Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Six Lines
'What's the point of a poem that disnae rhyme?'
Wit?
'It disnae rhyme.'
That's no really the point.
'Ye might as well gie up.'
So ah did.
Wit?
'It disnae rhyme.'
That's no really the point.
'Ye might as well gie up.'
So ah did.
Five Minutes not looking at articles.
I need to get this essay done.
I want to spend five minutes on this.
I need to get it handed in in 14 days.
I need a good deal on winter boots fae Ebay.
I just need to get a plan sorted out.
And then do all the reading.
And pick out all the rubbish.
Make sure all my facts prove me right.
Then apply it to the plan and write.
When I'm putting it together I'm redefining the Nation State
and as I go, I try to elaborate, to show.
That I know how it all fits together.
Aww ay it.
Everythin'
The world 'er.
Gonnae change it fae the top doon and the boatum up so tha-
'Look I know what you're saying.
But I'm busy here.'
I want to spend five minutes on this.
I need to get it handed in in 14 days.
I need a good deal on winter boots fae Ebay.
I just need to get a plan sorted out.
And then do all the reading.
And pick out all the rubbish.
Make sure all my facts prove me right.
Then apply it to the plan and write.
When I'm putting it together I'm redefining the Nation State
and as I go, I try to elaborate, to show.
That I know how it all fits together.
Aww ay it.
Everythin'
The world 'er.
Gonnae change it fae the top doon and the boatum up so tha-
'Look I know what you're saying.
But I'm busy here.'
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
The Browne Review.
Lord Browne’s review of High Education in England proposes a removal of a cap on the fees a University can charge students. The report mentions a ‘Value for Money’ ethos but value for whom exactly? George Osborne is already behind it (3.05pm in the Commons) so I think it bears examination.
Apologies if a lot of anger informs this post, but to subject education and health to market forces in a recession I think will only lead to the problem of a poorly educated workforce with poor health resulting in a massive decline in the quality of life for the majority of people in this country.
So, couple of arguments typed as fast as I come can form them:
Implications for Scotland:
As university becomes more expensive in England, perhaps potential undergrads will flock to Scotland. On one hand, as Scottish students fees are paid for through the Scottish Government, this would mean a boost to our economy with ‘external’ income from English students. However, with a higher demand for university places in Scotland (and at the risk of appropriating an argument eejits use about immigration and employment) will domestic students be crowded out of Scotland’s Universities? Bearing in mind that as our education does not run based on broad ranging market forces supply may not necessarily shift to meet a sudden new demand. Who will lose out here? Will this be compensated for? (English students are not deemed international students by Scottish universities, and rightly so.)
Ghettoization of Education:
As Russell Group Institutions and their ilk take advantage of market rates, the majority of students will be forced to attend university and college based on their ability to pay not on their potential academic ability or the quality of the institution. Maybe this reflects ‘value’ for money if you can afford £10,000 in fees at Oxford or Cambridge but for the vast majority surely the value of higher education is in the quality of the institution you attend and learning or research you can do there? How does the removal of a cap on tuition fees introduce a sense of value to the potential student? Sorry, Consumer.
I imagine what will actually happen is that the majority of students will opt for cheaper higher education institutions, student and graduate debt is already a heavy problem and people as consumers will be unwilling to simply accept more. The result is that the rich will go to the outstanding universities and everyone else will make do.
An example about how something like this would play out in Scotland:
In Scotland, your tuition fees are dealt with by the Scottish Government. What's the major implication of Universities with market based fees on this side of the border then? Over the last ten years in Scotland, more people are entering High Education, this means that SAAS (The Scottish Government) are supporting more learners. If you were to introduce unlimited fees in Scotland I can see SAAS hesitant to fund more the expensive courses at Glasgow/Edinburgh or other Russell Group institutions over cheaper courses at Caledonian, Strathclyde wherever leading to fewer domestic students at these Universities.
Granted, Browne’s review talks of looking out for students in the lowest socioeconomic brackets in the interests of promoting access to those from poor backgrounds but also talks of a ‘minimum grading board’ which will effectively disbar students from applying to Universities with high entrance requirements. With the influence of market forces, surely these will be the most expensive and exclusive institutions? How will this amount to ‘promoting access’ considering that those from poor backgrounds and communities generally do less well in examinations?
I'm running out of time to type this up. So what can be done?
