A Google search of ‘greatest film villains’ will bring many familiar faces: Hannibal Lecter, Darth Vader, Alex DeLarge, Anton Chigurh and, of course, Heath Ledger’s turn as the Joker – a character that has become omnipresent.
The villainy of these iconic performances is without question, but there are many more nasty characters in the annals of cinema history that are seldom if ever considered in the lists by various magazines, websites and institutes. Some are a pleasure to hate, whilst others cause the proverbial red mist to descend in righteous indignation. So, in no particular order: To continue reading, please follow the link: http://www.tasteofcinema.com/2017/the-10-most-underrated-movie-villains-of-all-time/#ixzz4Zvg68vcL
Most of the time, ‘cultural appropriation’ is not a bad thing. It only becomes ‘problematic’ when people appropriate culture in an affected manner, like insecure white boys wearing flat caps and speaking with an ebonic flair.
There are examples of so-called cultural appropriation in abundance. The most recent, microcosmic one I have encountered is a cover of Beyonce’s Formation by an obscure white YouTuber called Max Milian.
Before I continue I must get one thing straight – Beyonce Knowles is a stupid person’s idea of a strong woman. Just like so many divas before her, she bares her flesh and peddles her sex appeal, because for an utterly money-minded person like Beyonce a bit of T&A is far too lucrative to forego. And her new song Formation – which is godawful – reveals that she has no shame in exploiting race politics for more and more adulation and hard cash.
Real strong women include Angela Merkel, Janet Yellen, Margaret Thatcher, Dilma Rousseff, Geun-hye Park – we may not agree with or even like some of these women, but there’s no doubt that they are (or were) motivated, intelligent, highly successful and in positions of great importance and responsibility. They are not trivial, sexualised pop musicians who get political when it’s in vogue.
Anyway, back to Formation. The song is a decidedly shallow ‘celebration of black empowerment’ and features multiple use of the word negro, which landed Max Milian (whose hair looks suspiciously like Justin Bieber’s) in hot water. Some outraged commenters said that white people should ‘stick in their lane’ and that those who don’t understand why his video is so ‘damaging’ should be ‘educated’.
The aggressive, patronising and hypocritical nature of these comments is typical of what is known as the Social Justice Warrior (SJW). These people believe themselves to be paragons of morality, yet advocate segregation when they say whites should ‘stick in their lane’.
Some SJWs display a modicum of nuance in their writing – their ideas on cultural appropriation are slightly more complex yet still feeble – but most are crass, loud and obnoxious. What all of them have in common is a raging persecution complex, which causes them to perceive almost anything as a threat or a ‘trigger’. For example, trying new cuisines is a veritable minefield fraught with problematic and damaging micro-aggressions. To be so sensitive that you take offence at the language in Asian restaurant menus suggests that it is fact you who’s the problematic one.
Thankfully, not all the commenters were so neurotic and unreasonable. maymay4891 wrote: ‘I’m black and the negro shit doesn’t bother me its just the fact that he looks and sounds like a complete fuckboy.’ Well said, maymay. There was absolutely nothing racist about Max Milian’s cover, it was just a toe-curling homage to the mainstream culture that he appears to be obsessed with.
Imagine if all of us did stick to our ‘lanes’, what a terrible constriction that would be on our lives. And even if the SJWs allowed us to stray from our lane and have an Indian, they’d barge into the restaurant just as we raised the first forkful of curry to our mouth, demanding that we check our privilege and consider the brutality of colonialism.
However, there are some caveats. For some people – namely those who have a propensity for being affected bellends – there does come a time when they should stick to their lane.
Many young people, both in their teens and twenties, will affect a facade when searching for an identity. Changes in speech will often occur, and one of the most common faux-accents is mockney. It’s very grating to hear someone of middle-class origin, such as Lily Allen, appropriating working class accents by dropping their t’s and h’s. Even more jarring are those who appropriate what linguists call Multicultural London English, which is like Dizzee Rascal, Plan B, Ali G or Lee Nelson.
The descriptive in me says that the rise of MLE is just an example of how language works; words, phrases and accents rise and fall, ebb and flow. The prescriptive in me feels that MLE, when spoken by some white people, whiffs of affectation and downright foolishness. A study by the University of Lancaster found that elements of intermediary English from the Indian subcontinent, Africa and Caribbean creoles was present in MLE. This means that white British MLE speakers are using the rudimentary language of immigrants despite being native speakers whose parents most likely have traditional accents. The whiff of affectation becomes a stench when you consider that.
