Now look what you've done. You've made me turn my chair around.

So, the new Ghostbusters.

I went to see it at the cinema two weeks ago. I went on my own, partially because I love going on my own (cinema is one of the great solitary pass-times, why do people feel the need to go as a crowd?) and partially because no one else in my circle of friends would countenance seeing it (bear in mind these are people who have paid money to see several Transformer movies, on purpose).

And Ghostbusters was good. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though at least thirty percent of the movie was rubbish (ineffective bad dude, sagging middle, cameos that made me cringe), and even though most of its problems stemmed from the associated baggage that always hinder reboots - namely a necessity to hat-tip the original whilst struggling for an original voice. It wasn't awful. I will watch it again on video.

But, see, I had no intention of watching it at all. I loved Ghostbusters as a kid. The cartoons and comics were the best thing in the world. I've had a low-level crush on Ray Stantz for nearly thirty years (it's no coincidence I married a man who's so similar to him) (husband considers himself Venkman; husband is wrong). Ghostbusters II was the second film I remember seeing at the cinema. I'm still mad at a critic who gave that movie three stars and described it as "ok if you like that kind of thing".

So I did NOT want to see a reboot. I groaned at every rumour of Ghostbusters III. I'd already decided I would ignore the new movie.

And then the shouting started.

Not just the terrible internet shouting. The shouting within my own house. My son and husband HATE the idea of the reboot. This isn't anything new - we hate the idea of lots of movies. But eventually one of us will decide we want to see it, and the other two will roll our eyes, and then it'll turn out the movie isn't awful and we'll all quite enjoy it. That's what happened with The Thing. And Star Trek. And Star Wars, for that matter.

But it didn't happen here. I suggested the new Ghostbusters looked alright, and was instantly told I was wrong. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONITY WRONG. And what happens when people tell me I don't want something? I START WANTING IT.

I did not want to watch Ghostbusters. I did not want to pay £9.50 and wear the bloody awkward 3D glasses and deal with cinema audiences. You people made me.

(Not you specificially, of course. You're lovely. Other people.)

And now look what you've done. I enjoyed it.

So I came home and told people. And they shouted me down. Turns out, every opinion I have about this movie is wrong! Even something as simple as "OMFG Kate McKinnion why did no one tell me" was countered by the insistence that the movie had deliberately cast ugly women to prevent it appealing to men (thank you, hormonal teenage son, for setting me right). The movie was devised by a committee to squeeze a new gimmick into an existing franchise; a cynical cash-grab by greedy Hollywood; a trampling of cherished childhood memories.

The last two movies I paid money for at the cinema were The Jungle Book and the Angry Birds Movie. I missed the outcry about the former trampling on childhoods, or the latter cynically squeezing money from an existing franchise.

But you know what? It's fine.

When I was a kid, everyone liked the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles. I was the only Ghostbusters fan in the village. I wore my jumpsuit and proton pack to school discos. I was stubborn and contrary and liked liking things that no one else did. This has not changed.

So it's okay if people don't agree with me. In fact, it's better than okay, because it means the new Ghostbusters movie is mine and I don't have to share it. Everyone else can bitch and moan, and I'll sit here quietly, and smile.

swearing at 11

You've all seen Glengarry Glen Ross, right? If not, don't worry, you probably already know that you're missing out on one of the best films of the last twenty years.

*counts*

Twenty-five years, sorry. Damn I'm old.

But anyway.

Glengarry Glen Ross, as well as being brilliant, is also full of swears. You likely already know that too. It's a film I'll never be able to show my dad, for example, because he'll spend the whole time tutting at the language.

Having said that, my absolute favourite bit is when Al Pacino breaks out the c-word.

You can probably guess I'm not a fan of the c-word, and 99.9% of the time I don't think it's warranted. However... when Pacino uses it here, you can tell he's saved it for a very special occasion. He spends the entire movie swearing at people, but keeps this one word in reserve for when he needs to turn things up to eleven. If there was a more liberal sprinkling of c-words throughout the movie, it would have diluted the effect, but here it raises eyebrows, despite the vast sweariness that preceded it.