Well you should be writing to your MP about how much you oppose any such review or any legislation to move in this direction in higher education. Especially if your MP is a Liberal Democrat, a party committed to lowering the cost of education for all. The Lib Dems need to know that is something they can't compromise on. And maybe as an insurance you might also want to bring it up to your MSP and say that this is something that could come to haunt us here and they should be on guard against. If you want to take it right up to direct action the National Union of Students will be organising protests against any such measures so you should give them a week look up.
David
Couple of sources that didn't paste well from Word...
http://www.russellgroup.ac.uk/our-universities.aspx
http://www.scotland.gov.uk/Topics/Statistics/Browse/Lifelong-learning/TrendHEStudentSupport
Apologies if a lot of anger informs this post, but to subject education and health to market forces in a recession I think will only lead to the problem of a poorly educated workforce with poor health resulting in a massive decline in the quality of life for the majority of people in this country.
So, couple of arguments typed as fast as I come can form them:
Implications for Scotland:
As university becomes more expensive in England, perhaps potential undergrads will flock to Scotland. On one hand, as Scottish students fees are paid for through the Scottish Government, this would mean a boost to our economy with ‘external’ income from English students. However, with a higher demand for university places in Scotland (and at the risk of appropriating an argument eejits use about immigration and employment) will domestic students be crowded out of Scotland’s Universities? Bearing in mind that as our education does not run based on broad ranging market forces supply may not necessarily shift to meet a sudden new demand. Who will lose out here? Will this be compensated for? (English students are not deemed international students by Scottish universities, and rightly so.)
Ghettoization of Education:
As Russell Group Institutions and their ilk take advantage of market rates, the majority of students will be forced to attend university and college based on their ability to pay not on their potential academic ability or the quality of the institution. Maybe this reflects ‘value’ for money if you can afford £10,000 in fees at Oxford or Cambridge but for the vast majority surely the value of higher education is in the quality of the institution you attend and learning or research you can do there? How does the removal of a cap on tuition fees introduce a sense of value to the potential student? Sorry, Consumer.
I imagine what will actually happen is that the majority of students will opt for cheaper higher education institutions, student and graduate debt is already a heavy problem and people as consumers will be unwilling to simply accept more. The result is that the rich will go to the outstanding universities and everyone else will make do.
An example about how something like this would play out in Scotland:
In Scotland, your tuition fees are dealt with by the Scottish Government. What's the major implication of Universities with market based fees on this side of the border then? Over the last ten years in Scotland, more people are entering High Education, this means that SAAS (The Scottish Government) are supporting more learners. If you were to introduce unlimited fees in Scotland I can see SAAS hesitant to fund more the expensive courses at Glasgow/Edinburgh or other Russell Group institutions over cheaper courses at Caledonian, Strathclyde wherever leading to fewer domestic students at these Universities.
Granted, Browne’s review talks of looking out for students in the lowest socioeconomic brackets in the interests of promoting access to those from poor backgrounds but also talks of a ‘minimum grading board’ which will effectively disbar students from applying to Universities with high entrance requirements. With the influence of market forces, surely these will be the most expensive and exclusive institutions? How will this amount to ‘promoting access’ considering that those from poor backgrounds and communities generally do less well in examinations?
I'm running out of time to type this up. So what can be done?
Well you should be writing to your MP about how much you oppose any such review or any legislation to move in this direction in higher education. Especially if your MP is a Liberal Democrat, a party committed to lowering the cost of education for all. The Lib Dems need to know that is something they can't compromise on. And maybe as an insurance you might also want to bring it up to your MSP and say that this is something that could come to haunt us here and they should be on guard against. If you want to take it right up to direct action the National Union of Students will be organising protests against any such measures so you should give them a week look up.
David
Couple of sources that didn't paste well from Word...
http://www.russellgroup.ac.uk/our-universities.aspx
http://www.scotland.gov.uk/Topics/Statistics/Browse/Lifelong-learning/TrendHEStudentSupport
Sunday, 26 September 2010
Поехали! (Draft 2)
Alternating between heaving at her mother’s coat with both hands in a pantomime refusal to go on and pulling at her hair, collar and apron so as to look dishevelled and with a frustration that was airborne and contagious Svetlana asked for 12th time, ‘Why can’t we take the bus?’ Olga ignored her question with her 10th, ‘You know why.’ and carried on walking past the field at the bottom of their farming plot and out into the grove that bordered it. Svetlana mocked storming off at a tangent from her mother. Olga sighed inwardly, trying to show no weakness. Svetlana went off in orbit, eventually rejoining her mother at the last few large trees where the grove petered out into open farmland. ‘Ternovka is kilometres away! Mama, I am too old to be led around. I wanted to read with father, I could have cleaned! I could have cooked lunch for your return. I coul-’
Olga rounded on her daughter, ‘You are 12, Sveta. That is still young. I’d like to let you do what you want but we’ve spoken about this. Your schoolwork has been poor, you are rude to others and if you were not caught scaring animals in a stable like a petulant little vandal we wouldn’t have to give you such immature punishments as having to come to the market!’
