In the twenty-first century, the classic "man and acoustic guitar folk album" formula seems to be a little bit forgotten. After all, this formula neared perfection during the twentieth century by many musicians including Nick Drake, Loudon Wainwright III, and most significantly, Bob Dylan, just to name a few. In recent years, Sam Beam of Iron and Wine worked with this blueprint but moved away from it with his 2007 release Shepherd's Dog. And although Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago has been getting lots of (much deserved) praise this year, its final product features a menagerie of guitars, voices, drums, and sounds that certainly put it out of this simple formula of yesteryear. It might appear that there is nothing new the "man and acoustic guitar" template can offer music lovers in the new millennium. Kristian Matsson, performing under the moniker of The Tallest Man on Earth, soundly proves that wrong on his full-length debut, Shallow Grave. What is shocking about this is the fact that this man (who is of average height) seems to understand American folk music better than any other performer today is from Sweden.

It's difficult to listen to more than a few minutes of this record before the Bob Dylan comparisons begin to creep through the ears and into the mind. Matsson's voice lies somewhere between early Dylan and Hank Williams Sr. (but with a twinge of indie rock in there for good measure) and his songs crackle and bristle with the creativity and energy heard on Dylan's early folk albums. Most of these songs feature some lightning-quick, country-folk guitar plucking and picking with only three songs "Honey Won't You Let Me In", "The Gardener", and "This Wind" featuring typical guitar strumming. And he strums those chords as if he were never going to get to play another song again. Each song features Matsson's voice, some lo-fi hiss, and his masterful guitar playing with no percussion except what sounds like a rapid foot-stomp on "The Sparrow and the Medicine." A banjo appears occasionally in the background and even as the primary instrument on two songs, which adds a hillbilly aspect to the record, furthering Matsson's apparent familiarity with and understanding of certain strains of "American-born" music.

He sings in English with an accent that sounds like it is from the Mid-West or Southern United States. Much like Bob Dylan, Matsson writes many of his lyrics primarily on the sound and imagery of the words rather than their meaning. It is almost as if he is picking the words like he picks notes and chords for his guitar. Just like the notes, he desires words that sound good together, and these do. That is not to say that the lyrics are gibberish. They certainly form coherent sentences and thoughts, but it is probably a futile to try and understand the "meaning" in some of these songs. For instance in "Pistol Dreams" he sings, "Deep inside the orchard you will lead me by the skin of snakes/Throw me in the fire now, come on/ Throw me in the fire now, come on/Cause we will paint our house with water..." and so on. He sings about fire, blizzards, deserts, birds, graves, weathergirls, gardens, kerosene eyes, and the Serengeti, just to mention a few of his subjects. This is not a bad thing, in fact, it's down right fun. Matsson is enjoying making these songs and as the listener begins to sing along on the second or third listen (which is sure to happen), they will revel in the lighthearted absurdity of these lyrics. Some of the songs do have discernable "meanings" and nearly all of them have the ability to strike an emotional chord within the listener.

The mood and tones of America found on Shallow Grave not only show up in the twangy guitar/voice combo and the content of the lyrics, but also in the freedom of the music. These songs are spirited and unencumbered. They seem to roll off Matsson's tongue and fingers like water. The songs feel like they have open fields in which to breathe and move. And yet, there is an intimate atmosphere created on several tracks, most notably the title track. It includes birds chirping in the background and a claustrophobic echo in Matsson's voice as if he were singing it from, well, a shallow grave.  There are themes of love and death running through Shallow Grave, and at the end of the day, a sense of pastoral peace. Matsson is digging into traditions of folk and a little bit of bluegrass and country here, all of which were born and raised in America, giving this album its vibrantly traditional sound.

