Review: Sugar Rush, series 1

I'm not gonna lie, as a student, I regularly stay up until about - well, it's 4:30 a.m. as I write this, and I'm not remotely tired.  Come seven in the morning though, I'll be out like a light.  What this means is there is a hell of a lot of time for often misguided forays into the depths of 4oD.  In 2 B.S. (before Skins) Channel 4 put out a borderline daring teenage drama show called Sugar Rush, which is about a fifteen-year-old girl discovering her lesbianism in, you guessed it, the town of Brighton.

My designation "before Skins" is essential to understanding how that show revolutionised teenage programming.  Compared to the characters in Skins, when one looks at previous teenage shows all the characters seem very immature and simplistic, and this is a criticism I can apply to Sugar Rush.

The lesbian packaging attracted me to Sugar Rush because I am fascinated by homosexual relationships and the particular personal challenges young homosexuals face (all joking aside, I am interested in these issues).  Because girls are cute and boys aren't, I'd much rather watch lesbians.  Kim is a cute little ginger virgin with a family entirely set up for comic relief and background drama.  She is quite sure of her sexuality, especially since she moved to Brighton and became fixated on "Sugar", a local chavette whose hobbies include playing pool, underage clubbing, alcoholism, chain-smoking, petty theft, fucking surly meatheads five years older than her, manipulation, pathological rudeness, impulsive and reckless behaviour and generally acting unladylike.  The behaviours rub off on naive Kim, but she is well depicted, clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing.

These attributes of Sugar's are what make the show fall apart after the first few episodes, because nobody with half a brain would genuinely fancy a girl like her.  She is representative of the identikit British teenage slag, but she needs some elusive, ethereal quality, so we can understand Kim's feelings for her.  Things threaten to look up by episode eight, when Kim washes her hands of her friend and attends a Christian homosexual reform group, where she meets a girl.  Finally, we think, we're going to see this programme expand its horizons, but the girl affirms she "only went along to the group to see who I could pull".  Even British teenagers aren't that shameless, certainly not sweet, clear-faced girls with Irish accents.  And by the final episode, you are screaming at Kim not to be so pathetic, as she follows Sugar in fleeing the town.

Kim's family is comic relief, but her mother is unfaithful, lazy, unmaternal and impulsive, which causes her parents to split up.  I feel that this is tokenism.

So I don't think it was the greatest executed programme ever, but I'm very much down with both the premise and the relatability of the characters Kim and Sugar.  I feel that the "home town drama" is one of my favourite genres of slice-of-life.  In my review of Scott Pilgrim I talked about how one really felt involved in this particularised alternative scene of Toronto, and here, you feel similarly involved in the truisms of the particular town of Brighton and its relatable, if not particularly colourful, inhabitants.

Kim narrates her life in the teen-pulp style of Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging, and it is amusing to look at her as an irrational, melodramatic teenager.  However, I feel that this is marketed with no sense of irony, and that the depiction of teenage kicks is gratuitous.  If something is gratuitous, it should be psychodrama, well sexualised, as it was in Skins.  But this isn't, it's second-rate sordidity.  It's the British seaside town of teen dramas: cheap and determined to be cheerful, with a sort of Carry on Camping brand of sexuality that leaves you cold.

"Sugar Rush" may be viewed via 4oD and intermittently on E4 or Channel 4 in the UK.  It might go away if it hasn't been repeated on the telly in a while.

Review: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

I'm very late to the party with this film.  Sounds like an utterly ridiculous premise, and I'm not gonna lie, I'm something of a cinematic snob.  Generally the films I watch are very serious.  Whenever someone comes round to watch a film, I realise all I have on my computer is:
- pretentious foreign films
- pretentious, white-boy documentaries about urban activism
- pretentious mind-fuck films about psychology
- pretentious films by David Lynch
- films like "Human Centipede" and "Serbian Film"
- hilariously bad C-grade horror films

I'd totally baulk at a film where something that could never happen, like people having superpowers, happens.  But I loved Scott Pilgrim.  The idea is, as I'm sure the whole developed world knows, that in order to win the heart of the girl whom he is trying to woo in his virginal way, pussy, gamer and unremarkable bassist Michael Cera has to tick each of her seven exes off the list.  Unfortunately, they've all got superpowers.  Emotionally, I really responded well to the film, despite thinking the silly gimmick would put me off.  The characters' relationship backstories create a compelling web, and the easy candour with which supposed "issues" such as homosexuality, casual sex, cradle-snatching and so forth are presented really gives the impression that the characters are real people and makes the film immensely relatable.  If you watch this film, and are in any way whatsoever part of your local "scene" community, you'll recognise all the characters, from the virgins to the douchebags who spend half the day doing their hair to the "guy who knows everyone".

Coming from a similar background myself, and at the cusp of young adulthood, I was able to relate to things in the film such as casual sex, the intellectualisation of relationships, rooming with people, trying to get a job, annoying high-school girls who fancy you...