Svetlana fell silent, not understanding why what was being asked of her was asked of her all the time. She began to wander off again tugging at the little red scarf wrapped around her neck. Loosening and tightening the knot over and over. Trying to make the knot small, yet prominent and have it sit in the centre of her throat instead of being askew. Olga kept her in her peripheral vision; saw her as a bright silhouette against the dull sky. She stood tall on a rock and waving over at her mother she held her head high, showing off a bulbous red knot where a boy would have his adam’s apple. In spite of the absence of a mirror to confirm her standards she called out, ‘Perfect!’ and Olga smiled, any notion of perfection in the scarf was undermined by her hair, billowing out in golden strands to her right and taking on mild waves as it was repeatedly tucked away behind her ears then freed again with the passing wind. She hopped down from the rock and strutted around, shadowing her mother at a distance.
‘Try and stay close. Don’t wander off. There’ll be a present.’
The orbit decayed and she came closer, suspicion crept into her voice now, ‘Really?’
‘Yes, a surprise though.’
‘What kind of surprise?’
‘Something from Saratov probably,’
She began to skip. All sense of oppression or penance forgotten. Olga tried to rein in her enthusiasm, ‘A small something!’ Sveta promised not to tell her father about the gift, ‘I think it will be ok to tell him; where else would you get such a thing? He may think you will have stolen it!’ Sveta shook her head, ‘No, papa would never think me capable.’
‘Your father believes that you can do anything you want to in your life, think about how that can cut both ways.’
‘Can I go skating? ‘
‘That’s not what I meant, this isn’t a daytrip!’
‘But I’d like to go skating. We could both go skating, on the Volga.’
’You can’t skate on the Volga in April dear, it’s too late for that. Maybe in winter.’
‘Winter is kilometres away!’
‘As far as Ternovka then?’
‘Further, you know it is.’
‘Well if you can get to Ternovka in less time than usual, maybe winter will hurry along as well.’
‘You can’t run towards winter. ‘
‘I thought we said you could do anything?’
She smiled and took off like a hare, racing ahead of her mother. She ran across a depression in the land and vanished from sight. Olga watched her go, then listened out for her laughing as she ran down the hill, grateful for the respite from her stubborn youthful anger and the frivolous and incessant questioning that it had eventually given way to. Olga desperately wanted her to grow up, to mature and succeed and settle down, and she could have all these little back and forth squabbles with some boy with whom it wouldn’t matter if they argued over small things. They would always know that such matters were beneath their attention and all their constantly forming tensions would immediately be dissolved by their love for each other. Olga was sure she put her own parents through such a trial, looking back she knew now that all those little disputes with them from her teens didn’t matter. But she had never told her parents that. She had taken this later revelation for granted and now sometimes she wishes she could have told them. Because now, on the receiving end of it. It was very hard to take.
A massive THUMP rung out over the landscape and Olga snapped round to her right. The sound was distant, yet massive nonetheless and followed by a smaller one now, thump. Along with the second noise she now saw a fount of dirt and dust rising on the horizon. She looked at the path ahead and she couldn’t hear her daughter laughing. She thought about the joke being played out but this did nothing to calm her voice.
‘SVETA! SVETA! HERE! NOW! NOW! SVETA!’
Svetlana came running over the ridge crying, ‘Mama!’ Olga crouched, double checking what she knew already, that she was alright. She untied her scarf from around her neck and fastened it over her hair, tying off the ends at the nape of her neck. She took her hand and looked out to the horizon, ‘Mama, did you hear that?’
Olga could still see a thin plume of smoke and dust settling in the distance. ‘I heard it, it sounded like an accident. Stay close now. No running away.’ She looked back in the direction of the kolkhoz, trying to measure how far off the sound had come from there. With their home immediately behind them she felt it must have been someway off, maybe as much as 5 miles from their home. Svetlana’s agitation was only compounded now that she was tethered to her mother by a warm and reassuring yet firm hand. ‘Maybe it is an attack; maybe we should inform Aleksander Abramovich?’
