And Now For Something Completely Different...

Heck, I was bored and short of blodging topics. This will tide you over with all the wit and pith I can muster whilst I dust off the finishing touches on a celebration of Frankenstein. Try and enjoy.

Name: James C. Swanton, the "C" standing for Christopher. Sorry to anyone named Chris out there, you know who you are. At least I presume so. There's something to add to the stupid phrase list.
Birthday: 11/03/91, sixty years on from F.W. Murnau's death (director of Nosferatu and Faust, good films that you should see pronto).
Birthplace: York District Hospital, along with all the other ruddy peasants.
Current Location: Glorious Acomb, still within the boundaries of York.
Eye Color: Brown. Not limpid pools of desire alas, but eccentric prisms of reflecting light.
Hair Color: Extremely dark brown. Blonde once upon a time. I have the photos of my three-year-old self on Acomb Green to prove it.
Height: A rather imposing 6'2". Not quite as towering as Stephen Fry or Christopher Lee yet, but about the stature of Bela Lugosi. And much taller than Claude Rains.
Right Handed or Left Handed: Right-handed, seeing as I'm socially adjusted.
Your Heritage: Mostly obliterated by World War II and an adoption somewhere down the line. I have some Mediterranean blood on my father's side though. An interesting story, that.
The Shoes You Wore Today: Black, scholarly, rather like well-worn liquorice bricks.
Your Weakness: Fully restored and digitally remastered classic films released by Warner Bros. Aw, geez! Also, people who are unconditionally nice.
Your Fears: Tall buildings, stick insects, the Conservative party.
Your Perfect Pizza: Festooned with two of every animal. Tuna is a compelling option.
Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year: Acclaim and recognition. And more character roles.
Your Most Overused Phrase On an instant messenger: Seen any good films lately? / Oh, prattle off, you! / How's your cat? / Quite the little woman, aren't we?
Thoughts First Waking Up: Time to go back to sleep.
Your Best Physical Feature: The Geoffrey-Rush-as-Inspector-Javert nose (yeah, I wish). No? Possibly the hands then. Don't know what I'd do without them.
Your Bedtime: 11PM on a school day (aren't so many of those now!), extended into the wee early hours on a weekend.
Your Most Missed Memory: Being Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Aw, shucks. I'm a regular Norma Desmond. Or Baby Jane Hudson. Now, who would win in a cat fight?
Pepsi or Coke: I don't mind, they both taste so similar... But Coke. Not so common somehow.
MacDonalds or Burger King: MacDonalds, a name synonymous with all those glorious hydrogenated fats and oils. Although the gap is closing now they're being skimpy with the salt.
Single or Group Dates: Either. I'm desperate and resolutely celibate. Romance is all very well, but wholesome, traditional friendship is the enduring yardstick by which all lives should be measured.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Not so sure I've tasted either...
Chocolate or Vanilla: Chocolate I think.
Cappuccino or Coffee: Both of them are pretty disgusting. I may slurp at the frothy teat of a cappuccino though, provided it's dusted with some light flecks of chocolate that haven't been anywhere near Baldrick.
Do you Smoke: No, but I do live, which is something else entirely.
Do you Swear: Now and again. Not so often. Losing your temper like that tends to be bad manners.
Do you Sing: As a character, in purest Rex Harrison style, yes. Otherwise, it just doesn't wash with me. I'd love to be able to, but...
Do you Shower Daily: Anything less would be contemptible.
Have you Been in Love: Yes. It was arduous and painful and forced me to hate myself acutely and do an awful lot of thinking and then hate fundamentalist Christians for a bit and then get distracted and wander off. But at the same time somehow... lovable. Worthwhile experience. Not one I hope to repeat. Just ask if you wish to hear mm morph into a self-pitying moron with something worth pitying for a change.
Do you want to go to College: Indeed. And off I trot.
Do you want to get Married: I'm not so sure on that one yet, you'll have to sell me the benefits.
Do you believe in yourself: In the immortal words of Spyro the Dragon, "ya gotta believe!" Sure, why not? It's just difficult convincing the rest of the world.
Do you get Motion Sickness: Not usually. I adore fast rides. Sitting on the front of Space Mountain with my tongue hanging out approximates heaven for me.
Do you think you are Attractive: To people or to igunanas? Because no either way. Gosh, it must be disturbing to find someone has a crush on you, mustn't it? Thinking about you all hours.
Are you a Health Freak: Certainly not. My metabolism does it all for me.
Do you get along with your Parents: Yes. They contain all my genetic material. What sort of self-loathing, pseudo-Freudian paradox would I be if I didn't?
Do you like Thunderstorms: Yes. It is the perfect moment to watch a 1930s horror film, especially Frankenstein or White Zombie.
Do you play an Instrument: I wish I did, but sadly no. A good organ on which I could thunder out Bach's "Sleepers, Wake" when the mood struck me would be ideal.
In the past month have you Drank Alcohol: No.
In the past month have you Smoked: No.
In the past month have you been on Drugs: Ye-oh, wait. No.
In the past month have you gone on a Date: No... Why am I bothering with this anymore? What would I do on a date? What would a date do with me? Why do dates exist? They're not particularly conducive to love affairs.
In the past month have you gone to a Mall: I'm not American. We have Designer Outlets here.
In the past month have you eaten a box of Oreos: No, I'm not American. We have custard cremes here. And the answer is still no.
In the past month have you eaten Sushi: I'd try some if it was available and less than completely deadly.
In the past month have you been on Stage: Oh, yes. Yes indeed. Dented the Drama Studio floor too. A lifelong dream fulfilled. Mrs. Grace wept. About the floor, that is. I wasn't that bad.
In the past month have you been Dumped: I certainly hope not!
In the past month have you gone Skinny Dipping: Only by myself. Indoors.
In the past month have you Stolen Anything: Please refer to "Ever Shoplifted."
Ever been Drunk: No. I'm still clean and sober
Ever been called a Tease: Oh, sure, yeah, millions of times.
Ever been Beaten up: Not in the physical sense.
Ever Shoplifted: Only from the Spar, when Callum gives me the all clear.
How do you want to Die: Toppling out of the Royal Box in a London theatre and fatally crushing a lesser actor. Wonderful. Donald Wolfit would be proud.
What do you want to be when you Grow Up: A writer, an actor, a film historian, a madman - a Renaissance man, in short.
What country would you most like to Visit: Romania. Bran Castle is for sale again.
In a Boy/Girl.. (Hmm... ambiguous...)
Favourite Eye Color: Not fussed.
Favourite Hair Color: Auburn is a pleasant word, but I really don't mind.
Short or Long Hair: Not fussed. Sorry, long. How long? Gah. Male order brides. Nightmare.
Height: Not fussed. As long as they're not a giraffe or anything.
Weight: I'd be happy with a happy medium. Stick thin people are disgusting. I am the glittering exception that proves the rule, of course.

