  What amazed though was not that the show is amazing.  It is right?   But more amazing is how something this good, left me feeling slightly cheated.  Scrub that, reverse that.  I will try and explain.  A multi-million dollar production with special visual effects, directed by Oscar winning, Bond-rebooting genius Sam Mendes.  Songs by the guys who did Hairspray and a lyricist who makes Billy Crystal's songs zing at the The Oscars.  It just couldn't fail.  Or could it?

My first experience of musical theatre, other than Panto and a school production of Bugsy Malone, was at The Palladium about twenty years ago, when I saw the same Sam Mendes' version of Oliver!  The leading lady's parents, sat just in front, were engulfed by the emotion of it all, weeping throughout.  Musical theatre, at its best, does that.  It can move you to tears, even, or maybe because of, the sheer unabashed joy of it all.  But last night, Charlie was a game of two halves.  A long over sincere (slightly plodding) opening hour, only revitalised before the break by a caricature "fat German eats too many sausages" song (!?) and then the arrival of Wonka.  The second half is a stunner: pacy, witty, funny and extraordinary in its visual chutzpah and an undoubted technology triumph.  The Ooompah-Lumpahs are memorable, the set-peice fight with vicious roller skating Squirrels, surreally brilliant.  Its so so fantastically inventive in a way that the Burton + Depp movie was depressingly not.  But still, why not a triumph?  

Well, a SPOILER follows, so quit here if you are seeing the show sometime.  A 2 hour 15 show should have at least one memorable tune.  Something to humm on the Tube on the way home.   And this show DOES.  It is gorgeously done and starts with a simple opening tease… "Make a wish.  Count to three."  

We are back with Gene Wilder at the top of a staircase, swiping his cane across the chests of the children desperate to run down the stairs and devour the set.  Pure Imagination.  A show this good still needed a memorable song and it found it.  Not in the world of the imagination, but from the dusty DVD on the shelf.  The audience almost collectively gasped and then fell under the spell, again.  The theatre last night was sold out.   It will be.  For years.

UPDATE.  The show website now shows a 2 minute trailer which…gives the whole game away

You will believe a script can die

I don't usually write single movie reviews on WYA, but…herewith, a collection of pithy, unstructured thoughts about the new Superman movie, Man of Steel.  If you don't want too many spoiler words, just simply skip to the next blog post, on something more important than a DC re-boot.    

In many ways, its like Christopher Nolan's Batman franchise, but without the humour.  But the guy who plays Superman (Henry Cavill) is so hot, you can't believe it takes two hours for anyone other than Lois to even notice.  Lois (Amy Adams) wears various cardigans and is so unlike Margo Kidder's Lois, that I kept expecting a calypso band to appear and start playing "How Can I Tell Her I Love Her", while furry animals clean the Daily Plant offices.  And then, and then, and then…it's got this bit in the middle, told non-linear, shot through long grass, which takes the Christ analogy from Bryan Singer's version and rolls it into a big fat smoke and ponders, literally, what it is all about?  Who am I?  Why am I here?  Why the cape?  The middle hour is a beautifully shot and paced episodic 'pause for breath' exploring the odd non-father-son relationship (with Costner, above, who is perfect).  Thankfully, this transcends the silly costume stuff (think Kenneth Branagh's Thor) and then ultimately the noisy Michael Bay style Transformer noise and visual debacle ending.  A fab 'reboot' franchise movie about becoming and then being a Superhero is unfortunately bookended by a terrible cacophony of visual effects rubbish at the end.  For Warners it will make at least a billion dollars and Henry Cavill will become as hot a star property as Hugh Jackman.

Hong Kong Phew-ee with @Harper

Harper Reed. He codes. 