‘No, I mean, maybe we should, but having that old war hero running around could make a situation worse.’
‘Mama, that is disrespectful.’
‘Don’t worry yourself over attacks. The only thing you have to worry about is frightening those poor horses.’ Svetlana bowed her head and huffed slightly, the punishment not forgotten in spite of the sudden concern over her. Olga’s had always dealt with the concerns of others by reducing any crisis back down to personal every day matters. Her own mother had done it during the Great Patriotic War, as a way of managing her daughters worry at their own proximity to the war and their collective helplessness to directly affect the situation. In hindsight Olga knew it also kept her grounded, allowed her focus on her work, aware that the war effort at home was measured in vegetables picked, boots cobbled and tanks assembled.
‘It is probably not an attack; we live in a lovely place that is important to me, but Stal-Volgograd and Saratov we are not. Besides, we would hear sirens. That bang should have wakened the entire village. No, if it was an attack we would hear sirens. There may have been a grave accident though-’
‘Maybe it was anarchists! Or Counter revolutionaries!’
‘Svetlana Nikolayevna enough of this please! We will go back. Your father will know we are safe and in case of the worst, we will do what we can to help. But if it is the worst I will not have you drumming up rumours of spies and armies!’
Svetlana pointed into the sky and gave a ‘But…’ that was little more than a murmur. Olga followed her daughters pointing to the oblique and circling oval of a parachute in the grey sky. Horror stories arose in her without her daughters prompting and she began to squeeze her daughter’s hand for blood as they watched the descent. Her instinct was to run, to warn all the old guardsmen and soldiers in the village of another threat to their home but he was falling faster now. He seemed to be out of control and kept flailing his arms as he fell, he was coming down between Olga and Svetlana and their home. They would have to work their way around him. The man seemed to crumple as he hit the ground and the parachute buried him as it billowed and sank around him. Frantic activity under the giant sheet saw it shrink in size to its centre until a short mannequin like figure emerged.
Here, Olga’s panic began to give way to confusion. The stumpy man, if it was a man, was wearing some sort of bright orange diving suit, trailing wires and hoses and parachute cabling around him. His head was an inflated white bulb, covered in black scorch marks and set within the front of this diving helmet, there appeared to be a face. He began to stagger forward, limping off to the left and gathering the parachute behind him like a cape on his right. He sank to his knees into the collected material once, then twice, and then having noticed them simply stood where he was and waved.
They began to retreat, Svetlana pulling her mother away, no pantomime this time, back towards the edge of the hill where they could hide. Olga stood steadfast, only considered retreat when the figure suddenly called out and pointed to his head; there under the black burnt carbon, Olga could make out the insignia which mobilised the lives of some 300 million people, CCCP. Olga, gave a hesitant wave back and the figure beckoned them forward. She felt a possessive tug on her arm, ‘Mama, no.’ the figure sank to his knees, seemingly exhausted and cried out again, as if for mercy, ‘I AM A FRIEND, COMRADES, A FRIEND!’
Olga moved her hand to the small of her child’s back and urged her to walk forward. Svetlana resisted, looked up at her with eyes that presented more questions than she could physically ask. ‘It’ll be ok, I’ll go first, but I need you to stay beside me ok? Walk behind me, if anything happens; I know you’ll get help.’ Sveta nodded her consent and Olga pressed forward to the orange diver wrapped up in his blanket. As she approached, she looked him over, finally grasping the meaning of his arrival, ‘Can it be that you have come from outer space?"
The face inside the suit burst out laughing, "As a matter of fact, I have!’ She reached out to help him up, he rose carefully. Wincing over his left leg, she moved underneath his arm to keep him upright. He began to bundle up the parachute again in his right hand, still laughing, Sveta began to retreat and he called her closer to him, ‘Don't be afraid, I am a Soviet like you, who has descended from space and I must find a telephone to call Moscow!’
‘I am Olga Stepanovna Perlov, this is my daughter, Svetlana. I’m sure we can help you, are you ok?’
He held out the parachute to her, and she moved forward to take it from him, his good humour began to trail off and was replaced with a heavy laboured breathing.
‘Yes, I am fine. Please, really, I just need to get to a telephone.’
