My Auntie

My auntie was a nurturing, supportive, entertaining, educational and reliable auntie. I didn’t get gifts on my birthday or Christmas, but she always tried her best to do something special. And, although she was auntie to more than just me, I always felt a special bond that made it seem like I was the only one in her eyes.

Auntie Beeb was always there for me growing up. I had other, real-life aunts, sisters and sisters-in-law of my parents, but they were in different countries from me. Technically, Ireland is another country. Auntie Beeb was just a ‘on’ button away, except late at night when I was young, and saw me through all my years, not just the early ones when I was cute.

Auntie Beeb wasn't just my auntie. I had to share her with millions, desperate for her affection, bribing her with a license fee, but I didn't care. After all she had done for me, how could I begrudge her spreading her love around? Auntie Beeb had given me Blackadder, The Young Ones and Red Dwarf to help me through the tough times. Films to entertain (and titillate, if you saw the French films late night on BBC 2). I had been educated by Tomorrow's World and David Attenborough. My emerging creativity was nurtured by Blue Peter and Why Don't You...? The sporting experience was brought to my doorstep (when I couldn't get tickets to the FA Cup Final). And who needed to buy music when you had Top of the Pops?

I love my auntie, even if she has become a bit embarrassing of late, trying to be all trendy to keep up with kids, going all digital. Doesn't she realise that she was always coolest when she wasn't trying? I'm not saying she isn't allowed to change, that would be wrong, but she should do it for better reasons than keeping up with others who are striving for my affection. She'll always be my favourite, even if she did come up with Keeping Up Appearances.

(Old) Film Review - Londinium

Discussion Of A Rubbish Movie, As Seen On TV

There are 3 reasons I watched this film.

1. I'm a London boy, born and bred, and hoped this would be a valentine to it, like Manhattan was from Woody Allen.

2. I think Stephen Fry is a genius.

3. Jack Dee is a very funny man, and I saw him at the top floor of Bristol University Union in 1989 with about 12 other people, before he became famous.

For these simple reasons, I was punished with cruel, mental torture. This is very unfair, and Mike Binder now owes me 90 minutes of my life back. Mike Binder: have you heard of him? I haven't, and yet he wrote and directed this supposedly romantic comedy AND persuaded to two of my comedy heroes to appear in it. How he did this is perhaps more baffling a mystery than why anyone gave him money to make this film.

Mike Binder unfortunately thinks he is Woody Allen for the new millennium. Woody Allen is still the Woody Allen for the new millennium, only it's getting a bit creepy when he gets off with beautiful young women now. In fact, Woody's serious films are funnier than Londinium. Riffing off Allen's work shamelessly, Binder is a sit-com writer who moves to London to work on a popular sit-com with an American star. The plot of the film is the love quadrangle between him, the American star (Mariel Hemmingway), her producer husband (Colin Firth) and their French author friend who becomes Binder's wife (Irene Jacob).

That's all you really have to know. Any more information would be unnecessary and a waste of a brain cell. Everything about this film is quite awful. The script, which is supposed to be a comedy, is not funny. The romance is trite. The music used is twee and annoying, jingling along in a jolly fashion completely at odds with the sound of modern London. This throwback view of London is shared by Binder's filming of the beautiful city itself. Everyone lives in quiet roads, in wonderful, roomy old houses, travels everywhere by taxi and all the tourists sites are visited like a travelogue from the 1950s. None of the bustle, the colour, the vibrancy, the immediacy of one of the greatest cities in the world is here, which makes it even more insulting that he called the film Londinium, especially as it was known as Four Play in other countries.

What I can't understand is why Stephen Fry and Jack Dee agreed to make this film. They have been in the comedy business for many years now, so they have a feel for what is funny and what is rubbish. Not that they are bad; they both perform well, without stretching their acting abilities, with Jack playing a disgruntled sitcom writer not a million miles away from his own stand-up persona, and Stephen playing a very nervous English sort, not perhaps phoning it in but maybe faxing or emailing it. But why do it at all? Where they bribed? Were they top of the cast wish list and felt flattered? Did it not take up much time and they thought it would add to their CVs? Did they do it on a bet or a dare? All I know is their presence in this film made me take note of it, despite the fact that it was shown after midnight on ITV during the middle of the week.

Rating: D

(Old) Film Review - The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Adaptations are tricky things. They have to adapt a story for a new medium and fit in with the narrative constraints dictated by it. Douglas Adams knew this: he had successfully created HHGTTG on radio, making full use of the possibilities of an audio performance; he then transferred the tale to ‘a trilogy of five’ novels, where his erudite turn of phrase and dry humour were eloquently captured; he had helped turn it into a much-loved television series; he even turned it into a computer game, such was his talent for trying new things. He’d been trying, for five years prior to his untimely death at 49, to crack the script for a film that would bring to the silver screen the story of Arthur Dent, the number 42, and the life, the universe and everything.