This is not actually the first release by The Tallest Man on Earth. Matsson cut an eponymous EP in 2006, which, aside from being shorter and more lo-fi, is very much like this debut full length record. Yet, it is the songs on Shallow Grave that crackle with electric energy and demand the listener to sing along. Matsson has created an album that is emotive, diverting, and delightful. There really isn't a bad song here, though a couple, "Shallow Grave" and "The Gardener", seem to rise above the rest. He proves that he is a better student of some American forms of music than many Americans musicians today. While many lesser musicians might falter under the weight of the label of  "the next Bob Dylan", Matsson seems to actually merit it. He channels Dylan without trying to be Dylan, giving himself a unique voice that demands to be heard. Ultimately, Shallow Grave is a record that breathes new life into a seemingly-outdated formula and is one of the best recordings of 2008. 

Slumdog wins film festival prize

Boyle made his feature film directorial debut with Shallow Grave in 1995

British director Danny Boyle has won the Toronto Film Festival's main prize for Slumdog Millionaire.

The People's Choice Award, voted for by film fans, is regarded as an early indicator of success at the Oscars.

The film, starring Dev Patel, charts the life of a poor boy's rise to fortune living in the Indian slums.

Boyle, 51, received critical acclaim for previous gritty works such as Shallow Grave, Trainspotting and the zombie-horror film 28 Days Later.

Cash prize

Previous winners of the Canadian award include the London gangster film Eastern Promises by acclaimed director David Cronenberg.

It's a great underdog story Danny Boyle, on Slumdog Millionaire

Patel plays orphan Jamal, who appears on the Indian version of the hit TV game show Who Wants to be a Millionaire.

Originally, Boyle said he had hoped for an all Bollywood cast.

However, that was not possible as local Indian actors "didn't look enough like losers" for the main role of poor Jamal.

"It's a great underdog story," he said.

"In Bollywood if you want to be a young actor breaking into the system, you have to go to the gym for six hours a day to bulk up. I needed a very average-looking guy."

Bollywood star Anil Kapoor also stars in the movie, along with newcomer Freida Pinto.

Winners of the award are also presented with $15,000 (about £8,400).

Most readers are not too fond of the TSTL heroine unless she manages to redeem herself (or she's Stephanie Plum--sorry, I couldn't help myself), but since they're only fictional folk, there's not too much damage done, except to the psyches of the young girls who admire them.

But I was tooling around the blogosphere today and I happened on an article at the Women in Crime site talking about gullible real-life women who risk much to be with men who mistreat or kill them. Case in point: Sandra Boss and her daughter who was duped by a supposed Rockefeller, a man with no social security card, no job or history of having one, no real family. How the hell did this guy fool a supposedly smart woman duped into sharing their lives and their fortunes with reprobate men.

A big part of the equation is that these men don't want you to know. They go to great lengths to preserve their con. This is their whole life and when it starts to unravel, they usually do one of two things--kill to cover their tracks or disappear. Luckily for little Reigh Rockefeller (now Boss) her dad chose the latter route even if he took her with him.

Conventional wisdom would suggest that there is something lacking in these women that these men pick up on and exploit. I would agree with that. When you consider that many of these type of love stories begin with the same formula: a whirlwind courtship followed by a quick marriage. Then the woman finds herself separated either emotionally or physically from her family and friends. It's the same way many abusers and other predators behave: separate the weak one from the herd.

Another part of the equation is the pervasive sentiment that we women are still not complete without a man. We spout crazy statistics like we are more likely to get hit by lightning than to find that man after a certain age. Like a demented game of muscial chairs women are afraid to be the one left without a place to call their own. So, many close their eyes to signals anyone else would see. They don't want to admit, until perhaps too late, that their (possibly) one shot at love isn't who or what they claim to be.

But I think it's also true that some folks take the fantasy of the romance novel and the movie theatre too literally. Some guy sweeps into their life and rather than being suspicious about why some man with millions wants ordinary ol' you, you swoon. It's not like Cinderella stories never happen, but more than likely the heroine ends up in divorce court trying to salvage some bit of her life, in a shallow grave--or, perhaps, my next novel. We'll have to wait and see.