Faced with this man from the future, Sveta draped the parachute around her shoulders and turned to lead the way, she let out the last of her youth in a proclamation, ‘Let's Go!’
Olga rounded on her daughter, ‘You are 12, Sveta. That is still young. I’d like to let you do what you want but we’ve spoken about this. Your schoolwork has been poor, you are rude to others and if you were not caught scaring animals in a stable like a petulant little vandal we wouldn’t have to give you such immature punishments as having to come to the market!’
Svetlana fell silent, not understanding why what was being asked of her was asked of her all the time. She began to wander off again tugging at the little red scarf wrapped around her neck. Loosening and tightening the knot over and over. Trying to make the knot small, yet prominent and have it sit in the centre of her throat instead of being askew. Olga kept her in her peripheral vision; saw her as a bright silhouette against the dull sky. She stood tall on a rock and waving over at her mother she held her head high, showing off a bulbous red knot where a boy would have his adam’s apple. In spite of the absence of a mirror to confirm her standards she called out, ‘Perfect!’ and Olga smiled, any notion of perfection in the scarf was undermined by her hair, billowing out in golden strands to her right and taking on mild waves as it was repeatedly tucked away behind her ears then freed again with the passing wind. She hopped down from the rock and strutted around, shadowing her mother at a distance.
‘Try and stay close. Don’t wander off. There’ll be a present.’
The orbit decayed and she came closer, suspicion crept into her voice now, ‘Really?’
‘Yes, a surprise though.’
‘What kind of surprise?’
‘Something from Saratov probably,’
She began to skip. All sense of oppression or penance forgotten. Olga tried to rein in her enthusiasm, ‘A small something!’ Sveta promised not to tell her father about the gift, ‘I think it will be ok to tell him; where else would you get such a thing? He may think you will have stolen it!’ Sveta shook her head, ‘No, papa would never think me capable.’
‘Your father believes that you can do anything you want to in your life, think about how that can cut both ways.’
‘Can I go skating? ‘
‘That’s not what I meant, this isn’t a daytrip!’
‘But I’d like to go skating. We could both go skating, on the Volga.’
’You can’t skate on the Volga in April dear, it’s too late for that. Maybe in winter.’
‘Winter is kilometres away!’
‘As far as Ternovka then?’
‘Further, you know it is.’
‘Well if you can get to Ternovka in less time than usual, maybe winter will hurry along as well.’
‘You can’t run towards winter. ‘
‘I thought we said you could do anything?’
She smiled and took off like a hare, racing ahead of her mother. She ran across a depression in the land and vanished from sight. Olga watched her go, then listened out for her laughing as she ran down the hill, grateful for the respite from her stubborn youthful anger and the frivolous and incessant questioning that it had eventually given way to. Olga desperately wanted her to grow up, to mature and succeed and settle down, and she could have all these little back and forth squabbles with some boy with whom it wouldn’t matter if they argued over small things. They would always know that such matters were beneath their attention and all their constantly forming tensions would immediately be dissolved by their love for each other. Olga was sure she put her own parents through such a trial, looking back she knew now that all those little disputes with them from her teens didn’t matter. But she had never told her parents that. She had taken this later revelation for granted and now sometimes she wishes she could have told them. Because now, on the receiving end of it. It was very hard to take.
A massive THUMP rung out over the landscape and Olga snapped round to her right. The sound was distant, yet massive nonetheless and followed by a smaller one now, thump. Along with the second noise she now saw a fount of dirt and dust rising on the horizon. She looked at the path ahead and she couldn’t hear her daughter laughing. She thought about the joke being played out but this did nothing to calm her voice.
‘SVETA! SVETA! HERE! NOW! NOW! SVETA!’
Svetlana came running over the ridge crying, ‘Mama!’ Olga crouched, double checking what she knew already, that she was alright. She untied her scarf from around her neck and fastened it over her hair, tying off the ends at the nape of her neck. She took her hand and looked out to the horizon, ‘Mama, did you hear that?’
Olga could still see a thin plume of smoke and dust settling in the distance. ‘I heard it, it sounded like an accident. Stay close now. No running away.’ She looked back in the direction of the kolkhoz, trying to measure how far off the sound had come from there. With their home immediately behind them she felt it must have been someway off, maybe as much as 5 miles from their home. Svetlana’s agitation was only compounded now that she was tethered to her mother by a warm and reassuring yet firm hand. ‘Maybe it is an attack; maybe we should inform Aleksander Abramovich?’