I found that those sections of the film where it was like a game were equally compelling.  For these characters, you have to suspend disbelief, not just because of their superpowers but because of their social status - one of them was an actor and a skateboarder, for heaven's sake.  But it was OK, because this forms a separate mode that the film goes into.  Fight scenes, amusing origin stories for the superpowers, lots of effects to imitate the scoring system of arcade games and the tropes of RPG's.  I do have a gripe with this, however.  There were seven people to defeat, but when it got past the lesbian (number four), I started getting bored, realising each scene was pretty much the same.  The storyboarders seem to agree, because they lump numbers five and six together and kind of gloss over them, before the denouement.  Though they did well to introduce a different theme for each enemy - martial arts, extreme sports, veganism, musicianship ... - as it was, each actual fight scene could have been much more individually choreographed.  For me, the stand-out elements of the film were the humanistic bits in between.

So all in all I found the film to be a good laugh, brilliant to watch with friends, but also at its core holding a mirror up to reality.  If you're a gamer, scene kid, or anyone emerging from the dingier side of the adolescent social spectrum, it's fantastic.

"Scott Pilgrim" can be bought on DVD for the princely price of a tenner.  As if!

Reviews

Ok so I think I might use this to review stuff I watch, read, or otherwise consume.  I think it's a good thing to be interactive with life - who are we to just laze around passively taking in the fruits of others' labours?  I literally feel guilty when watching films.

Having gone to sleep very early in the evening, I dreamed of being at a vague facsimile of university, and of meeting a girl who was exactly the same as me: a weird bean-counter type.  I revelled in being myself for once in my social life, challenging each other with logic puzzles in a sexually tense environment.  Eventually, the girl invited me over for some sexy time - into my own conservatory, in fact.  I showed her a dildo of mine and said that it had actually been moulded perfectly to the shape of my penis, because I'm buying a friend a vibrator tomorrow.  The dominatrix took control and had me deep-throat in various positions what oscillated between my own symbolically castrated penis and a peeled, sour-tasting banana, like I eat because I have to refrigerate them at uni - a symbol of scrimping.  I couldn't wait for it to be over and derived no pleasure from it - even though I had apparently always fantasised over this.  (Heads up: this is not true!  I fantasise over being the dominant one.)  It was an obvious parallel to the way my head goes when I have tried to have sex in the real world and felt in her control, or subordinated by my inexperience, especially recently.  I woke momentarily with the conviction that I needed to take control of my relationship.

I dreamed again of being at university.  I was part of a slightly shady club which met in a dingy room to do some sort of martial art.  When it came to it, however, we spent our time lining up to take off clothes, towel down and spray ourselves with perfumes.  I got into a tizzy, realising I'd gotten butt-naked and was taking ages and holding up everyone else.  Afterwards, the judge presiding over the session criticised me for lasting twice as long as everyone else.  As I put my clothes back on after the session, I was aware of the presence of some voice of opportunity in the changing room.

Next thing I knew, I was in London on New Year's Eve, on an elaborate set of steps with Dad.  He was dropping me off there.  As he left, he called from the other side of the street about having forgotten my dinner with the Queen the week before.  He checked his diary and found that it was actually later that day.  I was disappointed at missing my friends in Gloucestershire for New Year, but also elated to have the opportunity for dinner with the Queen; it was for some reason involving the aforementioned "martial arts" club's success.

Dad went to explain to whoever he had business with that he wouldn't be able to make it, and I wandered around, realising I hadn't said where to pick me up!  After an intimidating confrontation with a local rudeboy, I ducked into a small off-licence.  I picked up a four-pack of Foster's and something else and wandered to the entrance to join the queue.  There stood a security guard with a massive device which scanned my items and made their casing go green.  I wondered why the extra security, and, thinking of the price as well, had a mind to put my items back.  Then the shop started to move: it was actually a monorail train, and now I saw all the seats and straps around.  I panicked, as I don't know London well, and considered calling Dad, but knew he wouldn't pick up.  I was calmed by a gaggle of student girls and remembered that the next stop was by the steps I was originally at.  I asked the girls where they were going or from and they said, "Southampton."  I gave the girl who was speaking a hug and told her same, so we could go back together.

However, at the stop I was bundled out of the train by the horde, and my unbought items began to beep.  I tried to cross the road, but I was suddenly unco-ordinated.  A security man with a similar device descended on me and let me off, saying I could keep the items - as long as I helped his friend in the classy cafe opposite with lunchtime.  I begged the Italian proprietor to let me out shortly, as I knew I had to meet Dad and get back to Southampton and then back here for the Queen.  However, he was having none of it, and I considered surrendering my stolen items, guessing it was a mistake to go behind the counter.