          At night we'd sit on the beach and swap stories of rape, violence, and general human depravity with American and European business and clergy men.  Many of these stories involved animals, either domesticated or wild, and nearly all involved home-made drugs of one kind or another.  To numb my senses and get sleep after these weird and horrible nights I bought a pound of opium from a homeless afghan drifter and smoked it with the wife of the camp's director while sitting on the roof over the sex huts.  She was a dim woman and seemed indifferent to the life she was living.  I was as well, but I felt it improper for a woman to and I told her so.  She shrugged and took another hit, sighed and laid herself down against the hut, waiting for me to take her sexually, which I never did.  With in seconds she was passed out and I left her there on the roof, later to learn that she had overdosed and probably died from the last hit that I had watched her take. 

          Her body was discovered when the stench and circling buzzards became too great to ignore.  Myself and the owner of the camp, a man the locals called Max, buried her in a deep grave several miles inshore.  We didn't use a coffin and nothing was said the entire time.  I wasn't sure whether he suspected anything or not, but based on his treatment of his wife's body, I suspect he was glad to no longer have the burden. 

          Crossly, with minor assistance from Tony, dug her up towards the end of the trip and removed her heart as a souvenir (I regretted having revealed the location of the grave).  Crossly was skilled in the art of curing meat and had the organ dried and affixed to a necklace which he wore on the return flight, telling the customs agent that it was a "local variety of nut."      

It’s strange to think that it took a Swede to capture the spirit of American folk music, or at least come the closest to imitating it. But with the recent release of Shallow Grave, the debut LP from Sweden’s own The Tallest Man on Earth, Americana has been given the Swedish touch, sans clogs. With his ramshackle delivery, nimble fingerpicking, and whimsical lyrics (not to mention the “mysteriously” cryptic press photos of the singer with rolled jeans and bare chest), you get a sense that the Tallest Man on Earth has spent a lot of time absorbing Harry Smith’s Anthology of Folk Music and Dylan’s The Times They Are a-Changin’ - without the latter’s overt socio-political commentary. Like Dylan, who aped the musical and visual style of his pre-war forebears but later developed his own sound, the Tallest Man on Earth is a highly gifted singer-songwriter who may be a bit derivative, but what music isn’t?

[download] "Pistol Dreams"

[Tallest Man MySpace]

The following was originally published as my January 19 Edge review.

Although ultimately a story of optimism and heroism amidst the infinite expanse of outer space, Danny Boyle's Sunshine is dark to its core. Boyle adds to his ever-expanding repertoire as director, having broken into the scene in 1994 with his acclaimed Shallow Grave, and since giving us disturbingly satisfying spectacles like Trainspotting and 28 Days Later.

This latest masterpiece pits Boyle against such sci-fi powerhouses as Peter Hyams and Ridley Scott, proving the genre’s longevity with a seminal psychological space thriller that raises as many philosophical questions about man’s origin and his future (do we as human beings have the right to go against the course of nature?) as it does the human equation; it’s a beautiful analogy of man’s ultimate meeting with the giver of life some might call "God."

Earth’s sun is dying and mankind faces extinction. Eight astronauts are sent on a mission "redux," after the first mission failed seven years earlier, to plant a bomb the size of Manhattan Island in the core of the sun; an act that will create a star within a star, subsequently pulling the Earth out of a catastrophic solar winter.

When a series of disasters compromises the mission, it becomes a matter of survival not only for the crew, but for all of mankind. If this sounds familiar, think about all of that against the backdrop of one of the most powerful forces in the universe, in the most inhospitable environment known to man. The likelihood of survival is not great, so the psychological dynamics are such that the crew prepares for the end (an echo of Hollywood’s current obsession?--think Deep Impact, I Am Legend.

Boyle fills in the cracks with another signature soundtrack by John Murphy and Underworld; Boyle teamed up with Murphy in 28 Days Later to deliver a type of post-apocalyptic homesickness that made us want to cry and kick some ass at the same time.

Alex Garland’s screenplay boasts some of the best characterization ever seen in the genre. Back stories are well constructed and an all star cast makes every line believable. Cillian Murphy 28 Days Later) heads the cast which features Rose Byrne (Troy, FX’s Damages), Michelle Yeoh, Hiroyuki Sanada, Cliff Curtis, and Troy Garity. State of the art special effects boast spectacular renderings of Mercury and the Sun, and such film highlights as the stunning spacewalk scene and a climactic descent into the Sun.