‘No, I mean, maybe we should, but having that old war hero running around could make a situation worse.’
‘Mama, that is disrespectful.’
‘Don’t worry yourself over attacks. The only thing you have to worry about is frightening those poor horses.’ Svetlana bowed her head and huffed slightly, the punishment not forgotten in spite of the sudden concern over her. Olga’s had always dealt with the concerns of others by reducing any crisis back down to personal every day matters. Her own mother had done it during the Great Patriotic War, as a way of managing her daughters worry at their own proximity to the war and their collective helplessness to directly affect the situation. In hindsight Olga knew it also kept her grounded, allowed her focus on her work, aware that the war effort at home was measured in vegetables picked, boots cobbled and tanks assembled.
‘It is probably not an attack; we live in a lovely place that is important to me, but Stal-Volgograd and Saratov we are not. Besides, we would hear sirens. That bang should have wakened the entire village. No, if it was an attack we would hear sirens. There may have been a grave accident though-’
‘Maybe it was anarchists! Or Counter revolutionaries!’
‘Svetlana Nikolayevna enough of this please! We will go back. Your father will know we are safe and in case of the worst, we will do what we can to help. But if it is the worst I will not have you drumming up rumours of spies and armies!’
Svetlana pointed into the sky and gave a ‘But…’ that was little more than a murmur. Olga followed her daughters pointing to the oblique and circling oval of a parachute in the grey sky. Horror stories arose in her without her daughters prompting and she began to squeeze her daughter’s hand for blood as they watched the descent. Her instinct was to run, to warn all the old guardsmen and soldiers in the village of another threat to their home but he was falling faster now. He seemed to be out of control and kept flailing his arms as he fell, he was coming down between Olga and Svetlana and their home. They would have to work their way around him. The man seemed to crumple as he hit the ground and the parachute buried him as it billowed and sank around him. Frantic activity under the giant sheet saw it shrink in size to its centre until a short mannequin like figure emerged.
Here, Olga’s panic began to give way to confusion. The stumpy man, if it was a man, was wearing some sort of bright orange diving suit, trailing wires and hoses and parachute cabling around him. His head was an inflated white bulb, covered in black scorch marks and set within the front of this diving helmet, there appeared to be a face. He began to stagger forward, limping off to the left and gathering the parachute behind him like a cape on his right. He sank to his knees into the collected material once, then twice, and then having noticed them simply stood where he was and waved.
They began to retreat, Svetlana pulling her mother away, no pantomime this time, back towards the edge of the hill where they could hide. Olga stood steadfast, only considered retreat when the figure suddenly called out and pointed to his head; there under the black burnt carbon, Olga could make out the insignia which mobilised the lives of some 300 million people, CCCP. Olga, gave a hesitant wave back and the figure beckoned them forward. She felt a possessive tug on her arm, ‘Mama, no.’ the figure sank to his knees, seemingly exhausted and cried out again, as if for mercy, ‘I AM A FRIEND, COMRADES, A FRIEND!’
Olga moved her hand to the small of her child’s back and urged her to walk forward. Svetlana resisted, looked up at her with eyes that presented more questions than she could physically ask. ‘It’ll be ok, I’ll go first, but I need you to stay beside me ok? Walk behind me, if anything happens; I know you’ll get help.’ Sveta nodded her consent and Olga pressed forward to the orange diver wrapped up in his blanket. As she approached, she looked him over, finally grasping the meaning of his arrival, ‘Can it be that you have come from outer space?"
The face inside the suit burst out laughing, "As a matter of fact, I have!’ She reached out to help him up, he rose carefully. Wincing over his left leg, she moved underneath his arm to keep him upright. He began to bundle up the parachute again in his right hand, still laughing, Sveta began to retreat and he called her closer to him, ‘Don't be afraid, I am a Soviet like you, who has descended from space and I must find a telephone to call Moscow!’
‘I am Olga Stepanovna Perlov, this is my daughter, Svetlana. I’m sure we can help you, are you ok?’
He held out the parachute to her, and she moved forward to take it from him, his good humour began to trail off and was replaced with a heavy laboured breathing.
‘Yes, I am fine. Please, really, I just need to get to a telephone.’
Faced with this man from the future, Sveta draped the parachute around her shoulders and turned to lead the way, she let out the last of her youth in a proclamation, ‘Let's Go!’