Just got back from Macau and Hong Kong [see blog post from March ’11 for reflection on visiting the 'end of the world'] and I am relieved to report that, yes, madness still prevails.  A few things have changed.  The harbour is smaller.  The trip to Kowloon is now shorter by about quarter of a mile.  A nearby mountain has been excavated, re-compacted and the waterfront at Central turned into new skyscraper-friendly "land".  Reclaimed land.  From a mountain.  We were in Hong Kong to see the British and Irish Lions play, as a 'warm-up' ahead of their tour to Australia.  Now as ‘warm-ups’ go, this was a clearly a success as the temperature was 35 degrees at 8 PM, with 85% humidity thrown in to make it feel welcoming, and so unlike Europe you could not have made it up.  Neither could you have made up the provision of "at your seat beers" which magically appeared whenever your mind began formulating the concept of a beer as a vague need or want.  Instantly, cold beers appeared, were consumed and life became incrementally better.  As human endeavours go, this felt up there with the wheel, or the moon landings, or penicillin, or the world-wide web.  The Rugby-in-a-sauna experience was made all the more fun for the excellent company of Harper Reed and his wife Hiromi.  

Harper, Hiromi and a massive bloke called Martin Johnson

Harper, Hiromi and a massive bloke called Martin Johnson

Harper is on a two-month international speaking tour, bombarding audiences at pace with insight, wit and much hard-won tech savvy learning.  Harper was CTO for the Obama’s election campaign, spending 18 months helping raise several-hundred million campaign dollars and coordinating the online-energies of over a one-million volunteers to help save the world from some tea party crazies.  Harper is a one-off.  Search him on Google and you get an endearing lack of self-deprecation: “probably one of the coolest guys ever”. His own Twitter handle is equally succinct: “I am pretty awesome”.  See @harper, or check-out via his Blog at https://harperreed.com.  Better still, buy him a beer, book him to speak, or both.  Apparently the Hong Kong Stadium is only used for sport and not rock concerts as the local residents don’t like the noise.  In a City where horrendous traffic halts to a halt, where no-one seems to worry that an area the size of a small English town should be simultaneously home and workplace to 20 million people, we sat impressed by the residents’ heroic stance.  As Harper put it as we headed into the overwhelming throng of Lan Kwai Fong, “I like the fact that Hong Kong people give a s**t about noise pollution.”  

Hoping to bump into @harper again sometime soon.

Baseball is great. It's just not cricket.

I've recently discovered baseball.  It's been a revelation.  Readers in the US might not get the fact that you can go through several decades of being alive with a healthy pulse, and not appreciate baseball.  Well, in the UK we have cricket. Two sports which ought to be similar [viz, hard ball thrown quickly, a wooden bat and enormous gloves, for the wicket-keeper/'catcher' at least].  But the two games are fundamentally different, though in the same way.  Symbiotic.  Upside-down.  Back to front.  

In test Cricket, the advantage is with the batsman ('hitter').  Some of the greatest achievements in cricket revolve around him staying there, scoring slowly, without being caught for three days or more.  Over 18 hours of not getting out.  In England, these sporting heroes get Knighted by the Queen and win lucrative contracts with Sky TV to commentate on other merely mortal players.  In baseball, the advantage is with the pitcher ('bowler') who throws so fast and with such variety, disguise and cunning, that the very greatest of all time can go through nine innings (over 120 throws of over 90 miles per hour) with such unerring accuracy, that not a single batsman gets on base.  The perfect game.  Here, the 'Knighthood' is the Cy Young award, or the Hall of Fame.  In England, we have heroes, who don't get out and in America, they have heroes who don't get hit.  