Spoiler Alert:

Perhaps the only confusing element of an otherwise flawlessly executed story is the ambiguous return of the Icarus 1 captain, whose seven year conversation with God has mutated him physically as well as blinded him morally. It’s not clear as to whether he is introduced purely for plot advancement or as a significant addition to the story. Yet, there exists a sort of associative pattern in Garland’s story, ultimately expanding the audience consciousness from the purely literal to a more poetic narrative of man vs. God.

Despite this unexplainable plot twist, Danny Boyle’s latest masterpiece illustrates man’s fragility through opposing rational and emotional forces, forcing us to ask the question: will we survive?

Growing up in Scotland, it's always been noticeable that there's never really been a constant flow of homegrown films. Once in a while the odd one will pop up that is said to signify that "the Scots are coming", only to see a few copycat attempts appear and then everything dies down again.

I was getting into films properly around the early 90s, just as I started University in Edinburgh and had enough spare grant money (those were the days!) to spend on Empire magazine, copious videos and a pass to the Cameo cinema.

My off-air recording of Whisky Galore had been watched a dozen or more times - that glorious ensemble cast, a witty script and some neat visuals from director Alexander Mackendrick rewarding repeat viewing - while Gregory's Girl was always worth catching when repeated on the telly.

When Shallow Grave and Trainspotting hit town it was manna from heaven for film fans, especially one like myself who was writing for my Uni course magazine and could now pen an article on the resurgence of Scottish filmmaking.

But of all the Scottish films out there, my favourite has to be Local Hero. Like Whisky Galore before it, the already sparkling script is brought to life by some fine turns from a raft of well kent faces (to viewers of Scottish telly anyway), each one given a line or two to help move the story along.

Throw in some fantastic scenery, a red phone box and Mark Knopfler's music, and this is a perfect way to spend a couple of hours.

The audience were buzzing before the film started, helped no doubt by the introduction of the guests for the post-screening talk: Associate Producer Ian Smith, Production Designer Roger Murray Leach and actors Denis Lawson (Urquhart), Jennifer Black (Stella), Tam Dean Burn (Roddy), Jonathan Watson (Jonathan) and Dave Anderson (Fraser). Peter Capaldi and Jenny Seagrove both sent their apologies.

Ian Smith spoke on behalf of his colleagues as an introduction, and I'll quote him at length:

If you're reading this then chances are you know the film already and I won't go into lengthy review mode. Suffice to say that seeing Local Hero on the big screen, with an audience who between them must have watched it hundreds of times before, was really something special.

A lady behind me in the audience warned her friends that she always cries when the music starts at the end, and it's not hard to see why.

As the credits rolled, the aforementioned stars and crew were on hand for a post-screening discussion of the production and impact on both them and the viewers. All looked relaxed and happy to discuss their time making the film.

I took my trusty tape recorder along and managed to catch 99% of the conversation (the battery sadly died a few moments into Roger Murray Leach's comments, near the start), with a few choice comments noted below:

Those are just a few of the anecdotes that we were treated to. I noticed that a video was being made by the organisers, and there's a chance this will surface on their website in the next few days. I haven't attempted a transcript of the panel, but if I get any requests in the comments I'll certainly consider it.

In conclusion this was a fantastic event that is unlikely to happen again anytime soon. Thanks to everyone at the GFT who worked so hard to bring it together and to the actors and crew who made time to sit and talk with us. I tried not to be too annoying when I went to get my poster signed at the end, but everyone seemed happy to chat, sign and have photos taken.

Some real Highland hospitality was in evidence that day.

Review by Jonathan Melville

Now, especially for that lady in the audience, get your hankies out:

Poster image courtesy Wikipedia.

