Thursday 10th Jan 08
Letter from the Editor.
Contents
So here goes. It’s already 2008. It’s already almost February, I’ve already spent too much money this year (in terms of Roman Abramovich…a Shevchenko, a Drogba and an Essien) and next year I’ll be 28. Jeez. So
New Years Revelations
what to do? Write a list, start running, go on a diet, join the gym, learn to speak another language, cook more, visit Stonehenge, become a vegetarian. Resolutions are
He’s not here
so boooooring. So here’s a few for your consideration. 1) Develop a new cheese 2) Don’t step on ants
OSOS 007
3) Watch more TV 4) Pretend to be Dr Who everyday. Well, it’s a start anyway. I’ve got a big long list of things to do this year and to be honest you should have one
7 Stops
too. It starts with the things I’ve never done because I’m a Londoner, for example a trip to the London Dungeon or the London Aquarium, both of which you can get half
Murdoch
price entry with your oyster card. Good news. Give us a week or so and we’ll have a full scale feature. Over the New Year we managed to almost finish our website, I say we but I actually mean our friend Ben.
Cultural Comment
Check out www.theothersidemag.co.uk for a gander at the new site…and when I said almost finished I mean there are a few bits and pieces which need to be added,
Big Willie Style
but you should get the general idea. Inside this week, Alfonso Ribeiro aka Carlton Banks from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air leaves a few answer phone messages for Will Smith. Cardorowski’s been
Films innit.
Dylan(ed) and we’ve been coming up with a bunch of New Years Revelations. Sit back, watch your back and make that list.
Nico
Over and out. ed. x Printed on recycled paper by recycled people. Please make sure you pass on or recycle, Yeah!
www.theothersidemag.co.uk
Put together by Sam Lassman Watts and Adam Richmond Handed out by Pretty Boys
New Years Revelations Doing for London what Ham did for the pig. With 2009 practically here already we sat our turkey ridden bums down and came up with the three most unlikely but nevertheless a possibility things that might happen in London this year. 1. Jubilee Line purchased by Insane Texan After a rather serene journey between Baker Street and Bermondsey lunatic billionare Albert Randolf III buys a stretch of the Jubilee Line to run from his cattle ranch to the barn. Ken paves the way for a ‘monumental moment’ and the whole process is completed in time for the Olympics with an emergency bus service running once hourly in place of missing track 2. Terminal 6 Built in Hackney Landslide mayoral winner Boris Johnson removes all artists, squatters, poets and journalists out of Hackney to make way for Heathrow’s new wing. It is specially designed by Brad Pitt, whose success building a tower block in Hove has left him as the most sought after architect in the world. All new Wife Swap one step too far. Channel four push the boundaries of television when they get Osama Bin Laden and the Beckhams to feature in their new series. David misses out on his 100th cap and ends up living in a lair in Afghanistan whilst Laden is treated to red carpets, glitz and glamour. It all goes tits up when the Afghan man turns up at the London Fashion week in a Sarong.
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
T
odd Haynes is a very, very clever young Man, and I haven’t even seen his previous work. A mistake I will endeavour to remedy, although the debauchery of Glam-Rock may be a step I fail to take, the Karen Carpenter Story as told by Barbies probably isn’t. However, the ‘Bob-tale’ he’s just released to the world is worthy of repeated and careful viewings on almost every level. And not just for a Dylan-head like me.
