Cleverly inspired by Nikola Tesla’s wilder claims and his rivalry with Thomas Edison, this is an engaging period piece and the competition between the protagonists is both gripping and believable. But for a film on how to build to a climax, The Prestige ends disappointingly having worked too hard to ensure we understand its ending.
A solid 7 out of 10.
Director: Christopher Nolan……Starring: Hugh Jackman……Christian Bale……Michael Caine……Scarlett Johansson……David Bowie
The History Boys……The Page Turner (La Tourneuse de pages)

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One of the most irritating records of the 60s, Procol Harum’s A Whiter Shade of Pale, is back in the news with the High Court forced to decide who stole what from Bach. If the work is innovative, I guess it’s because it almost anticipates contemporary sampling techniques; pick a piece of music you like, mess about it with a little and hey presto. It’s a kind of Lockean: the old philosopher held that when you take something that nobody owns and mix it with your labour, it becomes yours.

Anyway. Many people, many of them fans (who call themselves Palers), have spent many an hour debating the meaning of A Whiter Shade of Pale. The bloke who sang it has always claimed not to know. But it isn’t it obvious?

We set the scene with references to nauseating drunkenness (indeed the whole piece may be designed to induce nausea in the listener) and as the characters find themselves on the verge of vomiting their faces turn a whiter shade of pale: ‘I was feeling kinda seasick… / The room was humming harder… / When we called out for another drink / the waiter brought a tray’

There is clear menace in the lyric (‘but the crowd cried out for more’) and the female subject is clearly in trouble. The narrator is about to rape her, but may be too drunk. This is emphasised in additional lyrics only performed in concert: ‘so I took her by the looking glass / and forced her to agree / saying, “You must be the mermaid / who took Neptune for a ride.” / But she smiled at me so sadly / that my anger straightway died’

The coyness of the performer and the claimed influence for the song – a hippie gathering – seem to support this reading… don’t you think?

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An ex-colleague of mine once described Liverpool as being like a beautiful looking cake that creates the expectation of something special; but take a bite and it will make you hurl. And so it is with The Vines.

At that time I was PR for the region’s dominant brewer and now I can ‘ermmm’ and ‘eh, eh, eh’ like a native. This skill was put to great use as I battled through St John’s Shopping Centre having promised mum and Katharine a quality pub experience rather than the cheap tat of Albert Dock.

The Vines is full of promise; a grand statement from a bygone age. Admire the wonderful clock on your way in and note that this building is listed inside and out. Check out the craftsmanship in the woodwork, the friezes, even the beaten copper. Forget the Walker Art Gallery: this is one of Peter Walker’s true palaces.

Then ignore the broken glass in the doorway. Don’t be surprised to find the kids behind the bar asking all the customers if they know how to change a barrel, as the Fosters has just exploded. Ignore the CAMRA award behind the cigarette machine; they only serve cheaply made lager. Be prepared to give step-by-step instructions on how to make orange juice and lemonade. Forget food, they don’t even do crisps. Liverpool.
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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It had to be done eventually: a trip to Liverpool to pay homage to the Beatles, with mum.

The experience is a maze of small rooms beneath the Albert Dock. Even in November there’s a wait and they have to let you in in batches: we got to the barrier just as it closed and this is the eager tourist crowd.

Most of it was new to mum to, as while it all kicked off when she was in her early-twenties, she emigrated to South Africa just before Beatlemania. She’s never shown any interest in music; I’ve never known her put a record on, but even mum had visited dancehalls at lunchtimes: when did the last of those close?

But they were gentle times. There was no alcohol in the tiny all-seater Cavern Club.
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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Here’s a story for the Studio Theatre of the Royal Exchange: Paper Towel Thief. This is the man himself, making a swift exit.

Earlier today I happened across this suspicious stranger in the gents hovering around the hand dryer. It soon emerged that he was warming paper towels, prior to stuffing them into his pockets, trousers, et cetera; it’s been a cold day.
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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The MS Emma Maersk is an impressive ship that has quickly become a symbol for international trade and a focus for criticism; much of which could not be more wrongheaded.

