Ignore the plot holes a mile wide, the performances (especially Lundgren’s) which should never have been allowed on a small screen, let alone a large one, the absence of character development and ridiculous motivations. It’s a back-to-basics actioner, more fun than most people would care to admit, and even though Sly looks far too tired (acting as well as directing seems to have worn him out), he’s managed to deliver a perfectly good no brainer in a summer largely filled with pretentious garbage. Oh and The Governator is back, accompanied by the best line in the film too…
I like Phillip Noyce, but the last good film he made was over a decade ago. I like Angelina Jolie but she’s only had one good film under her belt across her entire career. ‘Salt’ doesn’t change the game for either of them. It’s an overlong, under-written affair, punctuated by lame performances from actors who should know better and plots that were old twenty years ago, which insult the audience’s intelligence from the outset.
Jolie plays Evelyn Salt, a CIA agent with a murky past, who works alongside fellow agents Liev Schreiber and Chiwetel Ejiofor (who demeans himself by even appearing in this wreck). One day out of the blue they’re confronted by a Russian defector (erm didn’t that end a decade or two ago?), who insists Salt is a sleeper agent, who is planning on killing the Russian president. Ejiofor expresses alarm, but despite being in a top security facility the defector manages to escape with ease, as does Jolie. Rather than clearing the matter up, she goes on the run, showing she’s exactly what he says she is, but claims to be hunting her kidnapped husband, who appears to have a secret significance for her (and then doesn’t). She appears to succeed in her preposterous ambition, but of course it’s all smoke and mirrors to get to the heart of the deeper conspiracy and prevent the assassination of the American president and the triggering of the Third World War. And guess who’s behind it? Well who’s the remaining A/B-list star from the credits not accounted for?
It’s predictable hocum, playing fast and loose with the audience’s understanding of geopolitics – why is the American president prepared to launch a nuclear attack on Russia when the plot is repeatedly acknowledged as a defunct Soviet one, masterminded by independent terrorists? It’s also pretty clear that the underlying sleeper agents plot, ready to destroy American society from within, is an analogy for 9/11-style radical Islamists, but the producers were no doubt too fearful of the reaction they’d get to go with their original plot. It’s ultimately a film for young teenagers and Jolie’s most die-hard fanbase, nothing more. ‘Mr & Mrs Smith’ was also poorly written, but at least it had some charm, which this does not. Kurt Wimmer’s script had originally been offered to Tom Cruise (and you can see why, as well as why he turned it down), and it clearly aims for a sequel as Salt runs into an oh-so ‘Fugitive’-esque future, promising Ejiofor, who suddenly accepts her account of her final battle with Schreiber (you guessed right) with no evidence whatsoever, that she’ll take all the remaining sleeper agents out herself. She needn’t rush.
Noyce wastes the first half hour with one interminable chase after another, and it’s all really tedious and annoying. ‘The Sum of All Fears’ covered similar ground nearly a decade ago, and with much more credibility. Jolie panics over the welfare of her husband, but not so much that she doesn’t (seem to) fulfil her programming before looking for him, and then lets the plotters murder him in front of her face. All the Secret Service bodyguards in the world can’t keep the president safe in the White House bunker. The American nuclear launch protocols are remarkably easy to manipulate. The Russian president pops up quite alive days later, even though he would have been autopsied by then. Ugh ugh ugh. To be fair it improves after the initial, never-ending (and well choreographed) chase, but the plot is silly, the dialogue cringe-worthy and the film fails lamentably to stand out in a summer crammed full of (mostly) awful blockbuster attempts. I’m prepared to accept Jolie as an action lead, but she needs to get a much better script first. Noyce in turn needs to stop trading on past glories.
I can do better vlogs than this and hopefully over the next few days you’ll get to see some better efforts. I could have said how infuriating it was to have sequences screenwriter Patrick O’Neill didn’t want to or couldn’t get himself out of explained just by drugging Diaz’s character. I could have mentioned how bizarre it was to have Cruise’s character a government sponsored secret agent, whilst owning a private secret, Thunderbirds-style island in the Azores, or how asinine the genuine bad guy (it was never going to be Cruise) was – almost reduced to twirling his evil Spanish moustache to prove his menace, and even being wrongly overdubbed in Spanish – did director James Mangold think we just wouldn’t notice? What about the oh-so-convenient ending or the bizarre finale? And why bring in Cruise’s screen parents? An unentertaining, poorly thought out mess of a film, which deserves to crash and burn.
3/10
P.S. For those of you who have seen it – was there any attempt whatsoever to explain the ‘day’ in ‘Knight and Day’?