I felt sorry for the man; he was in a bad way, fumbling around alone with a monster New-Year's-Eve-in-London queue of overprivileged young career women.  He bundled me unceremoniously behind the counter and I painstakingly squeezed out a cucumber sandwich and a bizarre plate of melted cheese and cranberry sauce for a couple of customers, learning desperately where everything was.  I knew I'd made barely any difference, but the queue had gone, and the Italian guy seemed quite satisfied.  I made to leave, knowing Dad would be waiting outside, and the Italian guy tried half-heartedly to bar my way.  Once I got outside, though, he turned into a reasonably attractive, if creepy, Chinese man, who cuddled me, thanked me and tried to kiss me.  Reflecting on an eventful day in London, I went over to Dad and walked off, and woke up.

I'm going to start a dream diary

I've done this many times and I like it because it often gives me vivid, apocalyptic dreams, a bit like Steven Spielberg movies.  Vivid dreams are a rarity for me these days, but one last night has prompted me to recall my golden age of nightly zombie apocalypses, whirlwind romances and nuclear holocausts.

I dreamed that I was in a vehicle—variously a car or a bus—travelling with seemingly agreeable business or research associates to a new laboratory.  As the journey progressed, the landscape became more and more barren and threatening, and we passed a massive white coach with Cyrillic plastered over the side of it and a translation: 'Siberia Facility'.  We entered a municipality called Cheoms and pulled up outside a glass-fronted building reminiscent of my university's flagship computer science building; amid the wasteland it was clearly one of those sinister dam-the-Ganges-type social projects that stamped all over the local population.  We got out of the car, and the transformation was complete: I was now with my family, and our business associate was a former Konzentrationslager Kommandant, obscenely fat and balding, driving an opulent Mercedes Maybach, and carrying a holdall full of Jewish body parts in the boot: the picture of one of those high-ranking Nazis who have escaped justice.  His building was some sinister experimentation facility.  His name was Maisterlitz.

I acted quickly, and removed the holdall from the back of the car and hid it round the side of the building.  I realised how stupid this was, because he'd notice it was missing easily, and find it easily; as he did so, I felt useless and emasculated, and wished I had the mettle of a hero.  However, as soon as Maisterlitz got his hands on the holdall, my nan and my gran mobilised.  Despite being upwards of eighty and ninety respectively, they were representative of the older generation, and their views on the war were volcanic.  My nan ran full pelt after the Nazi and pulled him back by his collar.  I floored him and tried to figure out how to kill him; I stuck my fingers up his nostrils and pulled back until I heard a crack, but then I bottled out and let go.  I looked back at my botched attempt at killing; he was supporting himself on one elbow, blood flowing from his broken nose, and staring right back at me as an accusation.  I'm finding it difficult to kill the Nazi-like bastard that looms inside me, manifesting itself in such passive-aggressive places as Internet fora and in my sexuality, and strengthening with each instance that I am polite and considerate to people in real life.

Guys, guys. Slow the hell down!

Today I've realised something profound, scary and exciting all in one go.  We're living in the future!  First I stumbled across this video on Facebook.



Then I read this article.

Electronics breakthrough that paves the way for disposable e-readers made from paper, Daily Mail, today.

I mean, come on, guys!  Commercially available products that allow you to move a cursor with enough precision to draw stuff in Paint?  I can't even do that with a real pen and paper.  I realise they're waving their arms around quite a lot for comparatively little reward, but let's face it, this is pretty much the same as those screens the police have in films like I, Robot and Minority Report.  Seeing them rotate the three-dimensional cityscapes Google Earth sports, insanely futuristic in themselves, is really mind-blowing when you think that my parents in the 1960s and '70s still spent their maths lessons poring over logarithm tables because calculators were a rich luxury.

And the idea that the trope of electronic paper might come true is even more fascinating.  You can scrunch it up and put it in a bin.  You can scrunch up a paper-thin electronic device, which has freaking videos playing on it, and throw it away.  Do I need to stress the awesomeness of this more?

What's even scarier is that this kind of thing was seen as 'the future' ten years ago or less.  The anime The Time of Eve shows electronic newspapers as part of 'the future', and that was only made a scant year or two ago.  I believe everyone is aware of the reality of exponential technological growth: every eighteen months, or whatever it is, storage capabilities will tend to double, and so forth.   But few really understand what this means.  I can remember reading Fahrenheit 451, where Bradbury, a penniless author tapping on a coin-op typewriter, made his blind prediction of

"the little Seashells, the thimble radios tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in, coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the waves came in and bore her off on their great tides of sound, floating her, wide-eyed, toward morning."

The next day when I saw the people walking around town in bubbles provided them by their own Seashells, I was unnerved with fear and excitement.  From iPhones to Internet banking, the future tends to grow up all around us like blades of grass.  And we accept it as 'it is what it is'; we never make the connection between the reality and the utopian predictions that futurists of the atomic age made.

Is the technological singularity truly an approaching reality, and is it something to fear or celebrate?