“
I’m Not There” is a wonderful piece of Cinema; great writing; fabulous performances by all the Bobs; magnificent camera, colour and light; forensic detail and fantastic flights of imagination; brilliant soundtrack (of course) and over and above all that, a key to how we, as a culture, got to this turgid impasse where the singer is more important than the song, the actor than the tale, painter than the painting and the commentator than the creation. Fantastic shorthand images, compression and allusion, lyric/dialogue scenes and visual gagging abound and all for the story not the Teller. A Tradesman using all his tools with skill, and no little flourish, in service of the creation. Bravo. Full of humour, irony and harsh truth Haynes’ film
refuses to offer up the usual biopic saccharine version of the subject; all His Bobness’ speed-fuelled bitchiness, nomadic philanderings and preaching of the fundamentals are presented or alluded to and with them the damage he left in his wake in search of Song and Songsmithery. But in the end what this tale tells us is that what we think of Dylan is merely that: What we think, not what he is. He’s NOT there. He’s always been somewhere and someone else and there’s no reason why we should have any more. It would only hamper
He’s Not Here BY CARDOROWSKI
our own ability to do anything original ourselves. We cannot follow his, or anyone else’s, path, but what’s fantastic is that we can cross paths and receive his songs. If we did ‘have’ him, what would we do with him? For some this might be another Museum-piece/ Library Tome/ referential Reference Manual to gather dust on a shelf. And that, I suppose, is fine, but only if, when it is taken down, it encourages us to be all the people we are. To grow up and make a change when our skin is too tight, our ideas old and enervating or our surroundings too familiar. But methinx Mr Haynes’ idea is that we should use his Tale as a key of liberation. His take on Bob’s life, a stick of dynamite to the strictures laid out by Institutions that would constrain our progress within limits of ‘decency’ and ‘damage-limitation’ for the sake of the herd. All the while remembering Bob’s note of caution; “to live outside the Law you must be honest”. Mr Haynes, in taking great liberties and going way deep, has given us a profound reflection on the route we’ve taken to the place we’re at and leaves us with a question. Do we wanna stay on track or jump another train? Are ya ready? One, Two, Thr…
BEHIND THE GAUZE Action Mr Manic Rot O’Crim Nat Roamin’ TC
Roman tic. Had enough of Romantic Love, it Ain’t got the stuff, Don’t give enough, Even for a believer, Not tough enough, For what’s in the rough, Pregnant, writhing, beating, bloody. Romance don’t pump my gore, Ain’t swilling my Claret. It’s got no throbbing Muscle To push a coursing corpuscle To engines of need, Or friends in deed. God help us all. No Future is right. No Hope in that. Romance got wrapped up in Lust and The Cash Till, Way, way back. Long before I choked on dust. Strapped to a train, and veil, On the mono-track to Oblivion. All semidimensional and In-sensible. The Heart become cartoon; Neon, pink and lifeless. I (heart) U, U (heart) ME, (Or I and Nuevo York, Loose Ankles, Lost Wages or Fran Sancisco.) Sappy Valentines and Chapels for the drunken, Pre-nups and photo op’s,
Posing for the Lumpen. Rude shirts bearing slogans And Eazee-Cards with greetings Written by a hack To jump some bones And get it in the sack. Get it all. Get it now. Divorce-U-while-U-wait. They call it love, All whistles and bells, Ribbons and bows, Flogged in the Market Place With lashings and lashings Of self-service. Love, So easy to sell When every cell cries out For feeding. But this bowl be low, This trough too shallow, To plumb a depth Or fill a hole, Quench a thirst or Sate your hunger, Build you up Or lay you down so easy. Like Love’s supposed to do. They killed romance. And now that it is dead, I need another kind of love. Love, plain, honest Love, I find, Is a long, hard stretch. Wearying, troublesome, painful. Hold you back and yo’ heart attack, Steal your feed and make you bleed, Trip your step and clock your head, Eke you out and fight a bout, Take your breath and steal your health. But all that’s excess baggage,
Protective walls and trusty swords, Obstacles to fit you, Pain to make a pause For purposes unknown, but Gradually unfurled In all the hurly burly. Where all that’s offered Are bigger billboards Bearing yet another, Instantaneous Lust-bucket. And the Large print giveth in a bun dance, But the small print is outta site now (The type that keeps on taking), ‘less you gotta Wig for hire, A lust for letters, black and white, the fence/hedge/line, An entry beyond the thin red chord. The Heavy. All that tawdry glamour. No Future is right. No Hope in that. The Love I seek? It’s covenantal, Relational, Above, beyond, with out The Law. A mode of transport Behind the gauze, Under the dressing, Into the bone, sinew, gristle, Through gorse, briar, thistle, To suck on the meat and marrow Where the road is so straight and narrow, Just enough for two, In word, In thought, In deed. Freed to find Nourishment. Love in action.