BJP understands Mattsson was detained today under Section 43 of the Terrorism Act 2000 in Central London, near Buckingham Palace, after taking photos of cadets. Mattsson had received approval from the cadets’ supervisors as he was shooting images for the cadets’ website, BJP has been told.
BJP also understands that the photographer was searched and his details recorded.
The incident comes less than two weeks after the same photographer was stopped and detained by police officers claiming he represented a terrorism risk.
A 15 year old photographer getting stopped twice in two weeks is insane. What’s even more insane is the reason:
Section 43 of the Terrorism Act 2000 requires reasonable suspicion that a person is a terrorist. Its usage is more limited than Section 44, which doesn’t require suspicion. However, the European Court of Human Rights recently found Section 44 to be illegal.
The act’s Section 43 reads: “A constable may stop and search a person whom he reasonably suspects to be a terrorist to discover whether he has in his possession anything which may constitute evidence that he is a terrorist.”
Unfathomable. After the Section 44 ruling it’s hardly surprising that they should change their tactics, but to suggest Jules is a terrorist is just plain bananas. Proof yet again that the police’s institutional prejudice against photographers will use any means necessary to get expressed. The Home Office may have become more liberal under the ConDemNation coalition when it comes to asylum, but they still don’t have the Metropolitan Police under control. Will anyone ever?
Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg has asked us to tell him what laws need repealing:
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He’s a brave man, I’ll give him that. But the answers are there in front of his face. Let’s start with the case of Jules Mattson:
On Saturday 26 June, photojournalist Jules Mattsson, who is a minor and was documenting the Armed Forces Day parade in Romford, was questioned and detained by a police officer after taking a photo of young cadets.
According to Mattsson, who spoke to BJP this morning, after taking the photo he was told by a police officer that he would need parental permission for his image. The photographer answered that, legally, he didn’t. While he tried to leave the scene to continue shooting, a second officer allegedly grabbed his arm to question him further.
According an audio recording of the incident, the police officer argued, at first, that it was illegal to take photographs of children, before adding that it was illegal to take images of army members, and, finally, of police officers. When asked under what legislation powers he was being stopped, the police officer said that Mattsson presented a threat under anti-terrorism laws. The photographer was pushed down on stairs and detained until the end of the parade and after the intervention of three other photographers.
Now I know Jules. He’s a good kid and a superb, passionate photographer, and this is is just appalling. Want proof? He recorded it:
The debate about the Metropolitan (and City) Police’s abuse of Section 44 has been waged many times and the arguments have been made more times than I can be bothered to think. But it’s now, once and for all, conclusively been ruled in breach of the European Convention on Human Rights:
In January 2010 the European Court held that section 44 of the Terrorism Act 2000 (the broad police power to stop and search without suspicion) violates the right to respect for private life guaranteed by Article 8 of the Convention on Human Rights (Gillan and Quinton v. UK4158/05 [2010] ECHR 28 (12 January 2010)). The claimants received £500 each by way of compensation.
The European Court has now rejected the UK’s application to appeal to the court’s Grand Chamber, meaning that the decision is final. This leaves stop and search powers in further disarray. The Home Secretary has already announced an “urgent review” of the powers after the recent admission by the Home Office that thousands of individual searches had been conducted illegally.
It’s clear that Section 44 has to go, but the risk remains that Clegg uses this scheme either to get the country to vent about laws they don’t like, or simply to delete specific laws without confronting the trends and behaviours which led to them in the first place. The cops who attacked Jules Mattson didn’t just cite Section 44 to try to stop him taking perfectly lawful photos – they made all sorts of garbage up in order to intimidate him into not taking photos. There is an institutional prejudice within the ranks against photographers, which was channelled by Section 44, and which would be much harder to root out and stop. New Labour made it abundantly clear they didn’t care one iota about the Met’s excesses. Time will tell if Theresa May cares any more, and this is what I want Nick Clegg to understand and tackle, more than anything.
It’s a quirky old film is Greenberg. And its quirkiness is both its success and failing – the film neatly refuses to fit into any particular genre – is it a man/dog buddy movie? Is it a character study? A diatribe about the failings of current society for the current 40′s generation? The answer is never clear. This defiance also makes it hard to emotionally invest in – without a clear beginning, middle and certainly no end, what is the point in watching Greenberg? Well considering nothing ends up really happening to him by the story’s end, you could easily say there is none, but my answer is this: Ben Stiller. It’s something which quite shocked me – I’ve strongly disliked Ben Stiller and hated his performances for years, but his intensely unlikeable Roger Greenberg is a character I found myself fascinated by and one I warmed to despite myself.