I love the enormous variety of dialects and accents in the English language, whether it’s the southern drawl of Texas, the rhotic forgedda-bou-dits of New York City, the cut-glass received pronunciation of a bygone British age or the colourful idiosyncrasies of Jamaican Patois, but I cannot stand any of this if it is a poseur’s passing affectation. Identifying those who are authentic and those who aren’t is subjective and often difficult to determine, and a direct face-to-face inquiry will probably result in a punch to the teeth.
Perhaps the poor SJWs, so downtrodden by all the triggers in their lives, would feel better if they realised that cultural appropriation is a matter of being a faker rather than the warped notions of racism and imperialism they attach to it.
When Princess Diana’s life was suddenly cut short in 1997, Britain experienced its first nationwide emotional outburst of pornographic proportions. Long known for its ‘stiff upper lip’, the British seemingly fell to their knees with hysterically maudlin grief over a woman who was nothing more than a socialite – Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton with a bit of class.
Her death was clearly tragic, she was a 36-year-old mother of two, but the media attention she received both before and after her death was entirely undeserved and downright aberrant in its obsessiveness. What was there to admire? She was unintelligent (by her own admission), uncharismatic, enormously privileged and manipulative on occasion. Despite this, she was not hateful or even particularly dislikable, so the bulk of one’s exasperation should not lie with Diana, but with the media, who, on the morning of 1st September 1997, insisted that Britons across the nation had to mourn a multi-millionaire celebutante they had never met.
The toxic seeds of the international media’s relationship with Diana were planted around 1980, when Prince Charles began courting her. The incessant coverage she subsequently received is rather curious because, like many socialites, the depth of her personality left much to be desired. That didn’t matter of course as she was blonde, blue-blooded and the potential partner of the heir to the throne. The tabloids treated Diana as a sex object, a pretty doll whose coy expressions could tame the Prince in time for his kingship.
It is clear to those with even a modicum of emotional intelligence that Diana and Charles simply weren’t compatible. She was nineteen, naïve and neurotic and Charles had neither the time nor the inclination to spend enough time with her – it was a union orchestrated by each other’s families that neither was ready for. Frankly, their doomed marriage was a 15-year hiatus in the relationship between Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles, which was and now is a far more appropriate partnership.
The media and the public are often keen to glorify an individual when they die prematurely, but with Diana it verged on canonisation. The scores of people who laid flowers and openly wallowed defended their cheap, morbid bereavement by harking on about the virtues of Diana’s charity work, but how virtuous was it?
The images of Diana walking near land mines and prodding terminally ill people are familiar, but what else was she supposed to do when she wasn’t strolling the grounds of Balmoral or building a new gilded existence with the disagreeable Fayed family? Charities have become a fashion accessory amongst A-list celebrities; they’re paraded around much like those ridiculous bug-eyed handbag dogs. It’s somewhat cynical to think this way, and not all celebrity charities are self-serving endeavours (Spielberg’s Shoah foundation, for example), but it’s quite obvious that sanctimony and ‘fitting in’ are primary incentives for many philanthropic celebrities.
It’s often claimed that Diana was a victim of the paparazzi, but she used these free PR agents to create her personality cult. As the frenetic chatter of paparazzos’ cameras started to follow Diana wherever she went, she learned how to present herself and manipulate these desperate parasites.From the battlegrounds of Bosnia to the minefields of Angola, her every precious step was captured and broadcast for the whole world to fawn over. I’d shake the hand of every leper in town if I was adored and almost beatified by swathes of people from the world over!
Unfortunately, it seems many people cherish the image rather than the long, hard graft of real innovation and achievement. Take Norman Borlaug for example, he was an American biologist whose high-yield, disease-resistant wheat vastly improved the food supply in Asia and Africa, causing him to be nicknamed ‘The Man Who Saved A Billion Lives’. He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1970 for his contributions to world peace, but despite his profound betterment of humanity, Borlaug’s mainstream fame is minimal because he was an old bald man from Iowa.
A more direct comparison is Jody Williams, whose extensive work in anti-landmine campaigning and other political activism was also rewarded with the Nobel Peace Prize in 1997. Williams was active at the same time as Diana, but heartfelt political principles are of minimal interest to those who enjoy crying, so her committed political career went largely unnoticed by the general public, who found the glamour and fantasy of Diana to be infinitely more watchable.