The other big difference between cricket and baseball?  No one has ever made a movie about cricket as good as Moneyball.  The best sports movie I've seen.  I've never been a fan of Brad Pitt, but I loved him as Billie Beane, the GM of Oakland Athletic, in this movie.  I hated the 'gross-out' trash movies of Jonah Hill, but he is perfect in this as the Yale analyst Peter Brand.  It's a film about sports, and maths, and a man making decisions and living with his own hang-ups and the mistakes he's made.  But it is the writing that hits you like a curve ball.  It's a clever trick, but the pacey dialogue between Beane and Brand takes the game of baseball apart and makes it logical and comprehensible for a wider audience.  Aaron Sorkin gets most of the writing credit which, like the The Social Network, is quick, smart and jargon heavy, yet it zips.  ["The problem we're trying to solve is that there are rich teams and there are poor teams, then there's fifty feet of crap, and then there's us."]  It's not Field of Dreams (which is spoilt by being fist-chewingly soppy) and we see hardly a pitch being thrown or a base being stolen in the whole film, but it makes for essential and compelling viewing.  

A new film on the life and career of Jackie Robinson (the first African American player to play Major League Baseball in the modern era) has just been released in the States.  It's called 42.  The Guardian just called it "the most authentic baseball movie of all time."  Awaited.  I hope it comes close to Moneyball. 

Freak Out, at the V&A

For Easter, I escaped from London and headed for the coast.  That much is not so new.  There is something about being close[r] to the sea.  The sight and smell of the familiar shore clears the mind.  The inland gentle breeze, now braces near the waves, which crash on the shingle, nonchalant, making me consider deep profundities, before I offer to buy my five-year old nephew an ice-cream.  Working backwards a few days and I am back in London at the Victoria and Albert museum with a friend, erudite on the topic of pop music, David Laurie.  We were privileged to taste the new David Bowie exhibition a few days before the paying throng.  An intimate "exclusive" preview for a select crowd, which in reality meant several hundreds guests.  The V+A have sold over 50,000 tickets for this smart show of memorabilia, costumes and nostalgia, suitably turned up to eleven.  Go and see it, or rather, go and hear it, as the Sennheiser audio installation is superb.  At the party, Doctor Who showed up which seemed appropriate for Bowie, who bridges decades and centuries in both sound and vision.  I have been revisiting a rather fab tome called Strange Fascination by David Buckley.  The story of the boy from Bromley (not Brixton) is riveting, from the suburbs of South London to become the morphing enigma that he is - with tunes to die for, writing imagery to wrap around buildings and songs that resonate and resound.  We rightly love David Bowie at WYA towers (or even here from this seaside retreat) ever since I first heard his best/worst record on Radio 1 in March 1983.  The record, Let's Dance, was born out of a chance meeting between Bowie (who "needed a hit") and guitarist/producer Nile Rodgers, in a club called The Continental in New York in October 1982.  Although he anticipated a world-wide smash, Bowie could not have realised the impact that meeting with Rodgers and their subsequent collaboration would have on me six months later. 

As a song it starts starts terribly, like some visit to the doctor to check your larynx, then the double-flange on the snare cuts immediately to a bass line groove and chopped echoing guitar.  Bowie backed by Chic, and for me back then… the guy singing sounded SO cool.  So, I didn't discover Bowie on Top of the Pops in 1972 singing Starman.  EVERYONE I know (even those born in the 1980's) seems to have claimed that seeing Bowie singing his 'version' of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, with his arm draped around Mick Ronson, was how they discovered Bowie.  No, I discovered Bowie at his most commercially popular and (to many) most risible.  Let's Dance was released 30 years ago.  Not five.  The helming, guitar playing and production was from Nile Rodgers who has been a hit-maker for Diana Ross, Duran Duran, Madonna and others.  Rodgers has been "blindsided" (his words) in recent years by his battle with cancer, but he is still touring with even an appearance at Glastonbury due this summer.  

 

Freak Out. 