Screenwriter-director Noah Baumbach and Jennifer Jason Leigh’s Greenberg is a 41 year old man consumed by the errors of his past and the irritations of the modern world. Recently released from a mental hospital, Greenberg housesits for his brother and family. He forges an awkward relationship with their au pair Greta Gerwig and pursues his strained friendship with former bandmate Rhys Ifans, all the while writing letters of complaint to people or institutions which don’t meet his expectations. There’s little else to the film than an investigation of these relationships – his old friends no longer want to know him since he refused a lucrative recording contract when they were young, ex-girlfriend Leigh doesn’t want to know him because of his abusive behaviour, and Ifans perseveres even though Greenberg is so self-obsessed he hasn’t even met his child. But Gerwig falls for him regardless, even when he pushes her away, consumed by self-hatred and an unwillingness to be loved. This element is a fascinating look at how others can see in us qualities which we ourselves cannot, and how we can tear ourselves apart regardless.
There’s no ending – Greenberg has things happen to him, but even by the ending it’s unclear if he’s ever going to embrace the lessons which are there in front of his face. And this is the one big frustration of the film – it’s largely Greenberg’s (or is it Baumbach’s?) stream of consciousness, with some poignant moments and superb acting, but not much else. Some people will love it, others will hate it (Stiller is determinedly unlikeable from beginning to end) – this is not a happily-ever-after film. It does however have something to say about the human condition though – Greenberg is able effortlessly to take care of his brother’s dog when he can’t take care adequately of himself, Ifans of all people realises settling down isn’t the conformist nightmare he’d feared when confronted by Stiller, and Gerwig manages to makes a stab at happiness without even bothering with these existential issues. In fact there’s far too little Gerwig.
Ultimately it’s a sad film, which, like The Road before it, is a depressing experience, but it also shares that film’s knockout performances and honest indie craftsmanship. The story could never really be neatly wrapped up after all, and by that point Baumbach has unquestionably said all he needs to say about being about being a forty-something man in the 21st century. It would still have been nice to have had a clear beginning, middle and end though.
Far and away the worst film of the last twelve months, writer/co-director Noel Clarke has bitten off far more than he can chew with ’4.3.2.1′. It’s clearly supposed to be a heist thriller-cum-girl buddy movie but nothing works right – the pacing, the script, and far too much of the acting. Clarke showed huge potential with the equally ambitious but flawed ‘Kidulthood’, but this is just overblown nonsense – sexist where it doesn’t need to be, boring where it shouldn’t be, and populated by characters who just plain aren’t interesting. Why should I care about the boorish, violent, stupid thugs and freaks surrounding the four leads? Clarke never once offers any answers.
A diamond heist has taken place in Antwerp and the diamonds have made their way to London. Tamsin Egerton finds herself with them in her hands as she prepares to jump from a bridge, flanked by her friends. Rewind to see local gangster co-plotters crossing the paths of friends Emma Roberts, Ophelia Lovibond, Egerton and Shanika Warren Markland, inadvertently involving them in the conspiracy. So far so good right? Clarke’s going to tie conspirators and the girls together, delivering a gangster thriller which would put Guy Ritchie to shame? Wrong. Clarke’s script is confused, hackneyed, over-indulgent and often pointless, giving each of the girl leads a 30 minute ‘in-between’ segment, which desperately need to lead to a major pay-off on the bridge. Except they don’t. Each segment is in itself boring and unengaging. Who cares that Egerton’s parents have split up? Why does she resort to graffiti? Who cares that Lovibond gets tricked by an internet scam in New York? What does that have to do with anything else in the film? Why do we have to keep seeing so many female crotch shots? Why does Clarke have to play a complete bastard every time? And who the hell is Michelle Ryan’s character?
The component elements fail to tie together meaningfully, the girls are only ever at the periphery of the heist, and their character developments are thoroughly unconvincing and uninteresting. Even where the four story strands come together Clarke fails to explain how. It’s a sorry demonstration of how some scenes are in themselves interesting, but Clarke hasn’t given anywhere near enough thought to the overall narrative. It’s nice to see Kevin Smith cameoing though, and Markland’s lesbian character is occasionally quite funny indeed, but nothing can save this confused trainwreck of a film. Attitude on its own doesn’t make a film work, and Clarke should seriously think next time of directing someone else’s script. He’s been likened by some reviewers to Tarantino, but Tarantino’s characters have charm, he knows how to pace his films, and is a powerhouse storyteller even on his weakest productions. ’4.3.2.1′ in contrast has none of these qualities, although that alone seemed to appeal to the wasters whom I shared the screening with. Its a terrible demonstration of all that has historically been wrong with British cinema.