Diana’s saintly reputation was (and still is) the creation of a mawkishly money-minded press and a disconcertingly large part of the population who willingly indulged it with teary-eyed relish. The other key influence on the event was Prime Minister Tony Blair. Diana’s death occurred at a very opportune time for the newly elected leader; after winning a landslide victory with the New Labour campaign in 1997, he was swiftly handed a chance to connect with ‘the people’ on an emotional level with an intensity perhaps unseen since VE day 52 years prior.
It was Blair who popularised the laughable moniker ‘the People’s Princess’. This is a woman who was bought a £100,000 house for her eighteenth birthday, wore a £9000 wedding dress, and was somehow worth an estimated $40 million at the time of her death – how on earth can she be considered a figure that represented the people?
The footage of myriad plebs flocking to Buckingham Palace and even camping around it so they could mourn an aristocratic celebutante they had never met is pathetic in the true sense of the word. They were shamelessly caught up in Diana’s cult of personality, exposing much of humanity’s need to worship someone or something, whether it’s Jesus Christ or Kim Kardashian’s arse.
Blair wasn’t the only public figure to endorse and exacerbate the media’s campaign of crying, Elton John and Bernie Taupin rewrote Candle in the Wind to fit the occasion. Of course, all proceeds went to charity, but it is clear that the song’s purpose was to vastly inflate John’s ego, not his $450 million bank balance.
Candle in the Wind 1997 is the anthem for the infantile, protracted emotional outbursts that have become so commonplace, whether it’s Jade Goody’s made-for-TV cancer battle or the never-ending Hillsborough disaster. The lyricism of Candle in the Wind is very much to the taste of those who thought it was appropriate to give a kitsch teddy bear to a dead stranger, highlights include: ‘For our nation’s golden child’, ‘All our words cannot express / The joy you brought us through the years’, ‘From a country lost without your soul’.
Where does one begin with these stupid lyrics? I’m sure Elton felt much joy when he rubbed his sycophantic shoulders with Diana at glitzy, gaudy high society functions, but what joy did she bring to the rest of us lowly serfs? The most offensive of the song’s claims is that Britain – the first industrialised nation who conquered much of the world, contributed significantly to science and the arts and defeated some of history’s greatest tyrants – was ‘lost’ without the soul of some posh totty. Elton and Taupin were right about the ‘nation’s golden child’ bit though – she had a 20 million pound jewellery collection.
The solemn dignity of Henry Purcell’s March once flooded Westminster Abbey for the funeral of Queen Mary II in 1695; I wonder what Purcell would have made of Taupin’s claptrap and the melodrama of John’s pianism? I shouldn’t think anyone else gives a toss though, because a 2002 poll revealed that the British public considered Diana to be the third greatest Briton of all time, putting her ahead of Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton, Charles Babbage and Tim Berners-Lee. I know, it is just a list, but it’s still a disconcerting measure of the public’s preference for vapid celebrity over true understated genius.
The whole Diana issue is wrapped in another layer of stupidity when one considers the monarchy and the population’s relationship with it. Britain’s former draconian rigidity and pomp and circumstance was largely eroded by two World Wars and cultural revolution, causing the Royal Family to look terribly archaic and useless. The perpetually sour-faced Queen and her clan have devolved into little more than a tinselly tourist attraction for American and Commonwealth tourists to gawp at.
The cultural bastardisation of the Diana debacle stressed just how absurd the notion of royalty is. With their divorces, syrupy concerts (more of that in a minute) and Nazi themed fancy dress, the Royals have dumbed down along with the rest of mainstream culture, reminding us more than ever that they too are homo-sapiens, African apes with tiaras and fascinators. The French realised this in the 18th century, and even though I understand and enjoy the allure of tradition, it’s about time we did, too.
I may disagree with their unearned adoration, but that doesn’t mean I dislike the Royals as people. William and Harry appear perfectly affable, so it was particularly disappointing when they organised and hosted the Concert for Diana in 2007. The show commemorated what would have been her 46th birthday, which was almost 2 months before the 10th anniversary of her death and the subsequent destruction of British values.
Elton John returned, opening and closing the ceremony with a selection of naff ballads. The rest of the concert comprised 26 acts, ranging from Duran Duran (Diana’s favourite band) and Tom Jones to Kanye West and ‘P. Diddy’, or ‘Puff Daddy’ or ‘Diddy’ or whatever juvenile pseudonym he was using at time. Musically, P. Diddy’s performance was very lacklustre, he instead channeled his efforts into what he called ‘Diana’s rebirth’, which saw him walking to the front of the stage and asking the audience to join in with him shouting ‘We love you! We miss you!’ Diddy’s self-serving display left me utterly incredulous.