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
The Other Side’s Off Side Issue 007
By chief football correspondent Jan Vinegar of Hampstead
The missing sticker in your Panini album
The Cup runneth over Ah, FA Cup 3rd round day. There is so much mysticism and magic attached to the FA Cup, with an aura surrounding it that seems to elevate it above all other domestic cup competitions in the world. Think minnows v giants, packed terraces roaring on local heroes on mudbath pitches, half time cups of watered down Bovril, insert some other horrible cliché here. Despite all this dewy-eyed romanticism that gives football hacks a chance to wax lyrical about football “in times gone by” (a temptation that The Other Side’s Off Side has just singularly failed to overcome), it all normally heads straight out over the stand and into the nearby allotments/gardens/river/terraced street complete with pipe smoking locals as the Loadsamoneys from the Credit Card League stroll into the fourth round. For once though, the weekend delivered a pools-card-wrecking plethora of cup upsets as several teams from the lower leagues dispatched their illustrious top flight rivals to the history books and ensured themselves slots on “Where you there when…?” articles in 10 years time. Arguably the most impressive performances came from Coventry, Oldham and Sheffield United, not only turning over Blackburn, Everton and Bolton respectively but doing so in their own back yards.
Coventry’s Malteser (he’s floaty light) Michael Mifsud is certainly making a name for himself and scored twice at Ewood Park as his team thumped an incredible 4 goals past Sparky’s hapless Rovers. His nickname is “The Mosquito”, presumably because he is small, buzzes around making an irritating high-pitched noise and carries malaria. Meanwhile at Goodison, old McDonald (Gary to be precise) proved that a burger beats a bunch of toffees any day of the week as he scored the only goal to knock out Everton, whilst Sheffield United overcame their sense of injustice just long enough to beat Bolton via David Carney’s strike. Down at Kennilworth Road, Rafa’s Rotators were held to a draw by cashstrapped closure-threatened Luton Town, for whom a probable televised replay at Anfield is arguably a better result than getting straight through to the next round (assuming they are still in business by the time the replay comes round). Non-league Havant and Waterlooville’s secured an unbelievable draw away to Swansea with the equaliser scored by car salesman Rocky Baptiste, a name that every little boy in the country wishes he had born with. Rumours that H&W fielded an “N Buonaparte” and a “D O Wellington” proved to have been entirely made up by us. At the romantically-named Galpharm Stadium, Huddersfield proved they
had the stomach for the fight by dishing out a dose of cup upset medicine to the boys from Brum, a welcome tonic for the players, fans and other lovers of extended pharmacy-related metaphors. Other big boys, namely Fulham, Derby and Tooncastle Toonited, face the embarrassment of a replay after failing to overcome Bristol Rovers, Sheffield Weekday and Stoke City. So the magic of the cup lives on not just in the idealised ravings of football pundits across the land, but in actual results and stories happening on the pitch. Don’t bet against a Man U- Chelski final again though…
The Rumour Mill …grinding the grist of gossip into the flour of fact (allegedly)
Here’s some of OSOS’s predictions for the busy transfer window to come (though we wouldn’t advise you to rush off to the bookies…) Arsene Wenger pledges to stick with what he’s got at Arsenal, before nipping over to Eastern Europe to buy an unknown player whose name sounds like a throat being cleared. Jens Lehmann signs for German 4th division side
Crywolfsburg to prove that he can still compete at the highest level. Also linked with Dimitar Berbatov. Fergie decides that it’s been a while since he’s sipped a nice bottle of Portuguese Red and heads over for a long weekend, bringing back another whizzkid in his hand luggage (he’s allowed two bags now). Also linked with Dimitar Berbatov. Chelski bankroller Roman Abramovich shows those upstarts at QPR that he knows more about football by paying £50m for a lock of Ronaldinho’s hair, before rewarding Baron Greenback for his successful start as manager by buying him a high-backed red leather armchair for his lair. Also linked with Dimitar Berbatov. Rafa Benitez demands free razor blades from Reds owner George Gillet as he has grown tired of his goatee. They spend the evening locked in a meeting and emerge having resolved the situation amicably, before Benitez goes and spoils it all by submitting his own plans for a new stadium to the Stanley Park planning office that he drew in crayon on the back of a napkin. Also linked with Dimitar Berbatov. 4 new faces arrive at the Boleyn to help West Ham in their injury crisis. One is ruled out immediately in a freak scarflifting accident at the press conference, two more succumb to the norovirus the day before their debuts, and the last one develops a curious allergy to bubble mixture. Also linked with Dimitar Berbatov. Tottenham manager OneDay Ramos decides to strengthen at the back by signing two Irish blokes to build a bloody great brick wall in front of both goals at the Lane. Also linked with Dimitar Berbatov.