Best Clothing Style: Drab!
Number of Drugs I have taken: Oh, too few. Every film and TV programme I see about them makes me more desperate. Yeah, man, yeah, like, totally. Just like how the MPPA is attempting to edit out all scenes of smoking in new films.
Number of CDs I own: Around about forty. And over 100 DVDs.
Number of Piercings: None.
Number of Tattoos: Err, none again. Who reads this?
Number of things in my Past I Regret: Oh, plenty of things. But that's another blog entirely...

Reasons to be a Boris Karloff Fan

1. Responsible for two influential cinematic icons - the Frankenstein Monster and the Mummy. No other actor has yet achieved this level of exposure.
2. At the height of his stardom, he was billed only by last name: KARLOFF (or occasionally, Karloff the Uncanny). This is a very rare accolade, representative of his sterling work in The Mummy (1932), The Black Cat (1934), The Raven (1935) The Walking Dead and The Invisible Ray (both 1936).
3. Lent his majestic presence to what many (myself included) consider to be the greatest horror films ever made. Standing tall among his other achievements are Frankenstein (1931), The Mummy (1932), The Black Cat, The Black Room (1935), The Walking Dead, Son of Frankenstein (1939), Isle of the Dead (1944), Bedlam (1946) and Targets (1968). Most revered and acclaimed of all are the glorious monoliths to the silver screen's finest twin decades of talking horror - Bride of Frankenstein (1935), an ingenious, operatic fantasia on the classic tale, and The Body Snatcher (1945), turning in his most fiendishly evil and disturbing performance as Cabman Gray.
4. His showstopping Broadway performance as Bishop Cauchon in The Lark during the fifties earned him a Tony nomination. By most accounts, he lost under very unfair circumstances.
5. Also had unprecedented Broadway success as Jonathan Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace throughout the forties, in which he spoke the immortal line, "He said I looked like Boris Karloff!" It's now one of the most celebrated stage comedies in history.
6. Won a Grammy for his narration of How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Later used it as a doorstop. That takes some serious panache!
7. His marvellous vocal presence earned him the perennially successful tribute song, Monster Mash. It still gets far more airtime than any other record at Halloween, being uniquely catchy and ghoulishly groovy.
8. His mere presence in a film has jump started the careers of several Hollywood luminaries. Among them are The Body Snatcher's Robert Wise (his success on that Val Lewton chiller led to The Sound of Music and West Side Story); young Jack Nicholson from The Raven and The Terror (both 1963; his multiple Academy Award nominations verify his worthiness); and Peter Bogdanovich, who got his directorial break with 1968's Targets (Paper Moon). He is also indirectly responsible for the rise of Christopher Lee and the advent of the entire Hammer horror cycle, by turning down The Curse of Frankenstein (1957).
9. Originated the role of Captain Hook (on Broadway, yet again) in Leonard Bernstein's dark version of Peter Pan.
10. Played opposite Lord Laurence Olivier (himself!) in the West End to raise money for charity. And, yes, probably gave him a run for his money.
11. He has featured on two separate US postage stamps. This places him on a par with the Queen of England, who, to be quite honest, is only there by birthright.
12. Made an appearance in one of the earliest colour films, House of Rothschild (1934). Was later the star attraction in the big budget melodrama The Climax (1944), photographed in Technicolor. This process was not only expensive and rather innovative, but it reinstated faith in Boris's box office appeal.
13. Was fully prepared to suffer for his art. Most infamous was his makeup in The Mummy. It took a marathon eight hours to equip, had no special compartments for visits to the toilet (God forbid!), ensured that he collapsed from oxygen starvation, and kept him fully awake for well over twenty-four hours. I fear we shall not see his like again...
14. By all accounts, he was the most kind and generous human being. Virtually no one (minus Susanna Foster) has said a bad word about this gentleman and gentle man.
15. Served in World War II on night watch duty, despite the fame and glamour of his cinematic and Broadway success glittering around him.
16. In the best tradition of Bette Davis, "he did it the hard way." A solid twenty years or so of bit parts, hard labour, truck driving, rationing out soup tins, drifting in and out of stock and rep companies, five failed marriages, learning dozens of scripts to perform on rotation, ecetera, ecetera, loomed ahead before late bloom stardom at 44. This also shaped and guaranteed his humbleness regarding his fame.
17. Owned a pig named Violet. That's reason enough to make somebody great.
18. Worked at age eighty-two, in wheelchair and with oxygen mask equipped, for the sheer love of his craft. He was a well-off man, he didn't need to do it... but he carried on all the same. This also ended up killing him, when a torrential flood on The Curse of the Crimson Altar (1968) aggravated his troublesome emphysema. He died as he wished, "with my boots and my grease-paint on."