Using a format similar to Red Nose Day, the concert was punctuated with short films of charity workers and other interviewees relentlessly praising Diana as if she was the Earth’s first faultless human being. The last film that championed a real-life figure so spectacularly was Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph des Willens (1935).
Whether it is the disappearance of Madeleine McCann, the sob stories in the weekly pabulum that is The X-Factor, or the death of Jade Goody (don’t get me started), an unhealthy appetite for vicarious bereavement and the 24hr media circuses that satiate it continue to rage on. The masses may eventually get a grip, but the damage has already been done. There will always be two categories of people: those who cried when Diana died and those who rightfully did not.
The Film Inquiry team have been considering cinema’s greatest couples. I was planning on choosing a non-romantic couple for my contribution until I remembered the very special Enough Said. Directed by Nicole Holofcener, the film charts the romance between Eva (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) and Albert (James Gandolfini), two divorcees who are introduced to each other at a party. Their remarkably naturalistic performances are key to the film’s success.
Cult films are difficult to define, as they vary in scope, themes, genre and in just about every other way. Despite these ambiguities, it is demonstrable that the revered Roger Ebert once got the definition entirely wrong.
In his review of Avatar, Ebert described the film as an “event” that was “predestined to launch a cult.” Avatar was indeed an event, as the film had been the subject of a relentless $150 million promotional campaign that employed methods as commercial and corporate as McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. An otherwise emphatic Ebert acknowledged this caveat, describing it as a “dubious advance buzz,” but I think this manufactured buzz should immediately negate any arguments that it is a cult film. Any highly successful blockbuster film with a profile that’s been pumped up by Rupert Murdoch’s deep moneybags can rarely be called a “cult film,” as its reach and grasp are far too large.
‘My visit to Auschwitz was more uncanny than overwhelming’
‘I had read that it was an ‘overwhelming’ experience, and I suppose that is an accurate description, however my reaction to this overwhelment wasn’t an emotional breakdown but rather a numb detachment that was punctuated by an occasional portent feeling and this nervous unease that put the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I’d get this latter sensation when I peeked into the windows of locked barracks; in most instances the rooms were dark, dusty and dilapidated, yet having some knowledge of what happened in these nondescript old wrecks made me feel somewhat spooked as if some tortured soul’s face was suddenly going to appear in the shadows.’
The Woodsman and The Paedophile Next Door blow a breath of fresh air on a highly contentious matter that’s turgid with relentless ignorance and violent mob justice.
I have long detested moral panic and knee-jerk reactions, and with Operation Yewtree uncovering a seemingly endless history of showbiz child abuse, paedophilia is the moral panic of the moment. There are many torrents of bile on Twitter and various comment boards that call for the torture and murder of paedophiles; Channel 4’s recent documentary The Paedophile Next Door inundated the Internet with the opinions of angry, perennially unthinking people. This prompted me to write both a review of The Woodsman and an article on the matter.
When I saw an advert for the documentary, I was immediately intrigued and impressed by the premise, it appeared to have an approach and insight that I thought would be deemed far too transgressive by the television executives who arrogantly believe they know what the entire public wants to see. Then again, this is Channel 4 we’re talking about, a broadcaster whose past programming includes the brilliantly daring Brass Eye paedophile special.
The documentary has a very compelling subject in Eddie, a self-confessed paedophile who is as haunted as he is titillated by his attraction to children as young as five. He deserves enormous kudos for endangering himself for the furtherance of public thinking and discourse. Although the programme inevitably provoked a stream of aggressive nonsense on Twitter, there was also a marked and promising presence of empathy and understanding – ‘The demonisation of paedos has driven them underground & left them with no therapeutic access. Prevention is the cure’ – @TheWhackyPaki.
Many of those who are attracted to children must be riddled with guilt and torment; they know that articulation of their urges would be greeted with almost unparalleled hatred and disgust. They would be branded as evil, sub-human monsters that must be killed by the outraged local community like a witch in the 16th century.
The demonstrable fact is that paedophilia, like heterosexuality and homosexuality, is a sexual preference. We may consider it reprehensible, but the reaction to paedophilia shouldn’t be a violent one. We must recognise it, understand it and ultimately control it instead of reacting with crude demonization.