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
How do you beat the January Blues? We've come up with the 7 best places to find serenity? this week.
Have Breakfast
London Zoo
Think about all the inhabitants inside…monkeys, snakes, insects and more. The Penguins are in full swing at the moment. Wrap up warm and take a big picnic with a Thermos flask, a hip flask and a big roast beef and caramelised onion sandwich. Tickets £14.50 open 10am – 4pm
East Finchley
Archway
Highgate Brent Cross
Tufnell Park
Belsize Park
Old Street
Kings Cross
Kentish Town
Chalk Hampstead Farm
Golders Green
At The Breakfast Club - Angel Have a full english breakfast that is in no way filthy or disgusting, but really rather good and wholesome. Or try the pankakes doused in syrup with a side of wild berries. Or savour their tasty smoothies. The place to go if you can't be arsed to have beans on toast AGAIN
Camden Town
Euston
Mornington Crescent
Angel Warren Street
Moorgate Tottenham Court Road Goodge Street
Leices
The last of the Sales
A bit like the last of the Mohicans, but not really. I can't say I condone people running around Oxford Street barging into others, fighting with every last breath in their body to get the best bargain. I always waited until the end, around mid January where the shops have the £5 rails and people have stopped tripping me over to get to the Westwood section first. Less people and less chance you'll buy something you don't want for a lot of money.
Get some cul
Grab a slice of Glengarry Shaftesbury Apollo The sweariest most male quotable it makes the ey stand out performances (who was in the film) as Levine and Aiden 'Queer Cracking stuff. Culture d betterer than that...until
The best things going on in and around the Northern line both sides of the River
See the Sex Exhibit at the Barbican - in its last weeks!
yeh, technically it's by Barbican tube, but it's only a 15 minute walk from Angel and it's a show about sex for heaven's sake. SEX. Nudie women and explicit imagery is a must to get you all hot and bothered during these winter months. And with 7 floors of saucieness you're bound to find a quiet corner to, um, amuse yourself. Ahem £8 until 27th Jan
7 Stops Borough Market I Know I always go on about Borough but I like it so I’m gonna go on about it. innit. Anyway the grand ol’ market is now open on a Thursday so get your booty down there for some hassel free treats. I recommend the ham and buffalo mozzarella ciabatta.
Borough
Bank
Elephant
London Bridge
Charing Cross
Waterloo
Kennington
Stockwell Oval
Clapham Common Clapham North
Embankment
ster Square
Natural History Museum
You've probably forgotten how cool a massive dinosaur skeleton is. Very is the answer. Very cool indeed. And there's more. It's not just raptors and a t-rex on offer but there's a whole bunch of other stuff to do including Ice Station Antarctica (entry £7) where the whole family can find out just what it's like to be at the coldest, most remote place on earth. Entry is Free open 10am – 6pm change for South Ken
lture:
y Glen Ross at -
e play about, so yes water and featuring from Jonathan Pryce s Shelly 'the machine' r as Folk' Gillet. don't get much more l Jan 12
oM Not t
iss If you would like to advertise your event in 7 stops then please contact us at editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
Our man somewhere else
Murdoch
frighteningly large bottle of rum resting neatly beside a small handgun. Phil Mitchell meets Mad Frankie Fraser.