There you have it. The foundations of a great actor. And with no spotty, squint-eyed, midgety Daniel Radcliffe in sight. God bless cinema history!

A Bit of a Review of a Bit of a Film

OK, so it's not a film in the strictest feature-length sense, but there are so many PNS perversities online now that I should probably "review" (an ugly word) at least one.

The latest opus is entitled Two Blokes a Beast and a Bar Wall - Episode Three (2007), following on from the likes of 2005's original and the second outing in 2006. All the hallmarks of the previous entries are there - the same repertory company, settings, editor, cinematographer, director (most of them mysteriously called CG), and so on. There is also the same rich vein of depraved humour, a rather diffuse juxtaposition of "schoolboy humour" (well, allegedly) and incest among a ribald family of sexually provocative libertines. That's a line for the poster.

I think you can pinpoint this entry as the turning point of the series, veering off in the direction of the epic. Everything is Bigger! Bolder! Louder! This can sometimes be a detractor from the subtleties of filmmaking. My only question is: what subtleties? So yes, I think it just about works here. York is a fabulous adventure playground filled with beautiful scenery that should be taken maximum advantage of. I look forward to some abseiling down the Minster next time.

There are many blessings on hand. Recycled yet again is the original opening intro, which comforts and reassures and terrifies a viewer, rather like the repeated main titles sequence at the start of Universal's twelve 1940s Sherlock Holmes outings (sorry... I'll crush down the film historian within). There's a considerably larger sense of scope and pageantry this time round, with a fairly protracted chase scene up walls, down walls and across grassy knolls. Camera motion is generally more fluid, and the soundtrack compliments the onscreen insanity well. It's a solid, high quality exercise in low budget (sorry, no budget) filmmaking, with only one instance when it becomes difficult to see what's going on (a Blair Witch homage, perhaps?). The accents are dodgy as ever, but I wouldn't have them any other way. The use of stop motion for sudden disappearances is seamless, and probably the funniest single moment on display. The pure, unadulterated shoddiness is absolutely delightful... in the best possible sense.

However, I must take slight issue with the general sense of humour. The last episode pushed the envelope just as far as I was prepared to see (and, rest assured, I found it very amusing) - but, in that timeless fashion, this one felt the urge to go even further. I don't have a particularly weak stomach (yeah, you go off and take the stench of rotting flesh at the morgue). I just don't find certain elements of it funny anymore, that's all. The sort of daring mischief that made the original almost endearing is getting just a bit old and bilious for me now. It ain't zealous ro charming - it's just shunte din there for macabtre shock effect, like a dead cow sweating it's life juices at a family barbercue. That's not to say you shoudln't continue - if you find it funny, I will defend to the death your right to carry on. Just please don't expect me to enthuse about a bit of comedy I don't find all that funny. I wholeheartedly encourage everyone with something meaningful to add or disagree with to comment.