The film, directed by Garth Jennings and Nick Goldsmith based on the Adams’ script polished by Karey Kilpatrick, stays pretty true to the story. Arthur Dent (Martin Freeman) wakes one morning to find that his house is going to demolished for a bypass, only to discover that his best friend, Ford Prefect (Mos Def), is an alien who whisks him onto a spaceship just prior to the destruction of Earth for a hyperspace bypass. They end up on the stolen Heart of Gold spaceship, with erstwhile president of the universe, Zaphod Beeblebrox (Sam Rockwell), Trillian (Zooey Deschanel) a girl that Arthur recently fell for, and the depressed robot Marvin (played by Warwick Davis and voiced by Alan Rickman). However, while the original concerned itself with the life, the universe and everything, the film decides to take a more linear approach, with the Vogons trying to capture Beeblebrox and a romantic and character arc for Arthur, as he goes from a normal English bloke, to a more pro-active and romantic (not quite action) man, as he falls in love with Trillian.

There’s a lot to get through in 105 minutes, although it loses its way with rescuing Trillian from the Vogons in a n ill-advised and sluggish section having an extended dig at bureaucracy. This leaves less time for the Book (although Fry is excellent as the silky and cultured tones of the voice), which has to be more visual for the film version, with a more Java/Flash feel informing the digital cartoons, over the TV’s crude yet effective animation. The TV series appears to be the stronger cultural touchstone for the films, with cameos for the original Arthur Dent as the answer message of Magarathea and the original Marvin seen in a queue, though the floppy third arm and plastic head for Zaphod Beeblebrox don’t make an appearance. (There is also a nice touch seeing Douglas Adams’ face as the last image in the film, as part of the affect of the Infinite Improbability Drive.)

Freeman is the perfect modern Dent, his face reacting to the stupidity of the universe. Mos Def brings a real sense of alien to the role of Prefect, while Rockwell is suitably over the top and annoying as Zaphod. Deschanel is an ethereal presence, not given much to do other than be the object of Arthur’s affection. There is some stunt casting, with Helen Mirren as the unusual choice for the voice of Deep Thought, Bill Bailey as the voice of the whale, John Malkovich’s unnecessary cameo as Humma Kavula, and Bill Nighy being Bill Nighy as Slaartiblatfast. Rickman voices Marvin effectively, though, even if it’s hard to get the original voice out of your head, and Davis gives the body of Marvin some real character, with the updated design a spiffy improvement (and a moment of heroism with a gun that makes the victim feel the emotion of the holder). Which is all part of the charm – the film is a visual treat, as might be expected from chaps who brought a milk carton to life in a Blur video, from the musical opening number with the dolphins, the jump cuts to reveal the scale of the Vogon fleet, the vast splendour of the Magarathea factory floor, and the crew of the Heart of Gold as Klanger-style stop-motion figures. It is this joy, of seeing this story on the big screen in all its absurd glory, that is the most rewarding, even if it’s not as good as the one in your head.

Rating: VID

My first review, but not what you think

Something a little different. As this blog has become more review-oriented, I thought I would include the first review of something that I can remember writing:

REVIEW OF THE MALE TOILETS IN UNIVERSITY BUILDING (1993)

There are some factors in life that are constant and, as such, become more than a reassurance of the day-to-day existence we go through. They tend to seep into our conscious till we find ourselves needing them, as part of our routine. Such a place (or facility, if you must) is the second floor biology men's toilets.

As a regular user, I felt it my duty to give a review of this anal Xanadu, in an attempt to tell the world of its rightful place in the hall of fame. What appears a drab and ordinary convenience at first glance has, after prolonged exposure, transformed into an infinitely more interesting repository for various excretory products.

As you enter, you notice the almost vestigial coat hooks that serve as an introduction to this netherworld. I ask you; when was the last time that anybody saw a lab coat (or other protective garment) hanging from their taunting appendages? Apart from the fact that nobody wears lab coats, no one is that unhygienic that they would bring their chemical-soiled garment into the clean zone that is the lavvy.

The next thing that hits you is abundance of electric light. It continues to amaze me on my bladder-emptying sojourns on the weekend that somebody has gone to the effort of switching off the source of illumination to the most functional room in the entirety of the building, which has no source of natural light. Why? Who is that petty? Who thinks that they are doing the lab a favour by saving them that much on their electricity bill?