]]> http://ogallo.wordpress.com/2007/12/26/danny-boyle-ponia/ Wed, 26 Dec 2007 11:02:25 +0000 Oscar Gallo http://ogallo.wordpress.com/2007/12/26/danny-boyle-ponia/ Se acabaron las fiestas. Tengo juguetes nuevos pero después veré si posteo sobre ellos. Acabo de ver, siendo las 5:30 a.m., Shallow grave en Cinemax, primer filme de Danny Boyle. La pela es de 1994, dos años antes que Trainspotting y 6 antes de que Boyle fuera reemplazado por un skrull con pésimo, pésimo gusto para hacer películas (léase La playa y 28 días después). Incluye:

1. A Ewan McGregor como periodista sensacionalista, una Kerry Fox bien agradable a la vista (neozelandesa tenía que ser) como doctora volátil y un fulano más como contador acojudado, todos compartiendo un departamento en Edimburgo, Escocia.
2. El uso creativo y decidido de instrumentos de carpintería y cocina para deshacerse de individuos problemáticos y sazonar el argumento.
3. A Kerry Fox con las chichis al aire y a Ewan McGregor vestido de zuripanta (pero no en la misma escena).
4. La frase "but Juliet, you're a doctor. You kill people every day". Invaluable.
5. Humor negro, traiciones, giros argumentales, personajes en constante mutación, y pendejadas que dejarían al más pendejo de los peruanos con la pica de que no se le ocurrieron primero.

En fin, tampoco estoy para contarles la película, para eso está Wikipedia o googleen alguna crítica o reseña. Si ya la vieron, acá está la secuencia final, en inglés (¿escocés?) porque no me voy a poner a buscarla doblada o subtitulada a estas alturas.

Corrección de rigor: debor rectificar que no era cualquier fulano el que interpretaba al contador de Shallow Grave. En realidad, el nombre de Christopher Eccleston no me sonaba de nada hasta hace unos minutos en que vi que él fue Claude, el hombre invisible de la primera temporada de Heroes. Mayor razón para ver la pela.

Y ya que estamos con la dupla Boyle-McGregor, que nunca se debieron separar y sólo por eso Leonardo DiCaprio debería morir cien veces picoteado por gansos salvajes con paperas, meto otro peliculón que es A life less ordinary, y sale la Cameron Díaz. Él es un ceniciento, ella se pudre en plata, y hay dos ángeles en mala racha tratando de juntarlos. Agitar fuerte y dejar estallar. Me gusta bastante el motivo "chico y chica escapan juntos de la ley, la familia y la mala suerte". Acá unas escenas en idioma original:

(si le dan al related videos pueden ver toda
la pela en YouTube, pero no le digan a nadie)

 I watched the film “the History Boys” one weekend recently. It was a birthday present from J, a colleague who is a fellow Oxbridge history graduate, although 20 years my junior and a graduate of the "other place". Cambridge. She got a first. But we all know that degrees are not what they used to be, and I reckon my twenty year old 2:1 is worth at least a First at the "other place". The rivalry is alive and kicking.The film is set in a northern all-boys Grammar School in 1983. It follows a bunch of bright lads who are attempting to get into Oxbridge to study history. Sound familiar? This was the year that I won my place at Oxford. 1983! Twenty years ago. Most students today would consider that to count as history in itself.

Maslow, our furball baby cat, did his level best to disrupt proceedings. He must have found a nest of field mice. He brought two in, on separate occasions, until we decided to close his cat flap and lock him indoors. He was playing with them under the dining room table. Fortunately he hadn't killed or punctured them. He brings them to us as gifts, apparently. So you have to praise them. After all, they are only doing what comes naturally. And, to be frank, he needs the exercise even more than I do. Luckily I was able to grab both of the poor squeaking, terrified baby mices and to liberate them through the dining room window. Maslow hadn't spotted me do this so proceeded to sniff round every corner and piece of furniture looking for his erstwhile prey while C and I finished watching the DVD.

I enjoyed the film. It reminded me a little of the Dead Poets Society. You could tell that it was based upon a theatre play but it translated to film pretty well. And it dragged me right back to 1983, when I was aged 17 and in the first year of Sixth Form at Grammar School in Birmingham.

There were a number of similarities between the film and my own experience.  To start with, the school architecture and style was very reminiscent of my own Victorian educational edifice. My Grammar School in Handsworth, Birmingham. The boys wore similar uniforms. But their hairstyles were certainly much trendier than I remember in my own day. Mind you, I was in Birmingham.