Handguns in Georgia
“DO you want to fire a gun Dan?” Words to excite the most flaccid cock, like asking if I’d fancy throttling Russell Brand with a Jacobean ruff. Fuck yeah I want to fire a gun. 3am and it was pissing down in Georgia. I’d just arrived in Batumi- a kind of Caucasian Brighton beachfront pit of hedonism, shamanism, voyeurism, alcoholism, shitting in your pants and smearing your face in faeces-ism. Bit like EC1. The clubs were closing, emptying whacked out zombies and worked up wankers onto the neon strip, but I managed to find an open beer shack. I had no local currency and a long, mostly incomprehensible dispute with the drunk man in charge was only curtailed when Georgia’s number one ballroom dancer stepped in to rescue me. My hero was George, a 19-year-old politician’s son who, due to the extreme nature of Georgian politics, had been assigned an armed secret service bodyguard- a thuggish troglodyte, with arms like a gibbon, a disturbing smile and a
Within a few swift drinks we were all buddies and then came George’s proposal. “Just point it in the air,” he told me as the troglodyte clicked a round into the chamber, pulled out the clip and handed me a stumpy, paint-chipped little revolver. “What, here?” I looked around the beachfront park, swollen with homebound revellers. “Yes. The police can’t bother us,” George told me, nodding at the Trog. How do you hold a gun? In two hands, as common sense would suggest, or a daring one hander, as Hollywood has taught me? I opted to grip the thing double-handed at arms length like a floppy but threatening sausage, closed my eyes, pulled a face like a 13-year-old who knows he’s about to fall off his bike, then squeezed. A jet of fire shot out the end accompanied by a loud, airy, champagne cork pop and, I imagine, a bullet. Who knows where that ended up? I’m sure Newton mentioned stuff coming down. “Fucking hell,” was my verbose reaction. My Georgian friends cheered and whooped. The Trog grabbed the thing off me, smiling proudly, clicked the clip into place and secreted it back by the rum. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” George told me and started running. “Err… I thought the police couldn’t bother us?” “Just run.”
Train Journey China, Dec 23, 2007
SO YOU think 20 minutes on the Northern Line is difficult? Is your biggest concern the Espresso Fascist
for more danmurdochblogspot.com & mrdanmurdoch@gmail.com at Capitalist Café whose ordering technique feels like negotiations at a Middle East peace conference? Oooooh you’re all squeezed in, you’re struggling to turn the pages of your Other Side because a man in a suit is reading a broadsheet Telegraph. Inconsiderate twat, commuters should only be allowed to read tabloids, especially in the city, imagine your bank manager having nothing to stir his mind cogs but I’m Almost Famous Get Me A Spread In Hello… Well commuter relief is at hand in the form of a truth nugget of pure perspective heading straight through your light slits and into your mental faculties. Things. Could. Be. Worse. ....Need more? Try China. Thirty-five hours on the Nifkin Express should cure you. Xi’an to Kunming, via Snotsburg, Stinkton, and Wealwayscarrythismuchbaggageville. You don’t get a seat, no, no, no, 35 hours in a seat? Come on, who do you think the Chinese are? Communists? You get a shelf. Third one up, eight feet high and two feet wide, where else would you rest your head? Go on, you can squeeze your noggin in that gap. What two inches of cranial clearance isn’t enough? And you didn’t know it doubles as a luggage rack? Well at least your not carrying all your worldy belongings with you. Oh, you are… Now remember- you are a Westerner. You’re more famous over here than Keeley’s talents are in that mechanics beneath the arches, so smile when the little chaps photograph you taking a shit. Now the smell. As is the way with odour, it builds up around you, slow, subtle and unnoticed, like the comparable afflictions of carbon monoxide poisoning, senile dementia and Jack Johnson.