The next most striking fact is the presence of a large mirror, covering a good portion of the far wall. Admittedly, when the male postgrads notice the most recent influx of undergrads, there is a rush to spruce themselves up in order to grab the attentions of an unsuspecting and naive young student. However, did the architects or designer really believe that the young, stalwart men who daily fight the turmoil of boundary-breaking research are such vain airheads? Or was it solely put there for the dalliance of some of the lecturers? It is always kept very clean, has no cracks, and informs you if there is some lurking worker in one of the cubicles when you are about to squeeze that particularly puss-laden pimple that has developed during the work period. It is a good level for self-inspection, when washing your hands, being able to discover the aforementioned zits, look up your nostrils for creeping snot, or simply checking out how incredibly gorgeous you are. There is but one question – why is there a ledge? Just below the mirror is a piece of wood along its length, a reason for it's existence I have yet to discover. (It does, however, hold the supply of spare toilet roll, which is always handy for the poor student who has forgot to go to Sainsbury's and knows that the weekend has a suspiciously hot curry in store for him.) I am not sure; perhaps there are some people who, caught short very suddenly, actually have something in their hands, which they need to place down somewhere before they can use the toilets? I find this hard to believe, seeing how one simply looks forward to the mere expectation of entering there, that one would never burden oneself with luggage or other cumbersome extras. The only item I have ever seen on this ledge is the ‘hyacinth’ can of air-freshener, which, going by the smell of the location, is either never used or just doesn't work very well.

The most commonly used facility is the urinal – we men are extremely lucky in the fact that we can easily facilitate the excretion of urine by simply standing and aiming. It's almost fun, except for the psychology of unwanted eye contact, but that is the source for another discussion. The urinals are functional, if a little on the low side, obviously taking into account the above-average size of the biologist's manhood. Constantly stocked up with those bizarre little blue cubes that remind me of a tuppenny sweet I could obtain from the corner shop as a child, they do not give a lot of splash back, which is a good thing, especially in the summer when wearing shorts, but are very bad at draining, providing entertainment when they full of water – going for a slash then reminds you of urinating at home where you can piss really hard to create lots of bubbles. The four of them are pretty much the same, except for the nearest upon entering, my personal one of choice, which has a slightly different drain hole, making it even worse for the ‘pretending to be at home’ wee.

Under the pretence of civilisation, we then have the option to wash our hands, even though urine is sterile if some did accidentally splash onto our hands. The sinks which, in my opinion, number too many and could have been left aside for more urinals, are kept very clean and provide tepid to lukewarm water upon request. Slight aside – I never have liked the use of green as the colour to indicate cold water on taps. I believe that blue is the international standard, and would recommend the switch to comply with EC regulations. The one real joy of washing one's hands is to be able to use the soap. Not the actual washing itself; the soap is an unpleasant colour, and does absolutely nothing to clean the hands. However, when it is washed off, the colour is such that it makes it look like your hands were completely covered in grime and muck, and that it was a very good idea indeed to wash your hands. Such a psychologically affirming cleansing agent is a wonderful ego boost, and I am glad to keep it such. Even though there are too many sinks to choose from, there are only two towel dispensers. I can't understand the logic behind that, but never mind. They are comfortable enough, with their rough cotton, scrub-your-hands-dry approach, and someone, in their infinite wisdom, has seen fit to fix the one on the left that used to get jammed when one would roll too much out, and you had to use the trick of lifting up and then down and up again in order to get some dry, clean material out.

Question; why is there a bin in a toilet? Never have I seen such an out of place accessory in my life. What is it there for? Is someone supposed to come out of the cubicles, soiled toilet paper in hand, suddenly discover it when going to was his hands, think, ‘How stupid of me, I forgot to flush this’ and instead of putting in the toilet, he decides, ‘Oh, here's a bit of luck, a bin; just what I need’. Somehow, I can't see it myself.

The cubicles. If one ever needed a ‘fortress of solitude’, then here is the ideal location. The three small rooms, provided for the daily evacuation of waste food in comfort, are the place to look for me if one is difficult to locate. They are all serviceable, although my favourite has to be the first one as you enter the room. The middle cubicle has too much light, and the seat is situated in a slightly awkward spot in the confines of the space, making you feel uncomfortable whilst shitting. The one on the end seems old and knackered and has a door that closes with too much of a slam, announcing your intentions to the world. The first has the correct level of illumination to allow meditation and is close to the door so you can hear if someone has just come into the room when you are exerting too much. The seat is comfortable, and the walls are surprisingly devoid of talentless graffiti, usually expositing the size of a previous users genitals, or that a particular football team are great, or that so-and-so is a ‘bender’.

If the statisticians have worked out the amount of hours we spent sleeping, watching the television and eaten, then they should also take into account the amount of time spent taking a dump, as I am sure that I would ruin the averages.

Books: McSweeney’s Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales

Edited by Michael Chabon, written by various (obviously), illustrations by Howard Chaykin

A collection of short stories by top authors? Yes, please. A literary buffet for sampling the skills of different wordsmiths, with some nice art by the stylish Mr Chaykin. Somebody had a good idea there.

Glen David Gold provides an amusing little tale of an elephant and revenge. Elmore Leonard and the Old West is a sure-fire winner, and this little story of justice is no different. Neil Gaiman’s Closing Time is a classy ghost story, told in his usual charming style.