A review of the Waterboys in Hammersmith

Just back from The Waterboys at Hammersmith Apollo, or Hammersmith Odeon as it will be more fondly known to many.  Mike Scott and his 'raggle taggle' band of various musicians have over the past 25+ years created something pretty wonderful and only temporarily gone into self-parody (around 2003 then Mike fronted a five piece guitar-only version playing bad Jimi Hendrix solos and distorting his back catalogue into oblivion).  I feared he had gone awry again when he launched his 'An Appointment with Yeats' concert tour and album last year.  A whole evening of ponderous songs based on Yates poetry?…not sure Mike.  The version we got at The Odeon was a better format - part "vintage Waterboys" (Mike's words), a second part songs from Mr Yates [including an odd masked performance] and then an encore of greatest tunes.  The star of all three segments is the astonishing electro fiddle playing of Steve Wickham, who makes a noise on the violin like no other.  Another time I must revisit the astonishing legacy of these guys [Wickham played on U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday, Waterboys keyboard player Karl Wallinger wrote She's The One which became a hit for Robbie Williams, Sinead O'Connor sang backing vocals on Wallinger's World Party debut album, before becoming enormous with a song by Prince…]  I have the Wickham playing now.  If you needed any reminder, or have never seen him play:  The Pan Within, recorded in Germany. 

Wilko Johnson. Guitar Levitation.

The extraordinary, Wilko Johnson

The extraordinary, Wilko Johnson

Inspired by the new Foals record (check it out here), I found my way back through the wonder that is Spotify to rediscover Talking Heads this week.  Even my unimpressible thirteen year-old has been killing his eardrums under his Beats to the joy that is 'Slippery People' and 'Burning Down the House'.  Which got me thinking.  What did I listen to when I was an early teen?  Surely, something really cool and completely different to all the other kids?  Surely, I knew about REM or Echo and the Bunnymen way before anyone else?  I wasn't running round with a stripe of white across my nose, or cultivating a fringe like the bloke in A Flock of Seagulls.  I wasn't sat in the corner listening to Yes or Genesis (though I sagely did so in a big way, post-Acne).  No, I was led astray down a path towards the glory and guttural wonder that is the guitar.  And my first guitar hero was Wilko Johnson.  

I went to my first ever 'proper' gig at Bradford University to see Wilko.  The man in black was like some mysterious illusionist.  He could do the rock equivalent of levitation.  Wilko played rhythm and lead guitar.  So, big deal?  "No, you don't understand," I would plead, whilst disinterested mates tried to see who could spit the furthest.  "He plays rhythm and lead…AT THE SAME TIME!"  Wilko's playing transformed a tight three-piece RNB band into a thunderous gang of four.  Striding like some manic exile from the Ministry of Silly Walks, Wilko chopped chords, mixing rhythm with wah-wah and frenzied solos.  When he soloed it was like there was some force of nature simultaneously chop-chop-chopping through the bar chords.  Rock n' roll levitation.  

Wilko is playing his last ever gigs in March.  After decades of touring and making music, Wilko has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and has refused chemotherapy.  In interviews, he has talked with a touching candidness and honesty about his situation. Told by doctors his cancer was inoperable, he said he felt "…vividly alive. You're looking at the trees and the sky and everything and it's just 'whoah'.  I am actually a miserable person. I've spent most of my life moping in depressions and things, but this has all lifted."  

No surprises.  It is impossible to get a ticket for the last ever shows.

Film of the year, 1776.

There are innumerable blogs on the topic, "Best Film of 2012". Some of them are terrific - like this one, or this one, or even, this one. But few of them agree. Wonderful really that opinions can vary. That taste can be, exactly that.