But you step off the train to fight over a Satsuma with a bunch of raging chimps suffering cabin fever, return to your stratospheric cot, and then it hits you. Piss, eggs, wine, fart, sweat, rice, coke, beer, perfume, shit, bleach, noodles, effluent, chicken, hair, feet, feet, feet, feet and more feet- a heady brew of satanic spices concocted in a cauldron previously used as a dustpan when Beelzebub swept out hell’s charnel house. Are we crossing Nifkin’s Ridge? Overpowering, stomach-turning revoltingness on a chemical weapon scale- expect a preemptive strike by a US-led multinational force acting under the auspices of the UN with a brief to destroy Train Based Aromatitus and anyone infected. There are no windows. Think you can be trusted to regulate your own temperature to aroma ratio? The only draft comes when someone opens the toilet door, wafting a port-a-loo breeze of acrid disinfectant and sewage through the carriage. How to complete this treat of sight and smell? Throw in China’s penchant for the art of throat clearing. The train is a haven for spitters, the beat to every journey the rhythmic expulsion of snot. Never have I seen a nation attack the issue of phlegm with such vehemence. True connoisseurs of the clearance- huge, racketing, barking, choking hocks that make innocent bystanders gag and dogs eat their own genitals. Try to dodge the skull fragments and nasal cavity that come roaring out with the gob: oh look, that’s his frontal lobe, that was a good spit. So next time you can’t find the elbow space to pull Other Side out of your frogman hoodie, remember- The Tube is a hallowed space of tantric harmony and meditative calm. Enjoy it.
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
Cultural Comment
Book These gigs now Tue 15th Jan - The Kills @ Soho Revue Bar / The Telegrams @ Lark in the Park Thurs 17th Jan - Jim Noir @ Borderline / Ralfe Band @ Old Truman Brewery Fri 18th Jan - Van Morrison @ H:smith Apollo / Adrian Crowley @ Kings Head, Crouch End Sat 19th Jan - Artrocker Festival @ Islington Academy Mon 21st Jan - Stephen Fretwell @ Luminaire Tue 22nd Jan - Morrissey @ Roundhouse / Findlay Brown @ Gladstone Arms (FREE) Thurs 24th Jan - SEASICK STEVE @ Astoria / Teenage Fanclub @ Koko Fri 25th Jan - Merz & Jacob Golden @ Roundhouse / Gilles Peterson @ Jazz Cafe / Morrissey @ Roundhouse Sun 27th Jan - Cat Power @ Shep. Bush Empire / Shhh all day festival @ Luminaire with Emma Tricca, Silje Nes, Natty and more... Tue 29th Jan - PETE & THE PIRATES @ Borderline / Adele @ Bloomsbury Theatre Thurs 31st Jan - British Sea Power @ Koko / King Creosote @ Isl. Academy Fri 1st Feb - Laura Marling @ Revue Bar Tue 5th Feb - Art Brut @ ULU / The Hours @ Bush Hall Weds 6th Feb - BLACK KIDS @ Water Rats Thurs 7th Feb - JOHNNY FLYNN & the Sussex Wit @ Luminaire / Ida Maria @ 229 Fri 8th Feb - Kula Shaker @ Shep Bush Empire Sat 9th Feb - Mr Scruff @ Koko Sun 10th Feb - LES SAVY FAV @ Astoria Mon 11th Feb - NOAH & THE WHALE @ ICA Tue 12th Feb - Sons & Daughters @ ULU Weds 13th Feb - TURZI + Simian Mobile Disco @ Astoria Thurs 14th Feb - Justice @ Astoria Sat 16th Feb - The Horrors @ Astoria / Smashing Pumpkins @ O2 Weds 20th Feb - Lightspeed Champion @ Dingwalls / Nouvelle Vague @ Scala Fri 22nd Feb - Sam Amidon @ Whitechapel Gallery / Mark Ronson @ H:smith Apollo / Sat 23rd Feb - CSS @ Astoria / The Cult @ Forum Mon 25th Feb - EELS @ Royal Festival Hall
other side online... missed out recently? Well now there is no need because we’ve got a new webste. On it you will find past issues, classic articles, pictures and more. send your friends there, send your boss there....send everyone.... there’s still a bit to do but we’re not worried.