Much denigration was prompted amongst the indignant, enlightened people of the Internet when interviewee Professor Corine De Ruiter compared paedophilia with diabetes. One must listen carefully to the comparison Ruiter was right in making – ‘I compare it to having diabetes, it doesn’t go away and it must be treated.’ Yes, one is a psychological problem and the other pancreatic, but Ruiter’s statement does not concern this, it concerns rather that both diabetes and paedophilia are conditions, chronic conditions that require urgent treatment.
Indeed, not all paedophiles possess Eddie’s moral compass. Take Geoffrey Leonard for example, people may laugh at the outrageous man, however he has campaigned for the legalization of sex with children in a similar manner to the Paedophile Information Exchange mentioned in the programme. My sympathies do not extend to these people, but I do not wish dangerous vigilante justice on them either.
The subject of vigilante justice brings me onto another Channel 4 programme named The Paedophile Hunter, which almost makes ‘The Pedo-Files’ a reality. It makes for toe-curling and undeniably compulsive viewing; however, it is merely reality TV that revels in crass sensationalism. The Paedophile Hunter follows the scuzzy ‘Stinson Hunter’ and his friends as they pose as underage girls on Internet chat rooms, easily tricking desperate groomers. Gleefully riding his high-horse, ‘Stinson’ harks on about how important his work is; indeed, his passing of information onto the police is helpful, but posting humiliating recordings of his victims onto the Internet most certainly isn’t. Unfortunately, it appears that ‘Stinson’s’ myopic, antagonistic vigilantism is more palatable for many viewers than The Paedophile Next Door, which instead focuses on understanding and long term solutions.
Despite my objections, the practice of deceiving predators in online chat rooms is, it seems, one of the only ways to tackle the difficult and considerable problem of Internet paedophilia. However, this task should be reserved for police officers like DC Jonathon Taylor interviewed in The Paedophile Next Door, not some self-righteous, utterly vindictive yobbo like ‘Stinson Hunter’, whose primary motives for his vigilantism is keeping out of trouble and, I can imagine, off the dole.
The Woodsman follows Walter (Kevin Bacon), a character who is unlikely to feature in Bacon’s EE adverts. Performed with great nuance and sensitivity, Walter is a paedophile who’s just been released after a twelve-year prison stint.
Walter secures work at a local lumber mill, surrounding himself with people who’d feel very much justified in exacting their own nasty retribution if they discovered his secret. Shots of whirring buzz saws and towering piles of wood and metal reinforce the palpable danger he faces.
Walter keeps a low profile, endeavouring to work hard and sustain a communication with his colleagues that’s merely phatic. However, Walter’s humble reserve attracts the attention of Vicki, played by Kevin Bacon’s wife Kyra Sedgwick. Vicki’s tough, seasoned demeanour means she easily survives in her masculine workplace – it appears she’s experienced many hardships.
Despite Walter’s detachment, he eventually buckles under Vicki’s persistent advances, letting her into his life. It is comforting to see Walter drop his oppressive, steely façade and embrace a kind, understanding person: you invest far more into the pair’s real, raw relationship than you would the decidedly unreal ‘romance’ of many releases. As their relationship grows, however, you are acutely aware of Walter’s secret and wait anxiously for him to reveal it, fearing the worst.
Society’s vindictive, unhelpful attitude towards paedophiles is represented in Seargent Lucas (Mos Def), Walter’s parole officer. Lucas is a consummate unprofessional, aggressively flouting his authority in an attempt to rile the civil, tortured Walter. He has no interest in rehabilitation and makes clear the intentions of his regular visits to Walter’s home – ‘I don’t know why they keep letting freaks like you out on the street, it just means we have to catch you all over again’. The resentment Lucas has for Walter can be understood, Lucas speaks of a highly unpleasant paedophilic crime he was once witness to, but he is nevertheless awfully unsuited to the job and generally an obnoxious screen presence.
The viewer’s sympathy for Walter comes so very close to being crushed when he befriends Robin, a lonely, precocious young girl with an interest in wildfowl; their final scene together makes for highly uncomfortable and unpredictable viewing. What is revealed during their interactions is both tragic and enlightening – it’s a very well executed piece of filmmaking.
It is pitiful that The Woodsman reached a peak of 84 cinemas during its release in the United States, its UK theatre run was also shamefully limited. Unfortunately, I think a film with more ‘gunishment’ would have had greater commercial viability. On the other hand, The Paedophile Next Door had and continues to have, through Channel 4’s online service, an audience that numbers in the tens of millions. Even if only a minority watched it with close attention, the documentary’s infiltration of the mainstream has hopefully planted thoughts of measure and understanding in the minds of many.