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Why the new Sherlock Holmes film is worse than a Scooby Doo Episode.
This is what makes a ‘Detective’ Story.
Three Questions:
1. Who done it?
2. Why did they do it?
3. How did they do it?
The payoff is in gradually revealing the answers to the audience to their surprise and anticipation. So let’s see how Sherlock Holmes works as a detective film:
WHO? Why Lord Blackwell did it of course, here we are arresting him and expounding on the matter in the opening scene of the film.
WHY? In the UK, there is only one definitive way to really explain your actions and that is of course to bring it up in Parliament. Which is what Lord Blackwell does in the second act of the movie.
HOW? This irked me the most. It was the ONLY thing the makers of this film tried to hide from the audience. And the answer was just, ‘CHEMICALS! But this is Viccie London and such chemicals are like magic to us!’ I think half the people watching the film had also guessed it was the answer as Holmes and Watson, when not at home watching their farting dog, where snooping around clandestine chemical labs.
As such, Sherlock Holmes is NOT a good detective film. If you have to explain it to people, tell them it’s not actually about Sherlock Holmes but that Guy Ritchie has instead made a film about a detective like guy, from Victorian London, who happens to be called Sherlock Holmes.
You may then explain to them what makes a good detective story and why the new Sherlock Holmes film is not a good detective story at all, as it barely satifies one of the three points. If you wish to further demonstrate my/your findings, here are some examples of detective stories that are better than the new Sherlock Holmes film.
SCOOBY DOO – 2/3 DETECTIVE MARKS
WHO? Ok, so we know who did it, it’s always the one other person in that episode but it’s not spelled out and billed in the opening credits
WHY? We never know why they really done it until the end, and even then there was always disbelief about the esoteric motive about real estate prices of hidden oil reserves, nonetheless it taught me an important lesson as a child about being wary of the real criminals in life, Developers.
HOW? How it was done was always a mystery in Scooby Doo and I’m sure we were all astounded and pleased to hear that the Phantom of Poderposa Bay was the creation of some natural clay and oils, fluorescent algae and a hand held radio.
ACE VENTURA 2: WHEN NATURE CALLS: 3/3 DETECTIVE MARKS
WHO? The White Mans Imperialistic Exploitation Machine: Everyone from the consulate, his ambassador to Ace and the thug hunters destroying the jungle wildlife were all in on this plot.
WHY? The driving motive of ANY good dramatic story is of course, Love or Money, in this case the Love of Money.
HOW? By the calculated hiring of thugs to do your dirty work and bribery of course, real plausible crime methods which we are blind to until the big reveal at the films climax.
Even the hiring of Ace himself, was all part of the villains plan, to create a plausible alibi for the eventual inquiry into the matter, how is THAT for a fucking plan?
In fact what makes Ace Ventura SUCH a good detective film is that Ace Ventura has a Holmes like power of observation. Like when he tackles the villain, Cadby at a dinner:
Assertion:
-You're an extreme workaholic. You recently returned from a short trip to Gotan in northern Africa, and upon your return you more than likely took a nasty spill because of some... shoddy masonry work.
Explanation:
- The abrasion on the palm of your left hand is the type one sustains breaking a fall of three to five feet, the small reminisce of plaster on the tip of your shoe pointed to a careless mason beam: the culprit; your new watch, a quality forgery of a cartieah was most likely purchased through the North African black market known to reside in GOTAN!
- And my work habits?
- Yes, a workaholic, the urine stain on your pants would signify that you're a single shake man, far to busy for a follow up jiggle.
The urine stain on your pants signifies that you are a single-shake man. Far too busy for the follow-up jiggle!
Bearing these case studies in mind, we may draw the conclusion that a 15 year old Jim Carrey character and a dog with a speech impediment are better detectives than Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes.
Three Questions:
1. Who done it?
2. Why did they do it?
3. How did they do it?
The payoff is in gradually revealing the answers to the audience to their surprise and anticipation. So let’s see how Sherlock Holmes works as a detective film:
WHO? Why Lord Blackwell did it of course, here we are arresting him and expounding on the matter in the opening scene of the film.
WHY? In the UK, there is only one definitive way to really explain your actions and that is of course to bring it up in Parliament. Which is what Lord Blackwell does in the second act of the movie.