 I could see bits of some of my teachers in the actors, especially Mr Robins who taught me French, and Frau Walker who beat German into me. And, they got the look of the entrance exam papers right. A5 pamphlets, most unlike the A4 booklets of "O" and "A" Levels. Attention to detail.But, it was the differences between real life and the film that struck me most. All these boys were doing a crammer or seventh term. This means that they had already had their "A" Level results and had returned to their school for an extra term, aged 18, to prepare for their entrance exam. I didn't do it that way. We didn't have the option at my school. I took the entrance exam and had my interview the year before taking my "A" levels. I knew I had a place at Oxford before I took my "A" Levels. Well, as long as I achieved two grade "Es" that is. I did. Four "A stars" in fact. Swot!

People like me (the cocky, obnoxious, immature ones) used to “take the Michael” out of those who had resorted to a crammer. The extra term. Sorry Nye. But, it was not unusual. Some of my mates even deferred entry for a whole year. This was, however, most untypical in working class backgrounds.

My preparation was nowhere near as flamboyant, detailed, disciplined, extensive or all-encompassing as in the History Boys. True, the Headmaster coached us a little in Classical Studies and we brushed up a little on our Latin - for the entrance exam you were required to do one translation from a dead language such as Latin or Greek. This was a bit of a stretch for yours truly as I had only had one year's study for both Latin and Classics, both of which I had dropped at the age of 12. Amo, amas, amat, amamas, amatis, amant. Hey, I still got it!

Also, we learnt a few more complicated verb conjugations for the French paper. You had to do a translation in a modern language such as French, German, Spanish or Russian (for the wannabe spies / double agents). But, this was all done during the lunchtime break. We did go into our "A" level history course in significantly more detail though. And I learnt all of the history questions in Trivial Pursuit off by heart on my own time.

There was certainly no standing at the piano performing Noel Coward or Gilbert and Sullivan though. Nor were there any art history trips. We did go for a visit to Oxford, but this was more of a pub crawl than an educational experience. And, there was certainly no having your balls fondled by the homosexual history teacher!

In my recollection they were kept in the closet back in 1983 Birmingham. Homosexuals. Either that or I was totally naive. I suspect the latter. Or both. In the film two of the male teachers and two of the boys were gay or bi-sexual at least. I wasn't aware of meeting an openly gay boy or man in person until I went to Oxford. Oh, except for the music teacher. But you never took any notice of him as everyone dropped music after the age of 12, and, your average 11 year old could have taken him in a fight.

I remember going up to Oxford for the entrance interview. This followed the written entrance exam. Incidentally, you (well "one" I suppose) go up to Oxford irrespective of which point of the compass you started from. It is one of those snobbish things - a reference to reaching, supposedly, the height of academic achievement.

I remember it was cold. December. And, it was dark. I was summoned into an ancient dusty, smoky, dark, oak-panelled room at the top of a cold, open stairway. I sat in a squeaky leather chair in front of a roaring log fire as my interviewing panel of three history dons sat snuggled on an antique sofa opposite. They offered me a glass of sweet sherry and interrogated me on my personal background, the Franco-Prussian War of 1871 and the empire building of Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. Not my favourite way of passing the time.

It was a bit like the scene in Shallow Grave when they are interviewing for a new flatmate. Except there was no one beaten up in the gents afterwards. At least not as far as I know. And the fact that the dons were all caricatures: Mr B an effeminate Mr Bean look-alike and an expert in Anglo Saxon English history; Mr P, a specialist in the Second World War, who was the spit of the Cambridge don described in Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adam, which is a book I would recommend.

I was offered a scholarship. Clearly, I was offered a scholarship because of my in-depth knowledge of Latin, Classics and complicated French verb conjugations. Actually, I reckon it was because they got grants to attract people from non-public schools, the fact that I could hold my sherry, and, because, amazingly, I knew more about twelfth century Swedish imperialism than a tutor in Anglo Saxon history.........What a surprise.