Nick Hornby provides an odd tale of a boy with fast forward on television and what happens when it no longer fast forwards. Stephen King seems to have given Chabon a include a chapter from Dark Tower, with all the irritating vocal tics of the unexplained characters,which seems to defeat the aim of the book of providing complete tales in one.

An interesting, fun tale of time-bending and writing comes from Chris Offutt, an author I’ve never heard of before. Dave Eggers, I’ve heard of him, tells a travelogue of a woman climbing Kilimanjaro; the tale is nothing remarkable but the telling is enjoyable.

Ghost Dance by Sherman Alexie tells an enjoyable tale of the Seventh Cavalry rising from the grave and the investigator who finds the answer, although the ending seemed a little flat. The winner of the story that impressed me the most goes to Michael Moorcock’s story of Sir Seaton Begg – I’ve never read his work before, although I’ve read about him, but this made me want to read more of his work NOW.

There is a slight story by Harlan Ellison, and a long story by Rick Moody that kept going on that I couldn’t bother to finish. But there is a big finish from Chabon himself, in the start of a big adventure tale, The Martian Agent, A Planetary Romance’, a romp of alternate history/boys own adventure. All in all, a very satisfying collection. Three cheers for McSweeney's; why not help them out and buy something?

Back From The Work Week From Hell

Have you ever had one of those weeks? Where the people who pay for your comics and cinema habits ask for that it extra? Full-on work days, staying after hours, draining your energies so much that you have to take the entirety of Saturday to recover?

Well, I just had one of those, which is why I didn’t even have the ability to load previously written posts. Irregular blogging is not condonable, so I hope you’ll forgive me. It’s not as if I don’t have former history …

I wanted to take this chance for a bit of a catch up, to show that I do pay a bit of attention to the world. Top of the list is Doctor Who – the last four episodes have been superb. Although there were good episodes in the second series, it didn’t reach the heights of the Ecclestone season. The third series of this Russell T Davies-led reinvigoration of the greatest concept in television sci-fi has been quite ordinary, reaching a nadir with the ‘Human Dalek’ double episode, which was really quite awful on so many levels.

But then, the wonderful double episode Family of Blood, written by Paul Cornell, with its powerful emotional punch at the end. This was followed by the marvellous Blink, written by Steven Moffat (who wrote Coupling and one of the good episodes from series two of the new Doctor Who, Girl In The Fireplace), which was a tautly constructed piece of entertainment (‘quantum-locked’ ha!). And now Utopia, by Davies himself. The FutureKind (with their sharpened teeth) were pretty blah, and the setting nothing special (but enlivened by the wonderful dialogue, such as the ‘Stop that’ refrain of the Doctor whenever Captain Jack introduced himself to a woman). However, as a set-up for the return of the thematically linked villain of the series, the last third of the episode is the most absolutely wonderful piece of television, watching all the pieces fall into place, making my girlfriend and I positively quiver in delight. Sheer sci-fi magic.

I deliberately talked about UK-specific television because I had to spent most of my blog reading this week avoiding any reference to the ending of The Sopranos in the US. I don’t know when the final series will make its way to our shores, probably not for another year, but I would really like to watch it without knowing what’s going to happen.

Btw, I haven’t got my recent comics yet, so I have also been trying to avoid spoilers for New Avengers #31, so thanks very much to The Beat for ruining it for me by using it as a heading for an item. Fuckers.

My blog reading has increased exponentially with the return of Alan David Doane to the world of blogging. ADD, as he is known to us who have been around for some time, is a passionate and intelligent voice in the world of comics blogging, informing us in his beliefs about the world of comix and the better future of it. His opinions about comics retailing and the business involved were articulately expressed, as always, and I’ll forgive him for being one of those people who talked about The Sopranos.

Another voluminous blogger is Clandestine Chum, Greg Burgas, on his own blog and at Comics Should Be Good. The latest addition to one of his regular columns, Comics You Should Own, tells everyone to buy Flex Mentallo. Greg writes intelligently and perceptively about this marvellous mini-series, as he always does. He also writes volumes – I don’t know how he does it. We can forgive his arrogance (only joking, Greg) in telling us which comics to own because of the fact that he writes in an honest, non-pompous manner. And it's true – you should own it. I do like (and envy) his writing, which is able to pick out the themes of the work without being dry or academic. Now, if only he could manage to condense it a little …

Best title of a news item of last week: FBI tries to fight zombie hordes. Genius. The article isn’t worth reading, but who needs to with a headline like that?

Via LinkMachineGo, Ben Goldacre, who has the Bad Science column in the Guardian, has a blog. I had wanted to talk about his latest column, where he talks about the happy end to the story of the academic scientist and his quack blogging. He had been challenging the pseudoscience of various supplements and their nebulous claims of ‘blood cleansing’. In return, they did not engage him in scientific debate – they went straight to the top people at UCL, where the scientist works and who host his blog, and threatened them to take it down. They did temporarily, while they checked with their lawyers, before deciding to continue hosting the blog because they weren’t going to back down from unfounded bullying. Hurrah. Positively life affirming.