You need to know ‘Bad Lieutenant’ is good. Scratch that it’s very good, and it’s very difficult to say exactly what it is: a noir thriller? A character piece of a cop gone wrong? A peek into the underbelly of mainstream USA? It’s none of those things, yet so much more. Perhaps Empire puts it best when it says:
Bad Lieutenant is a character piece, a coruscating account of one man’s trip to hell and the hoots of mordant laughter that can be had along the way, surrounded by a few of the trappings of the erstwhile genre.
It may make no sense, but director Werner Herzog has complete control over the narrative and the various journeys which the main characters make. In particular he gets Nicolas Cage under control for the first time in what feels like decades. Cage plays New Orleans Lt. Terence McDonagh, corrupt as hell and coping with Gregory House-level back pain. And he takes drugs from everywhere he chooses, abusing and ripping off club-goers for his next fix, stealing drugs from the evidence room, even from his prostitute girlfriend’s (Eva Mendez) clients. Then he’s asked to investigate the multiple murders of a family who may have stepped on the toes of New Orleans’ premier drugs kingpin. Does he have what it takes to track the killer down?
The answer is yes and no. His incompetence allows the premier witness to escape his gaze, and he steals drugs from one person too many. When his gambling goes one step too far, and he abuses the most inappropriate person imaginable, he has half of New Orleans gunning for his life and his job. Will he break? Will he track down the killer? Or will his descent into degradation see him give everything up? Herzog and screenwriter William M Finkelstein keep you on your toes throughout, blending dark humour with vicious social commentary and razor sharp characterisation. And Cage owns the screen, dominating every scene he’s in; where you’d normally expect him to mug into absurdity he opts instead for nuanced control – if he doesn’t get an Oscar nomination something has gone horribly wrong in Hollywood. It’s a long-overdue return to form for the man who used to be able to act parts like this in his sleep, and the synergy between him and Herzog is compelling, but more importantly it’s interesting. McDonagh may not be a good man, but he’s still likeable, in part because the film-makers throw the viewer enough curveballs never to know exactly where they’re going next.
Its ending reveals ‘Bad Lieutenant’ at its heart to be a searing black comedy. It’s not the sort of film you expect to come from the United States, and given the number of spirit characters – dancing spirits, alligators and iguanas – you’re left never quite sure if you’ve just watched a David Lynch film. But Herzog, Finkelstein and Cage are in complete (and more importantly relaxed) control of a brilliantly off-beat story, with characters who are engaging against the odds. If you want to see a genuinely, excitingly different film this one’s for you.
Director Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe’s last collaboration was the multi-award-winning ‘Gladiator’, which I admit I really didn’t care much for, so I came to their ‘Robin Hood’ remake with trepidation. And in all honesty I really liked it – it’s a 2 1/2 hour epic, with a surprisingly strong script, some funny dialogue (some terrible dialogue too) and intelligent direction; it’s highly entertaining too. Of course it’s helped by some knockout performances – Crowe hogs the screen without much effort with his Robin (now Longstride), but he’s more than matched by the outstanding Cate Blanchett as Maid Marion (now Marion Loxley). I’ll grant that noone tries to reinvent the wheel – why American William Hurt was cast as William Marshal is a complete mystery, and Crowe never strays too far from his trademark gruff persona, but somehow it all works. It’s a film which should either have been a complete retread or be completely dark and brooding, but Scott infuses his rebooted Hood drama with considerable charm, despite its length.
Robin Longstride starts the film fighting the French under King Richard (Danny Huston), on the return from the Crusades. Demoralised by their army’s brutality and excess, Longstride and his ‘merry’ friends return to England after Richard’s assassination, promising also-assassinated Sir Robert Loxley (Douglas Hodge) to return his sword to his father. Meanwhile his assassin Sir Godfrey (Mark Strong, now thoroughly Alan Rickman-ised by the film world) plays both the English the French off against each other, in the hope of power for himself following a successful French invasion. It’s a long story, hinging around Longstride’s adoption of Loxley’s identity in order to prevent Blanchett from having her property seized by the Crown. Of course the two end up together, of course Robin starts to battle injustice by the Crown, of course King John enters the fray, and of course there’s a climactic showdown on the beaches (mystifyingly bloodless at that) in which the good guys win and the bad guys lose. Or do they…?