HOW? This irked me the most. It was the ONLY thing the makers of this film tried to hide from the audience. And the answer was just, ‘CHEMICALS! But this is Viccie London and such chemicals are like magic to us!’ I think half the people watching the film had also guessed it was the answer as Holmes and Watson, when not at home watching their farting dog, where snooping around clandestine chemical labs.
As such, Sherlock Holmes is NOT a good detective film. If you have to explain it to people, tell them it’s not actually about Sherlock Holmes but that Guy Ritchie has instead made a film about a detective like guy, from Victorian London, who happens to be called Sherlock Holmes.
You may then explain to them what makes a good detective story and why the new Sherlock Holmes film is not a good detective story at all, as it barely satifies one of the three points. If you wish to further demonstrate my/your findings, here are some examples of detective stories that are better than the new Sherlock Holmes film.
SCOOBY DOO – 2/3 DETECTIVE MARKS
WHO? Ok, so we know who did it, it’s always the one other person in that episode but it’s not spelled out and billed in the opening credits
WHY? We never know why they really done it until the end, and even then there was always disbelief about the esoteric motive about real estate prices of hidden oil reserves, nonetheless it taught me an important lesson as a child about being wary of the real criminals in life, Developers.
HOW? How it was done was always a mystery in Scooby Doo and I’m sure we were all astounded and pleased to hear that the Phantom of Poderposa Bay was the creation of some natural clay and oils, fluorescent algae and a hand held radio.
ACE VENTURA 2: WHEN NATURE CALLS: 3/3 DETECTIVE MARKS
WHO? The White Mans Imperialistic Exploitation Machine: Everyone from the consulate, his ambassador to Ace and the thug hunters destroying the jungle wildlife were all in on this plot.
WHY? The driving motive of ANY good dramatic story is of course, Love or Money, in this case the Love of Money.
HOW? By the calculated hiring of thugs to do your dirty work and bribery of course, real plausible crime methods which we are blind to until the big reveal at the films climax.
Even the hiring of Ace himself, was all part of the villains plan, to create a plausible alibi for the eventual inquiry into the matter, how is THAT for a fucking plan?
In fact what makes Ace Ventura SUCH a good detective film is that Ace Ventura has a Holmes like power of observation. Like when he tackles the villain, Cadby at a dinner:
Assertion:
-You're an extreme workaholic. You recently returned from a short trip to Gotan in northern Africa, and upon your return you more than likely took a nasty spill because of some... shoddy masonry work.
Explanation:
- The abrasion on the palm of your left hand is the type one sustains breaking a fall of three to five feet, the small reminisce of plaster on the tip of your shoe pointed to a careless mason beam: the culprit; your new watch, a quality forgery of a cartieah was most likely purchased through the North African black market known to reside in GOTAN!
- And my work habits?
- Yes, a workaholic, the urine stain on your pants would signify that you're a single shake man, far to busy for a follow up jiggle.
The urine stain on your pants signifies that you are a single-shake man. Far too busy for the follow-up jiggle!
Bearing these case studies in mind, we may draw the conclusion that a 15 year old Jim Carrey character and a dog with a speech impediment are better detectives than Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
The First Time I Felt Like A Rock Kid...
...was after the System of a Down show at the Barrowlands in like, March 2002.
I was 15 and absolutly fucking blown away. I'd been to gigs before at the Garage, or sitting down at the SECC.
But, first barras gig, I couldn't even fathom how awesome it was that there were all these other people who were into really heavy music, that allowed an outlet for so many negative and raging feelings and yeah, you felt part of something big and mysterious, and yet the overall purpose of the event was have a good time.
It has just hit me today, whilst rediscovering SOAD's back catalogue what to call that night, 'a celebration of rage'.
But of course, at the time I had no way to possibly communicate just what the hell had happened that night to people at school the next day.
Not that they gave a shit anyway.
I was the rock kid.
I was 15 and absolutly fucking blown away. I'd been to gigs before at the Garage, or sitting down at the SECC.
But, first barras gig, I couldn't even fathom how awesome it was that there were all these other people who were into really heavy music, that allowed an outlet for so many negative and raging feelings and yeah, you felt part of something big and mysterious, and yet the overall purpose of the event was have a good time.
It has just hit me today, whilst rediscovering SOAD's back catalogue what to call that night, 'a celebration of rage'.
But of course, at the time I had no way to possibly communicate just what the hell had happened that night to people at school the next day.
Not that they gave a shit anyway.
I was the rock kid.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