My film of the year was unquestionably A Royal Affair. Period dramas as MOVIES are doomed in an age when TV owns the territory. Downton predominates our thinking, but the ambition is so pedestrian. Sure bodices are ripped, looks of longing are beautifully framed and costumers raid dusty cupboards, but script writers for TV seem to spend televisual millions explaining, explaining, explaining. Now here, complete with glorious SUBTITLES, is a fine movie of intrigue, mixed motives and true madness. Nikolaj Arcel's movie is written so well (by Rasmus Heisterberg based on a source novel of a tale apparently every Danish child would know) you may want to want to walk out and give up ever having misguidedly thought you could tell a tale even nearly so well as this. Mad King Christian VII (Mikkel Folsgaard) marries 16 year old English princess Caroline (Alicia Vikander) who falls for Johann Struensee (Mads Mikkelsen) who becomes the king's personal physician, despite being German, or something. Its cold and lots of people die of Small Pox. The film is imbued with Shakespeare, which mad King Christian loves to quote, and mixes the romantic drama of the Court with the frisson of ideas and ideals of the enlightenment, but ultimately the book burners and forces of conservatism confront such liberal claptrap with a good dose of torture and the swing of a mighty axe. A Royal Affair is filmed wonderfully, cut crisply, feels 60 minutes shorter than its 140 minutes running time and is the best advert for Danish cinema since, since, well take me on trust - its much better than Dragon Tattoo. See it. It's the best film about late eighteenth century Denmark you are likely to see, well ever.

Exit Music for a film

You'll know the feeling.  It's dark.  The score swells.  The protagonist stands, then slumps, battered, bruised and changed, but still desperate.  Maybe, there is still hope?   Then he turns and recognises the hope walking back towards him, alive.  Still alive.  The score swells again.  Piano.  ALWAYS a flippin' piano, as the text rolls up the screen. "Directed by…" and you sniff heavily, or unconsciously move your sleeve across the top of your lip.  You will not cry.  But then, the composer makes your oesophagus feel like its constricted by the very breathe that keeps you alive.  Your chest heaves and you fumble for your coat in the dark.  The girl in the seat behind you weeps openly, unconsoled by the concern of the date she did chose, because it was never HER choice of film.  Unfortunately, she will never realise how truly wonderful the man is whose arm she ungratefully pushes away.  HE chose the film.  He took her there and let the film make her feel that way.  That open.  That raw.  With him.  In the dark.  

And all it was, was exit music for a film.  

You'll know the feeling.  You have heard those songs and known they would be perfect as the title rolls.  I discovered one today on the 6.52 pm from London Bridge.  Bat for Lashes' Laura.  It starts with a piano refrain.  I don't know why they left Laura behind, or why her heart was broken, but her arms are draped around someone she loves and she longs for that time dancing on a table like some star from a bygone era.  It's beautifully written and the song has a lovely line about her "name being tattooed on everyone's skin".  Before I came across Laura, it was some Elbow tune, probably Scattered Black and Whites, but then they became huge.  I loved a ballad by REM in 1992 before Everybody Hurts, and they became ubiquitous in a way that just made you feel someone had mugged you and that someone was everyone you knew.  I've been scrolling through Spotify, iTunes, t'internet radio, Utube, Vimeo.  THAT song will be on there one day.  Not some cheesy Christopher Cross thing from when I was thirteen and knew no better, or those soaring strings as Red walks along the beach. I will forever be haunted by Aime Mann's Wise Up (at the start of the third act and before the plague of Frogs in Magnolia).  Maybe, Julia Stone.  Maybe, Laura Groves.  THOSE are the songs I mean.  You'll know the feeling.  The song plays.  And the girl in the seat behind will realise that the song was meant for her, because he chose the film and he knew they would play that song.  And she would hold him close like her life depends upon it, as the titles roll.  At least that's the way it ends in this film.  

And all it would be, would be exit music for a film. 