It’s probably too long, the beach landing shamelessly (and needlessly) evokes ‘Saving Private Ryan’s Normandy landings, and the initial story set-up is probably far too involved (although the ending marks the film as an opening salvo in a new franchise attempt) but screenwriter Brian Helgeland weaves an involving yarn despite the script’s occasional excesses. It’s a welcome change under a director normally far better at delivering set pieces than a strong narrative. And Oscar Isaac positively commands the screen as a thoroughly villainous (and often hilarious, yet never crossing the line into pantomime) King John, chewing every scene he’s in for all it’s worth, his character never quite playing his hand until the final act. Those expecting a traditional Robin vs Sheriff (Matthew Macfadyen) romp will have to wait until the inevitable sequel, and those expecting more accent consistency than Prince of Thieves will be similarly (though not so thoroughly) disappointed, but this is a good start for ‘new’ Robin. We’ve had ‘Batman Begins’, now so does Robin.
Chris (‘Brass Eye’) Morris’ directorial debut about four hapless, northern Muslim suicide bombers was always sure to offend. It pokes fun at one of the most sensitive political subjects of our time – radical Islam, but unlike Armando Iannucci’s superior ‘In The Loop’ (attacking the inept launch of the ‘war’ on terror) it doesn’t have enough bite. The increasingly impressive Riz Ahmed plays Omar, a family man hell bent on jihadi martyrdom, who relies on a rag tag bunch of friends to bring about his attack on the British oppressors. The slow-witted Kayvan Novak, Adeel Akhtar, Arsher Ali and the hilarious Nigel Lindsay all join in his conspriacy of the inept, and much of the first half of the film is based on their gently comic bumblings. They play at terrorism, even going so far as travelling to a terrorism training camp in Pakistan, but have far more to say about pop music in their martyrdom videos than anything political.
The film comes alive in the second half, when the conspirators find there are real consequences to their plotting. It’s not just a jolly jape with nutters in the desert – they will die and people will die with them, and although the satire (largely provided by Lindsay’s excellently-mannered caucasian convert) mostly hits the mark, much of the narrative does not. If Ahmed’s band is largely the comic foil to his serious bomber, Omar needs to be far better investigated than Morris allows him to be. It’s clear that his family is fully aware of his plan and its consequences, and the co-writer/director throws up other tantalising questions about the Westernisation of his friends, but these are insufficiently explored issues (despite an outstanding performance by Ahmed) which take some serious bite out of the brilliant satirical sketches. You get the feeling that a really important idea has been attempted – particularly when Omar changes his mind far too late, but because the film can’t decide whether it’s a satire, a screwball comedy or a Working Title film with an edge, the ending leaves you wanting better explanations than those on offer.
Morris clearly wants to suggest the suicide attacks in the UK were largely caused by bumbling idiots who were in over their heads and didn’t quite grasp the enormity of their actions, but that’s not quite enough. Morris’ characters are fully integrated into Western society, all loving pop culture – Omar is well-to-do with a family – and it remains unclear from ‘Four Lions’ what led him to plan his suicide attacks. We only get brief glimpses into his political life, from his connections in Pakistan, to his alienation from the Islam of his neighbourhood, and indeed the irony of its persecution by the British state, leaving us with a film which is occasionally very funny but without enough dots presented for us to join up with real satisfaction.
Two days ago I cross-posted that photographer Grant Smith had yet again been abused by police under Section 44, going about his entirely lawful business. Today it looks like he may sue them:
He said: “They took away my camera, notebook and phone so I could not record what they were doing. I thought their reaction was completely disproportionate. I found it was a publicly humiliating experience. It was a bit like being mugged by teenagers.”
Mr Smith said he was consulting lawyers about the legality of the stop.
A City of London Police spokesman said: “A man was spoken to by officers on Monday after police were called by security personnel. He was later searched under terrorism powers.”
One officer commented: “There are hundreds of people who take photographs in the City every day and they do not have any issues. Sometimes it would be helpful if people responded when asked what their business was.
“The risk of terrorism is always there and we do not intend to drop our guard.”
Dropping their guard, when there’s never been a terrorist on earth who’d been so batshit insane as to stand in front of a building with a DSLR with the intention of later blowing it up? Utter garbage – Smith had already stated his business, and the police had no right to interfere with it, nor even to stop him. Section 44 of the Terrorism Act 2000 has been ruled illegal by the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR), and the police have been repeatedly warned by ACPO not to abuse it in this way. Time will tell whether the allegedly civil liberties-friendly ConDem coalition responds positively to the ECHR. In the meantime I hope Smith sues the City police to death, because I don’t see them or their Metropolitan counterparts changing for anyone.