The lesson, I guess, is that if everything is already at eleven, you've got nowhere to go when you need emphasis. Always keep something big in reserve for when you really need to hurl it at Kevin Spacey.

"You're Superman... and you're not going to save me."

A bit late to the game, I know, but we finally caught up with Iron Man 3 last night, and were pleasantly surprised. I think it helped that my expectations had been set so low, just by virtue of this being the third in a series, that I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would.

(as usual, movie discussion = spoilers, on the off chance I'm not the only person who hadn't seen it)

A few things I especially liked: One, it was set at Christmas. When was the last time we had a Christmas action movie? I'm looking forward to watching it on a double-bill with Die Hard. Two, the movie anticipated our expectations being low. It introduced the cliche of the middle-eastern bad guy, and we just groaned and rolled our eyes, because what do you expect from the third in a franchise? So when it played its cute little twist, it was a genuine and pleasing surprise. Three, it had a precocious kid who didn't make me want to throw things at the TV, which is a total rarity.

Also, it had one sequence I really liked. It was the utterly ridiculous stunt where Air Force One gets depressurised and all the presidential staff get slooped out at ten thousand feet. Again, I liked it because it confounded my expectations. As soon as the civilian-slooping started, I thought, "that's a bit harsh, what have those poor incidental characters done to deserve that?" because I figured they had already been written out of the script. I expected Tony Stark to maybe save the plane then continue his search for the president. What I didn't expect was for him to jump out of the plane and save everyone.

Why not? After all, it's exactly what a superhero would do. It's exactly what we should expect from a superhero. And yet... so many superheroes in recent movies have become worryingly blase about human life. Too often, incidental civilians die without anyone giving them a second thought. As much as I loved Avengers Assemble, how many people died during the awesome final battle? What about the end sequence of Star Trek: Into Darkness? And don't even get me started on Man of Steel.

So it was surprising and refreshing to see Iron Man acting like a superhero and rescuing the eleven hapless civilians, even if it was one of the more ridiculous sequences in recent times (I was also tickled when, on watching the special features, we realised how many times they had to shove those poor stuntpeople out of a plane in order to get the necessary shots).

If you want my opinion (and if you don't, why the heck are you reading my blog?), superheroes are, by definition, more than human in physical terms, and therefore, it's what they do (or don't do) that defines their humanity. Clark Kent spends half his life working a nine-to-five job and being normal, even though he obviously doesn't have to. Bruce Banner has to literally struggle to be a person rather than a monster. If you're a mutant, how can you prove to yourself and the world that you're still human at heart?

One of my favourite issues of Garth Ennis' superlative Hitman comic involved Tommy Monaghan meeting Superman. It was a coincidental meeting, on a rooftop in the Cauldron. Supes was, at that time, agonising over a recent incident where he'd gone to rescue a space shuttle that was about to explode. He had saved the shuttle and all of the crew... except for one astronaut, who he'd thought was already lost. By the time he realised the man was still alive, trapped outside the shuttle, it was too late to save him.

The story illustrated that Superman can't save everyone. But he has to try, because he's Superman, and if he fails, he has to at least acknowledge the fact that he's failed. Superheroes can't be careless about human life, not if they want to retain their own humanity.

I'm on my soap box a little, so I'll stop, but this is something I feel quite strongly about (not sure if you can tell). We shouldn't be surprised when heroes act like heroes. Shane Black apparently gets that. Someone needs to go tell Zach Snyder.

I'll lend them a big stick to reinforce their point, if it helps.

Who let Jack out of the freezer?

(You know how I feel about spoilers. There may be spoilers in this post. Fairly warned be thee, says I.)

My favourite thing about The Shining (and it's something I was unaware of until it was pointed out a few years ago by my dad) is this: Everything that happens in the movie can be explained in non-supernatural, rational terms, such as hallucinations and general craziness on the part of Jack and, to a lesser extent, Wendy... except for one thing.

When Wendy locks Jack in the walk-in refrigerator and goes to get help, the ghost of the former caretaker lets him out.

It's not the most obvious of moments. The movie never makes a big deal of it. But it remains the only physically impossible action in the story. And I love that Kubrick never felt he needed to make a big deal of it--by the simple inclusion of that one impossible thing, he opens up the possibility that everything in the story is real, and it's not just an isolation-induced madness hallucination.