Obviously, the new Fantastic Four film was number one in the US, and I have to avoid the thoughtful comments of smart bloggers while they talk about the film. Next weekend, hopefully.

For the best ridiculing of a poster for a film (what would the review be like?), see this post from Jake on Ye Olde Comick Blogge. He has been making me laugh of late with this post (with some great animation) and his new webcomic, which wins based solely on the t-shirt logo alone.

Phew, that was a lot to unload. Now, either back to normal, or perhaps a move out of the comfort zone and talk about all the news pouring out of HeroesCon …

Comic Review: Midnighter (The Ennis Issues)

Midnighter #1–6 by Garth Ennis and various artists

Issues 1–5 ‘Killing Machine'

Midnighter doesn’t strike me as the type of character who requires his own series. He is a Batman analogue, taken to the extreme, who works well by brooding and being deliriously violent at appropriate junctures. Probably the only way I would consider picking up a Midnighter comic series was if it had an excellent creative team on board – Garth Ennis and Chris Sprouse is exactly that sort of combination. However, this shows that not everyone is perfect.

Ennis has a good understanding of Midnighter – a bit like Judge Dredd but with superpowers; he has to do what he has to do, with little time for anything else. And when Midnighter kicks a tank shell in a full-page spread, you can’t help but smile, and laugh when he kicks someone’s head clean off – it’s that sort of book. Unfortunately, after this intro, he ruins it all by making his story about a rich man wanting to use Midnighter to go back in time to kill Hitler – he tries to make it a credible threat to Midnighter, but it’s all rather silly justifying an odd story. Our villain can conveniently remove Midnighter’s ability to predict what will happen, but it comes back when he time travels. Lack of story logic for the sake of plot – it’s a little beneath Garth.

So Midnighter is in the trenches of the First World War, finding Hitler as a corporal in the army. This allows Ennis to show of his military history, and Sprouse demonstrates his artistic excellence by being able to draw anything with seeming ease – and we get the joy of Midnighter kneeing Hitler in the ‘nads: ‘God, my balls–!’ until the Time Police turn up to stop him (although Sprouse isn’t around for the whole of issue 3 – Joe Phillips isn’t up to the task in comparison) and we end up by plot contrivances in Berlin in 1945.

The fourth issue, under a fun cover, requires the pencils of Peter Snejbjerg – talented and expressive but not razzle-dazzle – for the black comedy of the Hitler Youth kids and Midnighter’s funny reaction to them. He can also handle the violence – Midnighter punching a man through the face is spot on (‘I can only walk past so many Nazis.’) Midnighter finds Hitler, but he is a sad old man and Midnighter walks away (but not until Ennis shows off more military history knowledge).

The final issue of the storyline sees the return of Sprouse on art duty for Midnighter to do his thing – killing everyone in sight in wonderfully violent ways (after finding out that everyone in the future is non-gender specific in sexual relationships), kicking the villain’s head off in spectacular fashion. Then, he has the bomb removed from his chest and his second heart put back in WHILE STILL AWAKE. Hardcore. A bit of silliness from Ennis, with some nice hyperviolence, but nothing worthy of the talents involved.

I got the sixth issue, ‘Flowers For the Sun’, for the art of Glenn Fabry, only for the art not to be his top work. When I first saw his art in 2000AD, with the finely detailed art on Slaine, his line was clean, his violence dynamic, his characters expressive. I don’t know if doing mostly painted covers has dulled his talents, or if the production of a monthly comic book doesn’t allow for the full expression of his linework, but it doesn’t dazzle like it used to. Sure, there is some lovely ultraviolence, in the form of this samurai tale, cutting heads off, but it doesn’t feel the same. The story itself is very bizarre, as we see what seems like representations of Midnighter and Apollo in feudal Japan, supposedly a tragic tale of love in another time, but it feels a bit silly. It certainly doesn’t inspire sufficient confidence to keep buying and reading further Midnighter comics, even if Brian K Vaughan and Darick Robertson are next up for a one-off. Ah well, not everything can be perfect. There is some fun to be had but not enough to excuse the flimsiness of the exercise.

Comic Review - Criminal: Coward

Criminal #1–5 by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips

Crime comics have always worked well – this could be the fact that superhero comics are based on the whole ‘fighting crime’ concept, I don’t know. There has been a good ratio of quality to noise in the pure crime comics, even if they don’t last as long as they could– Damned, Scene of the Crime, Gotham Central (even Powers and Top Ten help the cause). And now we can add Criminal to the list, and hope that it lasts a long time.