Branch member Grant Smith has sent this account of a stop and search under s44 of the Terrorism Act. The incident happened earlier today in the City of London whilst Grant was doing some test shots for an environmental portrait of an architect. This comes just weeks after the Metropolitan Police issued new guidance to officers about using s44 on photographers.
The incident clearly shows how officers are continuing to abuse Terror laws and how security guards are abusing their position by calling the police every time somebody photographs a building, which they claim is not allowed, but is of course perfectly legal and legitimate.
Can I Please Have My Mobile Phone Back, Officer?
I spent the weekend in Derby at the National Photography Symposium and was involved in a panel discussion on ‘Photography, Security and Terrorism. How ironic that my first assignment back in London today saw me experience again the public humiliation of a detention and a physical search by a City of London police officer.
Scouting for a location on London Wall for a portrait of one of the architect’s responsible for the City’s changing skyline, I went to One Aldermanbury Square. Loaded with a Canon g10, I wandered around the base of the building taking recce shots. A guard employed by the building waved his hands at me, asserting that I couldn’t photograph this building. As I stood on the pavement opposite the building I told him he was wrong, and I had every right to photograph, which I kept on doing. Another guard approached saying the same thing, and that if I didn’t move he’d call the police. (He recognised me from a previous occasion when he had warned me off, which had also resulted in a police response. On that occasion they were satisfied that I was within my rights and I had done nothing wrong. Thus the security guards had prior confirmation from the police that I was a photographer, not a terrorist.) I wandered back and forth, sizing up my locations and where I would place my subject. I walked along London Wall high walk, and saw the frenzied police activity below. Four officers had arrived and were in animated discussion with the guards. A police van with flashing lights sped out of Wood Street and eyeballed me, fixing my position. Uniformed police approached me from both directions. I continued walking and photographing. PC 374 walked towards me and greeted me with a cheery ‘Hello’. I responded in like fashion and continued to walk on as he spoke into his radio. He stopped me with his hand firmly on my chest. I asked if I was being detained.
‘I’d just like a word with you.’
Am I being detained? ‘Yes you are.’
Under what grounds? ‘Section 44(2) of the Terrorism Act.
Why? ‘If you’ll let me finish’, he responded. ‘And you are?’ He inquired the way a school bully might query anyone on their patch.
I wanted to know why I was being detained, and what were the reasonable grounds. ‘The guards at the building over the road alerted us to someone acting suspiciously. And under Section 44(2) we don’t need reasonable grounds.’
‘What’s suspicious about my behaviour. I was taking photographs.’
‘If you let me finish. The fact you were taking photographs, we’d like to know the reason. ‘
I said that I’m in the City, an area of iconic buildings and fascinating historical sites, that’s why I’m taking photographs. He replied with a cryptic answer:‘You’ve just explained it.’ I looked puzzled.
‘The very fact you were here at all is the reason we’ve stopped you.’
I explained that being in a public space I could not be prevented from taking photographs. He said the guards were wrong in trying to stop me. I felt relieved and thought that the whole affair would rest then and there. As I began to move away a second PC, PC29 moved from behind and took both my arms, preventing me from moving. PC 374 then told me he was searching me under s44, and he began to go through my pockets and pat me down. My phone was taken from me. The camera hanging around my neck was carefully removed and placed out of my reach. I asked several times if I could record this incident on camera and was denied this right, being told that under s44(2) I must do as ordered. The power was now in their hands. Mine were still being held.
PC went through my pannier, flipping through personal notebooks, gingerly peeking in a plastic bag that contained a towel and swimmers, still wet from my earlier swim. He located my wallet, and pulled out my drivers licence with obvious glee. Each time I attempted to move PC29’s grip on my arms became firmer. I moved to zip up my jacket, which had been unzipped in the search, and his grip tightened. I explained I was getting cold and would like to warm up. He agreed, but kept hold of me by one hand. I tried to move left or right and he blocked me. Repeated requests for my phone and camera were turned down. I asked to get pen and paper from my bag, and this was declined. I said I wanted to record the incident, only to be told that I will get their record at the end of the procedure.
Many times I asked why was I being stopped under s44. The answer I given was because of my obstructive and non-compliant attitude. Based on this observation, it then became necessary to treat me as a potential criminal suspect. I noted that s44 could be open to misuse, as it was so powerful and sweeping. PC374 replied ‘It has been said, but it is open for our use’ The implication being that it can be used on anyone who is non-compliant.
Waiting for the data base to give PC374 the all-clear on my record, I was kept hemmed against the barrier by PC29, repeatedly told that if I kept moving I would be handcuffed. This scene of public humiliation, as I was restrained and treated like a criminal, was watched by workers from the neighbouring building.