Green Party MEP Dr Caroline Lucas is leading the charge with some rather confusing comments, including the idea that, ‘the real cost of the goods that the Emma Maersk is bringing in should include… markets destroyed in developing countries,’ while complaining that, ‘these are the goods that Europe used to make,’ and bemoaning the export of manufacturing jobs to China.

Meanwhile the Green Party emphasises organic food even though organic almost certainly means imported. The Green Party website appears silent on organic food miles at a time when organic prawns are intensively farmed and air freighted thousands of miles, leaving a far greater carbon footprint than this slow boat from China; something that illustrates an inability to reach beyond simplistic solutions to complex problems.

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That elephants can recognise themselves in a mirror has led to a great deal of excitement with some arguing this places them in a cognitive elite. But I’m not so sure.

A little while ago, vets were warned of the dangers of prescribing antibiotics to dogs. Such drugs can destroy the bacteria that give a dog his unique scent, the consequences of which can be devastating for the animal. It’s likely that other dogs will no longer recognise him and will subsequently shun or even attack him. The human equivalent would be to have your face so horrifically disfigured that friends and family no longer recognise you.

With this in mind, I can’t help but think that, in welcoming elephants to a higher club, scientists are guilty of anthropomorphism. As you walk down the street with your dog, it’s fair to say that the two of you are enjoying a very different experience. The human is focused primarily on sight and sound; the dog is more concerned with scent. The dog doesn’t recognise anybody – human or canine – by the way they look. But if the dog were capable, he’d most likely think his owner stupid for failing to recognise the scent of friends and family. Yet the dog’s experience of a walk down the street is just as real, just as true and so just as valid as the experience enjoyed by his owner.

That the elephant uses his senses in a more human way than the dog, does not mean the elephant is necessarily cleverer than the dog.

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This time last year I was bigging-up the Wheel of Manchester, although when they took it away to clear the stage for other things I wasn’t too sorry. It takes up a lot of space and other things sounded good.

But sadly other things didn’t amount to much, so welcome back Wheel of Manchester.
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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I was inclined to poo-poo stories that Windy Miller’s naturist uncle’s penis has provoked outrage. After all, why would they make him a penis at all given that it’s not to be used? Like the playground saying says: ‘it’s not the mouth it comes out of, but the mind it goes into.’

That is to say that certain people with issues – internal battles if you like – that cause them to be overly prudish in public had imagined Windy Miller’s Uncle Gruber to have a penis. After all ‘Uncle Gruber’ sounds rather rude and those advertising people, intent as they are on corrupting our youth and wrecking the moral basis of society, would not be able to help themselves.

But watch the ad and at about nineteen seconds in, Uncle Gruber’s penis flops into view. Oh the horror… the horror!

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I haven’t written off Torchwood just yet. But I was catching up with episode two, a little late because Katharine has a low tolerance of sci-fi (which is balanced my loathing of CSI: Wherever, which she can watch back-to-back) when she entered the room and asked for quick plot summary:

‘That girl’s possessed by an alien which forces her to have sex with as many men as possible so it can feed on their “orgasmic” energy.’

Don’t get me wrong. I’m right behind those who say Torchwood’s been promoted as a ‘a post watershed show in a post watershed slot’ and that whinging parents should f*** off. Yet I thought for adults meant for grown-ups, not a rip-off of something in which the chair of the Tory Party might invest.

The other credibility issue is trying to make Cardiff look glamorous. This means they do everything down the bay (and you thought Salford Quays was soulless?) with lots of lets-pretend-we’re-in-Barcelona alfresco dining. Highly unlikely given that Cardiff’s rather wet (far soggier than Manchester, for example) and culturally insignificant; if Cardiff were in England it would be on a par with some nowhere place like Norwich. It has no historic claim to be capital of Wales (a task Liverpool was happy to take on until 1955) and struggles with the burden of expectation that title creates.

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