Leo Patterson is a criminal who doesn’t get caught because he can see all the angles, but he stays alive because he is a coward who will run away if necessary. His father was a pickpocket, and his crime partner, Ivan, taught Leo everything he knew – Leo’s father died in jail, while Ivan is now an old man on heroin who is losing his mind, so Leo tries to look after him.

Leo is approached by Seymour, an old criminal acquaintance, who has a job form him with a cop, Jeff, who has details of a job to steal diamonds from a police evidence van. Leo doesn’t want to do it, but Seymour gets Greta, the widow of one of Leo’s old colleagues who died on a botched job with Leo some years earlier (everyone except Leo died). However, unbeknownst to them, the cop with the job is working for a particularly unpleasant gangster who wants his goods back.

Leo comes up with the plan, but insists on no guns – ‘I’m not ending up on Death Row because some more listened to too much hip hop growing up.’ But Jeff brings in two more of his people for the job, over Leo’s protests, which makes Leo realise that they are going to screw him over.

The job goes smoothly – Leo has plans on top of plans, with distractions as well – until Seymour and Jeff fuck them over in the middle of the job, not after as Leo thought. Fortunately, he has a back-up plan for escape, which he does with Greta (who has been shot), only to find out it’s not diamonds – it’s drugs.

Leo and Greta hole up in a safe place to fix her up, and Leo gets Ivan out there as well, because he is the only one who can handle him. Leo and Greta end up in bed together, only for Ivan to find the stash. Meanwhile, Jeff and the gangsters find Greta’s mum, who has her daughter, setting up for the final act, where Leo breaks all the rules that have kept him alive all this time.

The sharply constructed plot and taut dialogue of Brubaker is matched by the atmospheric and perfect art of Phillips. Leo is a fascinating character, and Brubaker brings him and the rest of the cast to life in a moody, nourish world that you can practically smell. This is a great start to what will be a collection of stories linked around common elements, and I hope that enough people pick it up so that we can keep on getting more quality stories. I mean, all this brilliant crime comics, and Frank Kafka, Private Eye, the existential cartoon strip. What more do you need?

I’VE MADE MY CHOICE:

(Old) Film Review: The Legend of Bagger Vance

I probably only watched this because it was mocked by Ben Affleck in Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. I’m weird that way. I think it’s a case for a novel that should have stayed as a book, probably a good book at that, that didn’t translate to the big screen very well.

Ranulph Junuh (Matt Damon), is a bizarrely named southern man who was a great young golfer, was on top of the world for a short while, wooed Adele Invergordon (Charlize Theron) and then went to fight in the first World War, an event that changed him, such that he couldn’t cope with the horror he had seen and didn’t want to come back to the world he had known.

Adele, who knows nothing of what happened, has to see her father killing himself after he has built a palatial hotel and golf course, shortly before the Depression. She decides that the only way to save them is to hold an exhibition match between the two top golfers at the time but the town only agrees if the recently returned Junuh plays as well. Junuh refuses, even after being asked by Adele, who is angry with him for the way things turned out, but is persuaded by the mysterious figure of Bagger Vance (Will Smith) who turns up out of nowhere to be his caddy.

Junuh nearly runs away, but the people of Savannah cheer him when they see him and he is shamed to play in the tournament. Which he does. Badly. In the first round of four, he his way behind the lead, with Bagger chiding him gently at every turn. At the end of the day, he tells Junuh that it is time to start playing properly, albeit in his unusual manner. The next day, in a nice transformation moment, where the mentor helps the troubled student find himself, with the sound of Smith’s voice over a CGI shift where everyone else phases out of his perception to be left on his own with the game he loves and finds himself, Junuh gets his game back and he starts catching up with the leaders, much to the happiness of the Savannah people. This surge in confidence allows him to talk with Adele after all this time.

He gets level with the two champions but gets cocky in his belief, causing him to lose his game and end up in the forest. He is about to give up when Bagger tells him to let it go, referring to the war (while bizarrely hinting at the same time that Bagger might possibly be God, or Jesus). He tells him to let it all go and to play his game the way he was supposed to. Junuh is able to believe in himself again and makes the shot, leading to a climax on the final hole in the dark, with the townspeople bringing their cars to provide lighting.

Junuh notices his ball roll back; he knows in himself that he has to call it as a penalty, even though his young caddy helper begs him not to. With Junuh believing in the game and himself like this, Bagger Vance realises that his job is done, and he leaves before the end of the game with the five dollars he was promised, win or lose, at the beginning. Junuh can’t believe it but accepts it and watches Bagger leave. He putts an impossible final shot to draw with the two leaders to provide a satisfactory ending, with he and Adele finally marrying as they should be. The final shot is of the grown-up narrator on the golf course where he had his fifth heart attack and the flashback to this tale, getting up and wandering up the fairway, the shadow of Bagger waiting for him in the distance…

There is a nice little story in here, of the search for one’s true self, believing in yourself and finding your place in the world, but it struggles to place that in a visual storytelling medium. It is a much more internal adventure, more suited to the intimacy of a novel than the expansion of a two-hour film. The actors do a good job and Redford makes the South a beautiful place but there isn’t much to engage an audience over the running time and doesn’t compare favourably to the most recent good golf film, Tin Cup.