Once the all clear was given, PC374 tore off the pink slip of the s44 stop search form asking if I wanted it. I asked if I could carry on taking photographs, he turned his back on me like a petulant child, forgetting that his cap lay on the ground in the spot he had removed it earlier. Joined by a third PC, the posse then turned their back on me refusing to answer any further questions from me. I watched as the three of them walked away from me, with my mobile phone. Excuse me I called ‘Can I please have my mobile phone back?’
This series is good. Scratch that this series is damned good. Oh fine episode 3 with Mark Gatiss’ multicoloured Daleks didn’t quite hit the mark (and may have been written for David Tennant’s Doctor anyway), but new series runner and lead writer Steven Moffat is creating the stir with series 5 which has only previously been matched by RTD’s ‘Bad Wolf’ conspiracy in series 1. And Matt Smith isn’t just good as the Eleventh Doctor he’s quite outstanding – youthful passion mixed with an older professorial nature; together they’re making the post-RTD/Tennant era electric. Episodes 4 and 5 should have been good – the two-part sequel to Moffat’s award-winning ‘Blink’, but as I’m going to show you, they’re absolute gems.
Quite possibly the scariest episode of Who I’ve ever seen, balanced out beautifully with darkly funny moments (and intrigue) with the returned River Song (Alex Kingston). The Angels return, at the crash scene of The Byzantium, foreseen by River Song in series 4, and the Doctor is drawn in by a younger version of the woman his earlier incarnation believed was his future wife. But what is her agenda? As the team investigates the danger increases as the Angels demonstrate abilities above and beyond what we already know, and Amy is left mysteriously subverted. The stakes get higher when it’s revealed that River Song isn’t remotely what she appears to be, just at the moment when the Angels spring their trap. How will the Doctor rescue them this time?
It’s a spellbinding episode, energetically directed by Adam Smith, effortlessly balancing wittily scripted banter by Moffat with scenes of sheer terror which outrival ‘Alien’. The scene where the Angel projects itself out of the CCTV tape is quite remarkable for its restrained horror, and is brilliantly acted by Karen Gillan, proving her chops for the first time this series. And the episode really does stand out for the quality of its acting – Alex Kingston chews up every scene she’s in, and has perhaps even more chemistry with Matt Smith than she did with Tennant. He in turn proves ever more each week just how outstanding a choice he was as the Eleventh Doctor, commanding the screen with passion and power in equal measure; in many ways his Doctor is even more interesting and likable than Eccleston or Tennant’s.
Funny, terrifying and sophisticated in equal measure, this is as good as Doctor Who has ever been.
The intrigue deepens. What is the crack in space from Amy’s bedroom, and why is it following her? As the Weeping Angels close in on the Doctor, Amy, River Song and the Clerics, why does the crack reopen, why does it begin on her wedding day, the day she chose to leave with the Doctor? For that matter how can the Doctor hope to defeat the Angels, keep a now crippled Amy alive, and find out more about River Song’s transgressions? It’s an episode with far more going on than it seems, as the Clerics fall one by one, and Amy, blinded, must navigate through a forest in the Byzantium in an attempt to stay one step ahead of the beings now eager to feed on the time energy of the crack in space. But why does Amy have to remember her first meeting with the Doctor? And can River Song be trusted when the Clerics’ Bishop reveals the man she apparently is in their custody for killing was a future incarnation of the Doctor himself?
The brilliance continues as the mystery hots up. If the the crack in space is formed by something to do with Amy, is it somehow because she becomes River Song? Does the future incarnation of the Doctor appeal to Amy to remember because of what happens in the final episode – presumably on her wedding day? What is it about these two that he’s drawn to? As in part one the direction by Adam Smith is top notch, marrying high emotion with real terror as it seems there’s no way out from the trap set by the army of Weeping Angels. Matt Smith acquits himself even better than the previous episode too, as his compassion for all the humans in his care erupts violently. It’s been said his performance might outdo Tennant’s at his best – I’m inclined to agree. I’ve never seen Doctor Who better than this. We even have a conspiracy as profound as Bad Wolf in series one, but with much greater care taken over the running of the series. Each week another level is revealed, as more questions get set. I can’t wait to find out the answers.