Nevertheless, a decent production that probably won't receive so many brickbats from the mainstream. I anticipate (with joy and overwhleming fear) the next entry. And when are you getting your page on the Internet Movie Database?

Lower School Festival? Yes, of course I'm bitter!

Bitter and resentful, to be precise. Let's discuss exactly why. (A sidebar: I suggest you ask Chris Guard for what was basically the prototype for this entry. It's a very amusing and painfully true read from a brilliantly embittered perspective. But for now, I'll just wax lyrical in my accustomed, pseudo-philosophical style.)

There is something very wrong about Manor School. Why does any worthwhile Christian organisation plunge us into such an abrasive sub-culture of hierarchies and cliques from the moment we enter? Everywhere you look, you're being ranked and organised for inspection - merit counts! Code counts! Attendance records! Mark books! I have no problem with these things. They're based upon the way we conduct ourselves (or not) and seem perfectly acceptable. There's another problem...

It's based on the house system. It boils my blood and sets my hair on fire. Never in my life have I encountered such brutal and unremitting cheating, deceit and callous favouritism running through such a skewed and unreliable system. Pray let me explain:

There's this school ya see, an' it's-a crammed full o' people. But thurs a foo-too-moo-ny people, so they 'ave to be split into groups, see. There's one called Abbey, which is kinda crappy. Another, called Manor, is a leett-le bit crappy too, ya see, reflectoid-ing the way I see its namey-sake roight noo. Then there's Stoo-hart which is also kinda rubbish. Yer see, there be other houses. But then, there is, sounding like the hammer of Thor -

WENTWORTH.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. A thousand orgasmic groans, monsieur! WENTWORTH Oh! Brilliant, golden, glimmering, gilded WENTWORTH! WENTWORTH, yes, WENTWORTH! WENTWORTH, lynch-pin of the performing arts department! WENTWORTH, great, glorious out-pouring of the universe's talent! WENTWORTH, crammed with ardent RADA students and Tony-award winners! WENTWORTH, bubbling with young prodigies and masterworks of renaissance art! WENTWORTH, replete with its majestic hoardes of exquisitely athletic young boys and girls, vaulting over fences and doging buses on their way to school! WENTWORTH, where the fat and spotty nary show their face! WENTWORTH, where mediocrity is a byword for high treason! WENTWORTH, where dozens of young raconteurs and Stephen Fry-clones wile their way through dinner parties and costume dramas! WENTWORTH, where rules and good judgement are laid aside in favour of enormous gushings of relentless, beatific praise! If anything ever managed to stop the real God, you can bet he would be replaced by WENTWORTH.

Now, whilst I retire to the nearest piano and hastily puke into it, I would like to say that this is grossly unfair. It cheapens and destroys the hard work and effort that 75% of the school does, whilst blowing out of all proportion the other 25%. I have rarely encountered a more sickening and gut-wrenching sight than the millions of toussle-haired, dimpled urchins cavorting, capering, hugging and generally being doe-eyed, dwindling, vicious little arsewipes the moment the inevitable cry of WENTWORTH IS VICTORIOUS was called out. And I worked at the morgue. The good people I'd been working with and desperately nurturing for the last three months were instantly deflated, distraught and hastily swept under the rug. They were undervalued and ignored to the extent where I question my own sanity. Peripheral, oblique questions go twirling through my tormented brain... Should I change myself somehow? Dye my hair, don a track suit, wear eye shadow and lip gloss? Get a bit of bling? Perhaps, you wonder, in a violent fit of vomiting on the way to the stage, you should swap your name to Mam SacAvoy and start imitating Blames Junt. Or perhaps it would be simpler to invent a time machine, skirt back through the wasted years, bump off Scelena Hofield and replace her with a ginger tabby cat named Raymond Huntley to see if it still wins.

As far as I'm concerned, talent in Manor School's entirely subjective environment is little more than a flashy name or a catchphrase - buzzwords and flashing lights and pretty little elves and magic tricks all imitating true talent.

True talent. I cannot say I possess it, because I am not in WENTWORTH. I must settle for a position of vague, unfulfilled respect and no level of verbal acclaim or praise as I behold the confetti and doves rain down upon WENTWORTH. Nevertheless, I rest secure with the comforting vision that the objective realities of the real world shall reduce that brood of ravenous ghouls spewed up from the grave to dismal, drug-addled shadows of their former inflated egos.

God bless Britain and its Labour government! God curse Manor and its favouritism, prejudice and heresy!

I born a Stuart (well... not really) and I shall die a Stuart (God-willing). So let's have a little bit more of STUART! ABBEY! MANOR! And a little bit less Wentworth. Don't worry, precious. The anger only drives me to verbally (and, hopefully, physically) lash you. And please, Manor School, sort out this abhorrent theological issue.