Rating: DA

(Old) Film Review: Cinderella Man

Cinderella Man is, essentially, Rocky with a little more depth, a more accomplished director and a more articulate and audible leading man. How much you enjoyed Stallone’s based-on-fact fiction will probably give you an indication as to how much you will enjoy this factual film.

James Braddock (Russell Crowe) was a promising boxer who lost everything in the Depression, causing him to end up working on the docks, when he would get work, after he lost his license to fight for small change in back rooms. Living with his loving wife (Renee Zellwegger) and their three children, we see an honourable man who truly loves his family and will do anything for them. Much like Rocky, a bizarre happenstance means he is offered the opportunity to fight a possible title contender on two days notice for a substantial sum of money. Only for him to win the bout, having inadvertently strengthened his previously weak left hand working on the docks. He wins the next fight, after some training, setting him up for a title fight against Max Baer, a boxer who had killed two men in previous matches.

In all this, we see him actually begging for money off the men who once paid him to box in order to pay the electricity bill so his children can live with them, and see him take his son back to the butcher’s to return the stolen sausage, an indication of his morals from being Catholic and of Irish descent. This is a very American tale of the decent man with nothing working up to having everything without betraying his noble roots (he went on to fight in the second World War, worked on building the Verrazano bridge in New York, lived with his wife in the same house they bought for the rest of their lives and basically didn’t end up a punch-drunk loser in Vegas). Crowe plays Braddock with muscular integrity and some sensitivity with able support from Zellwegger as the woman at home. They are both outshone by Paul Giamatti as Braddock’s trainer Joe Gould, by turns feisty, funny and forlorn. Ron Howard directs with his usual proficiency, having watched Raging Bull a few times to get the correct authenticity for the sterling fight scenes. This is a decent but unspectacular film, which questions why people thought it should have opened in the summer season instead of the more appropriate Christmas corridor.

Rating: VID

From A Library - Superman/Batman: Absolute Power

Superman/Batman: Absolute Power TPB
by Jeph Loeb and Carlos Pacheco

Despite my dislike of a previous Loeb-written story, I wanted to read this trade for two reasons: firstly, the majestically gorgeous art of Carlos Pacheco; secondly, I have a weakness for alternate dimension stories (and I do mean weakness – why else would I have owned this?).

There is a nice idea here: Legion of Superheroes’ villains (from the future – keep up) come back in time to change the past. In this case, they take Kal-el and Bruce Wayne and take them under their wings, eradicate the heroes who will become the Justice League of America, and training them to be evil. This allows them to rule the world (and vainly put up statues of themselves instead of the Statue of Liberty), removing all other heroes who rebel. All except Diana of the Amazons, who awakens the Golden Age hero Uncle Sam in order to fight back. They go and pick up the Green Lantern ring for Sam (Cosmic King, Saturn Queen and Lightning Lord couldn’t touch it), and then locate the rest of the Freedom Fighters.

There is a quick interlude with Deadman inhabiting Superman, before Batman gets rid of him using some Zatanna magic, before Diana and the Freedom Fighters turn up to fight. Diana kills Batman, before Superman kills her in return (in a rather horrific full-page spread, strangling her with her own lasso, with a graphic look of death on her face – thanks, DC). Only for the world to end …

We arrive in an alternate dimension, with Luthor president, and Superman and Batman are being attacked by gorillas. It appears to be the world of Kamandi, but Suerpman dies because of kryptonite. This leads to another dimension hop, to a modern city where they are attacked by DC cowboy heroes. Superman dies again (what a loser), and we are in another dimension, where Darkseid rules. However, he gives them boom tube technology to stop the three LSH villains from taking Kal away from the Kents. This causes him to remember ‘reality’, and what is going on. However, when they go to do the same for Batman, Bruce saves his parents from being killed, so Batman is never created …

This change to reality leads to Ra’s Al Ghul taking over the world – Superman is attacked by Sgt Rock, Easy Company, the Haunted Tank and the Blackhawks) – so Kal goes to see Bruce at Wayne Manor (where we have enough time for Loeb to insert a mention of his own creation, Hush, the self-serving tart). Kal forces Bruce to remember his parents being killed so that he can be Batman. He then resurrects the JLA with Lazarus Pit, to take on Ra’s, only to find he has help from the three LSH villains. Then we have the big fight – Batman kills Ra’s and they take the villains back to the future to be dealt with the adult LSH, bringing everything back to normal.