www.theothersidemag.co.uk www.theothersidemag.co.uk www.theothersidemag.co.uk www.theothersidemag.co.uk www.theothersidemag.co.uk
IF THERE IS ANY PLACE YOU THINK WE SHOULD BE PLEASE EMAIL US AT editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
;j 5 Hujar@theICA with big thanks to ben crossman for his awesome design
This winter, the ICA is showing an eye-opening retrospective of Peter Hujar’s brilliant work. Unbeknown to many, Hujar is often championed as the most important New York photographer of 1970s and 1980s. This photo collation extends to three
rooms and ranges from portraits to animals, from landscapes to nudes, and could have been entitled the “Hujar’s New York Chronicles”, as all were shot in the Big Apple. All visuals are in black and white and aesthetically similar if not superior to Hujar’s “partner
keep writing us your views, they make our day!
in craft”, Robert Mapplethorpe’s. They cover over ten years of Hujar’s activity and depict intimacy and complicity with his –both famous and anonymoussubjects (Robert Masturbating, Candy Darling on her Death Bed, and an almost cherub-like John Walters, among
others). Definitely worth the eyeing, if not to convince oneself of Hujar’s excellence, at least to relieve one’s intrigue for the toe-sucking boy promo poster. Until Jan 27 Solange Moffi
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
BIG WILLY GOES TO HOLLYWOOD Everyone’s favourite fresh prince has got a film out. And no we couldn’t get an interview. Instead we thought we’d find out what Big Willy’s appeal is exactly... I am Legend marks the day Will Smith finally stopped shouting. And cracking wise. Watch him in this darkish vampire flick and it’s almost as if he’s trying something new... could it be acting? Perhaps it the contrast between fresh (prince) faced idiot who wore his school blazer inside out to brooding last man on earth who talks to his dog and can’t even chat up a mannequin that impresses so much, rather than the actual performance. Here’s a man who’s shouty, smirksome, cheeky schtick has got very old. Film wise he’s made some duff choices and even his big hits have worn a little thin. Fancy watching Independence Day again? No, I didn’t think so. Will saves the world with a virus that’s compatible with alien technology (apparently) and some more woeful shouting, the bombast and special effects leave no desire to endure this travesty again. Enemy of the State was a flashy knock off of The Conversation but managed to get by with some nifty thrills and explosions. Men In Black was a testament to Smith’s pull power and gimmicky performances, drawing big numbers to this stupid but endearing adventure. So
successful was MIB, Will tried to copy its wacky blend of cack special effects and lazy one liners with the woefully misguided and offensively shite Wild Wild West. If that weren’t enough, the Bad Boys films are loud, brash, violent and high on duff comic patter (the second alarmingly so) and have all the wit, subtlety and imagination of a wee-soaked copy of the Daily Mail. I, Robot was a glitzy techno advert for Converse and reminder of why only big boys should play in the sci-fi sand pit. The less said about Hitch the better. In fact even that sentence is too much. With that curmudeonly appraisal of (most of) his back catalogue how the hell has he remained worth watching and why don’t I hate him? Well, there was always something else to Smith wasn’t there? How else can you explain that Smith is probably one of the most successful, famous and likeable actors around. There’s not a whiff of Scientology about the man. He comes across as genuine and friendly in those tiresome promotional interviews, mustering the will to banter with those idiots off T4 without missing a beat. He’s married to a super lady and seems to have super kids - though perhaps I’ll see if those loveable moppets survive their teens without a drink driving/drugs/hit-and-run/knocked up girlfriend scandal before Big Willy gets the all clear on fatherhood (I always blame the parents you see). Not only that, but with his dark, moody and unshouty turn in I am Legend it seems Smith has wearied of his previous on screen persona. For good? Hopefully...
Clai Defe
Feb
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