Roman Polanski should be kept locked up for this monstrous crime against cinema. Absolutely everything about this adaptation of the Robert Harris novel stinks: the script is turgid, it relies on countless deus-ex-machinae, the acting is appalling, the direction has no punch or insight; indeed the film doesn’t even know what it is. Is it a searing indictment of Tony Blair’s involvement with the PNAC neocons in the US? Is it a political thriller? Is it a character piece on the Blairs? Not once does Polanski make his mind up, and it’s unbelievable that a writer of his calibre should have submitted such drivel to audiences, even under his current circumstances. How the book’s author Robert Harris could have collaborated on the script and have it turn out so dreadfully is even more shocking.
Ewan McGregor plays the ghost writer for ex-Prime Minister Adam Lang’s (Pierce Brosnan, as a none-too-subtly coded Blair analogue) memoirs. Lang lives a life earning countless millions on the American lecture circuit, but constantly has to outrun peace protesters, outraged at his adventure in Iraq. Suddenly he’s indicted by the International Criminal Court in the Hague for investigation for war crimes. So far so uncomfortable, but why was his former Foreign Secretary behind it, and why did McGregor’s predecessor end up dead? Polanski takes an inordinate amount of time merely to get to the point, boring us with countless irrelevant scenes with Brosnan’s secretary Kim Cattrall (along with her hilarious English accent) an inexplicable affair with Brosnan’s wife (Olivia Williams, looking nothing like Cherie Blair), and sudden revelations about Brosnan’s university friendships with Tom Wilkinson and others which fail to set the screen alight or amount to an intelligible conspiracy. When we know Blair willingly allied himself with Bush and his PNAC cronies, and did so out of vanity at the very least, what conspiracy could Harris and Polanksi possibly paint to justify this rambling mess of a film?
Nothing. The wife killed the previous ‘Ghost’. Why? To prevent her being indicted by the ICC! Ridiculous, when he was the one in power. And why then (and how) should she then finish the film by murdering McGregor? Well over two hours utterly wasted. Two major leads with no charisma on their own or together, mystifying casting in the case of the awful and pointless Cattrall, and more British stereotypes than you can shake a stick at, ‘The Ghost’ crumbles quickly under its own pretentions. Ultimately considering the subject matter the fault for the film’s failings lies with Polanski. Given that Brosnan’s former Prime Minister is such a close analogue for Blair, this film needed to say something, either about him (it doesn’t), her (it doesn’t) or at least use McGregor to run a suspenseful chase around the real-world issues, but it doesn’t do even that. Only approaching his assassination in the penultimate act does Brosnan’s character remotely (ironically) come alive. It’s more than you can say about McGregor.
Filming stopped when Polanski was arrested in Switzerland for serious offences of his own. This unspeakable, unentertaining mess should never have seen the light of day.
In his first masterstroke after his enormous success in the first leaders debate, Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg has promised to repeal the Digital Economy Act if elected:
“We did our best to prevent the Digital Economy Bill being rushed through at the last moment. It badly needed more debate and amendment, and we are extremely worried that it will now lead to completely innocent people having their internet connections cut off,” said Clegg.
“It was far too heavily weighted in favour of the big corporations and those who are worried about too much information becoming available. It badly needs to be repealed, and the issues revisited.”
And the Lib Dems immediately aim for the so-far ignored youth vote. Clegg is putting his money where his mouth is on freedom, missing nothing out that I know of. I’m increasingly convinced, particularly with the influence rapidly heading his way, that it’s vital that those of us who care about reversing the authoritarian agenda so loved by Labour must vote Lib Dem. Right principles, right priorities and credible, focused leadership: I’m sure impressed.
Scouting for a location on London Wall for a portrait of one of the architect’s responsible for the City’s changing skyline, I went to One Aldermanbury Square. Loaded with a Canon g10, I wandered around the base of the building taking recce shots. A guard employed by the building waved his hands at me, asserting that I couldn’t photograph this building. As I stood on the pavement opposite the building I told him he was wrong, and I had every right to photograph, which I kept on doing. Another guard approached saying the same thing, and that if I didn’t move he’d call the police. (He recognised me from a previous occasion when he had warned me off, which had also resulted in a police response. On that occasion they were satisfied that I was within my rights and I had done nothing wrong. Thus the security guards had prior confirmation from the police that I was a photographer, not a terrorist.) I wandered back and forth, sizing up my locations and where I would place my subject. I walked along London Wall high walk, and saw the frenzied police activity below. Four officers had arrived and were in animated discussion with the guards. A police van with flashing lights sped out of Wood Street and eyeballed me, fixing my position. Uniformed police approached me from both directions. I continued walking and photographing. PC 374 walked towards me and greeted me with a cheery ‘Hello’. I responded in like fashion and continued to walk on as he spoke into his radio. He stopped me with his hand firmly on my chest. I asked if I was being detained.
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