Watching Pan's Labyrinth for the second time (I'm rarely smart enough to spot these things on the first watch-through), I was delighted to notice that Del Toro had included a similarly impossible moment: The little girl is locked in her room, and draws a chalk doorway to escape. It's different enough that I wondered whether it was a deliberate nod to Kubrick, but the effect is the same--a single impossible act that allows the possibility that everything we've seen is real.

And then, last night we watched The Devil's Backbone, which I haven't seen for years but which is still a wonderful scary little movie. (The CGI looks a little creaky in places, but that's not fatal in this case because Del Toro has always been smart enough to use CGI to enhance a movie rather than structuring a movie around the effects.) (I haven't seen Pacific Rim yet, by the by.) And there it was, right towards the end of the film--the children are locked in a room, and a ghost unlocks the door for them.

It's a little fan-girl moment that's going to keep me happy all day. :)

failing at this posting thing...

again i made a resolution to post more often. Again i fail.

on the plus side, i'm watching The Usual Suspects in belated tribute to the wonderful Pete Postlewaite. Is there anything better than this movie? Okay, maybe there is, but for me this is the movie that defined my teenage years. When Chris McQuarrie won the screenwriting oscar, i woke up everyone in the house with my happy dance. When i had a massive row in the cinema with my then-boyfriend, just as the credits were starting, i let him win because i so did not want to walk out of the movie in a huff. Just listening to the score brings a nostalgic tear to the eye.

also, i've just realised the credits at the start read "Bryan Singer's film", rather than "a film by...". Like he KNEW this was THE film of his career (not to belittle his career before or since, natch). I heart you, movie.

Part 1 of 3

November starts on monday... and with it comes NaNoWriMo. Doesn't seem like a whole year, does it?

if anyone wants to friend me, i'm here. This year, i'm doing a sequel to a story i wrote about a hundred years ago.

It's the second sequel i've ever attempted - the first was abandoned after my sister beat me with a Doc Martin boot. She gets very... punchy on the subject of sequels, and most of the time i tend to agree with her. After all, at best a sequel takes a bunch of characters you love and throws them back into a terrible situation, after they spent all that time and effort getting out of danger. At worst, they kill off the people you care about and sabotage relationships (hello, Alien 3 and Men In Black II, respectively). Plus, as someone much smarter than me once pointed out, a movie (or book, or whatever) is supposed to be about the most exciting/interesting story in the character's lives. So any sequel is going to be about the SECOND most exciting/interesting story in their lives. And who wants to pay £6.50 for that?

Don't get me wrong, i've nothing personal against sequels. Some of my best friends are sequels. I may be the only person you'll meet who's watched The Fly II more times than both the originals put together. Piranha 2 had flying piranhas AND Lance Hendrickson ditching a helicopter into the sea. Terminator 2, Aliens and Ghostbusters 2 were all better, imo, than the originals, altho i'm sure not everyone would agree.

What i dislike is the current trend for setting up franchises. Every freakin movie you see these days seems designed as the first in a series. No one gets to kill the bad guy, save the love interest and live happily ever after anymore - the bad guy has to survive, the love interest has to stay fiesty and out of reach, and we all go home and wait for the next movie. It irks me.

The Bitter Script Reader said something similar recently, which is maybe why it's on my mind.

so i'm wondering, is the same sort of thing happening with books? Does every novel need to be the start of a franchise? (Or, at least, the first of two or three?) Do we need to start being like Brian Keene and STOP THE GODDAMN STORY RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE?

It's got me thinking because i was talking to a few of my writery friends (we were in a coffee shop and everything), and, apart from me, they're all working on the first of three books (or the second of five, or... you get my point). It seems to be the done thing at the moment. Now, is this a corresponding trend in the publishing industry? Do publishers look at submitted manuscripts and say, "well, it's good, but it's a stand-alone novel. There's no way we can get a sequel out of this. PASS."? Would you get marked down for NOT leaving potential to continue the story?

why can't stories be told in a single book or film anymore?

does that question make me sound old?

i'll see y'all for the start of Nano on monday. :)