The importance of elsewhere

Beach_Phi_Phi_Leh.jpg

I've been thinking about doing something elsewhere.  You know the place.  Not here.  Elsewhere.  Not all the time, just some of it.  Not forever, but for a while.  Some people change jobs, some jump ship, some experiment, most procrastinate.  Some travel.  Some stay travelling.  This came home to me profoundly when a very good friend and colleague recently announced that she was to go travelling for 10 months.  It never occurred to me you could, you know, just keep going.  I travel a lot with work.  I do day trips to here and there and fly overnight long-haul, failing miserably to sleep while the plane bumps erratically en-route home.  But the destination always has the return home on the bottom of the itinery.  Apparently, travel broadens the mind.  The experience may on they surface be one of long-lines, losing baggage, getting sick and feeling nauseous at 'foreign' toilets.  But the end product is mind-broadening.  A greater understanding of different cultures surely leads to greater tolerance which can be no bad thing.  My travel experiences have been mostly good, some amazing and very few terrible.  But ten months elsewhere?  Not here, but elsewhere.  Maybe elsewhere becomes "home" and home becomes The Beach, without the paranoia, or A Room with a View, but with Helena twenty years ago, not now.  There is probably a good film around the idea of Elsewhere, or just maybe it has already been perfectly written.   I discover, through the wonders of modern technology, that I have neither shared a tweet for many days, or blogged a thought for several months.  I have been mired in the here and now, and too little concerned with the importance of elsewhere.  As for the screenplay project and the novel and the other writing, they are still sat there on a desk in that place called Elsewhere.  Like the kids' bedroom wall in The Time Bandits, maybe if I push hard enough, it will move?  Slowly at first but then with more weight and effort it begins to shift.  It moves further and further, momentum builds so the bedroom is now distant and the wall falls away in to the void.  I follow too.  Spinning downwards, until I land with a thump - elsewhere.  I guess my friend was brave enough to push the wall and keep on pushing.  I wish her good health, safety and many wonders as she travels and hope one day that Elsewhere for her and her beau, may end up being right back here.  In the meantime, Bon voyage.  Au Revoir. 

I tried the door where I used to live. Locked.

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Philip Larkin lived a lie.  Many lies in fact.  The poet, the librarian, living in an unfashionable town at the end of railway line.  His personal life was torridly complex, with loves and lovers and the echoes a f***ed-up up childhood ringing through his verse.  But it is the verse that's the most remarkable thing.  I knew nothing about Larkin before I lived in Hull.  But I did visit his grave in Cottingham and write badly about an 'Arundel Tomb' and remain struck as much today as then by his line about "traffic heading all night North."  I was back in Hull this week with friends I seldom see.  But friends I spent much of 24 hours a day with for a couple of years 25 years ago.  It was not the cliched University reunion you might imagine.  Sure there was a sense of nostalgia and old-haunts visited and much drinking like it was 1987, just for a day.   Rather nervously (why?), I stood outside the house where many of us lived.  14 of us then.  It was now smartened, with conservatory extension, manicured lawns, double gazing and smoke detectors in every room.  Changed.  

The house features in a screenplay I wrote called THE VIVID, though the setting was moved to the more photogenic Cambridge and the inhabitants sexed-up appropriately for a Producer to be able to cast 'beautiful people'.  In THE VIVID, a re-union many years later brings to the surface passions and guilt and a terrible murderous secret that haunts the lives of them all*.  Back in the real world, we played pool, bought snacks from Tesco and went to an '80's disco.  The real revelation of the weekend was not how brilliant, warm, entertaining and fun friends remain many years later…they were and are…but that the town we knew grown up in had decayed so badly.  Step outside the environs of the University and Hull is a mess.  In 2003, Hull had the ignominy of being voted No1 is a poll of Britain's crap towns.  A decade later, it seems to have dipped again.  The issue is, you have to have a reason to go to Hull.  The University is one, the other is?…the other is?  

There was some early noughties investment, but despite Premiership football, and a few local heritage and Arts gems, Hull has not had the attention and dollops of cash bestowed on Liverpool, or Leeds or Manchester.  As Larkin said 40 years earlier, the traffic on the A1 heads North all night, not even glancing over it's shoulder as it passes.  You need a reason to turn right and head over the Humber, or skip eagerly through Goole and Hessle to visit Kingston Upon Hull.  But it is a City that was home to Wilberforce, John Godber, Paul Heaton, Anthony Minghella and every year it generates a university alumni who are fiercely proud of the City as just about the friendliest and least pretentious place on the planet.  Thankfully, that remains.  Unchanged. 

*See more on creative writing and current projects here.