This is all rather silly rubbish, not worthy of having such fantastic pencils telling the story. Particularly annoying is the loathsome prose from Loebs throughout the entire story, having Kal-el and Bruce constantly narrating everything that occurs in the story – it got on my nerves within the first few pages, and this is a five-issue collection. The one redeeming factor is the Pacheco artwork – powerful, sleek, dynamic, sexy, vibrant, joyful – which is everything comic book superhero art should be. I might have got more out of this if I had a PhD in DC history – I can recognise the various aspects of this dimensional jaunt, but that makes it more like showing off rather than organic story-telling. I must get a handle on my weakness for alternate dimensions …

Museum Exhibit: Surreal Things at the V&A

The Victoria and Albert museum (locally known as the V&A) is a rather funky museum – I’ll never forget popping to see a small exhibition of Steranko Nick Fury: Agent of SHIELD covers: how cool is that? – which houses exhibits looking at culture and design. It is quite a fabulous old building as well, and surprisingly easy to get lost in its labyrinth structure, and has the most lovely garden area with a tranquil fountain.

I am rather partial to surreal art – I think there is a connection between the way their paintings and comic book art, but I don’t have a degree in Art History to be able to fully explain my thinking – particularly Dali and Magritte. I have even been to the Dali Museum in Figueres, Spain, which was marvelously odd and bizarre, as one would hope and expect. I even remember that the toilets were interesting, although I only urinated in them; I thought perhaps I should masturbate in them, as a tribute to Dali and his chronic wanking habit, but it didn’t feel right, you know?

Now, as if they’ve read my mind, the V&A is having an exhibit, Surreal Things, exploring surrealism and its influence in other areas, such as film, advertising, architecture and fashion. Therefore, I dragged my girlfriend to South Kensington (not literally; we went by public transport, thanks for asking) to have a look around.

The exhibit is well staged; the space is well designed (how appropriate) and the level of information for each section and item is just right – enough to inform but not too much to turn it too academic. There is a huge amount on exhibit (the website states over 300 items) and plenty to enjoy. Not all of it is fascinating – I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the dresses with surrealist patterns, for example – but there is enough diversity to make up for that.

There is some early surrealism to show the beginnings, and then moves through eras to show how it was assimilated by other industries, such as in advertising (models being photographed with surrealist props), design (such as modern furniture), films (Spellbound, Dali’s collaboration with Hitchcock on the dream sequence) and fashion (such as the bizarre jewellery Dali came up with), to plain old bizarre objects, such as infamous Mae West Lips Sofa, Lobster Telephones and Venus de Milo With Drawers. There are a lot of paintings (which I thought missed the point – technically, they are objects, but they are more suited to a ‘normal’ exhibition), from Magritte and Dali and Miro, so you definitely get good value for money. I’m not sure if the exhibit is a success as a whole because you come out feeling that it was interesting but not dazzling; however, it is still very entertaining.

A description of a surrealist exhibit is self-defeating, as nothing is the same as seeing the objects up close for the full power of them. Erm, which kind of makes this post a bit pointless. Anyway, I would recommend the exhibit for anyone interested in surrealism and its affect on contemporary culture, especially now that surrealism has lost a lot of the power it had to shock and surprise when it first emerged. The exhibit lasts until 22 July, so there’s plenty of time to see it, and they seem to have the air conditioning on a high setting inside, so you’ll feel nice and cool during the hot summer that the UK will surely have.

Film Review: The Punisher

(Continuing my old film reviews onto this blog, this is the version directed & co-written by Jonathan Hensleigh, and starring Thomas Jane, John Travolta, Roy Scheider, Samantha Mathis, Will Patton, Rebecca Ramijin Stamos, who should all know better.)

Although blatantly based on Garth Ennis & Steve Dillon’s 'Welcome Back, Frank' story line, this film has none of the humour or heart. Frank Castle (Jane) is now an undercover cop working in Florida investigating gun-running. In his last job, the feds kill one of the buyers when things go wrong, who happens to be the son of Mr Saint (Travolta), the extravagant villain of the film. For some particularly unexplained reason, he decides to extract his vengeance for the death of his stupid son from Castle and his entire family (although his wife is the one who adds the line, ‘entire family’).

So, while the Castle clan of around 30 people is having a reunion in Puerto Rico, they are brutally killed (including his father, played by Schieder for all of five minutes, and his wife played by Mathis for all of ten minutes), leaving the wife and child until last. They then catch up with Frank, who has been fighting back, and the brother of the dead son shoots him in the heart, but somehow misses from all of three feet, and then doesn’t bother making sure he is dead (for example, with a bullet in the head); instead, he set fire to the pier Frank is on, thus leaving him the requisite amount of time to escape the ensuing explosion.

He is rescued by a local black fisherman (with a suggestion of links to voodoo that are neither mentioned again nor confirmed at the time) who heals him and takes him back to the scene of the crime where he picks up the many guns his dad had and the familiar Punisher t-shirt that his son had bought him prior to his death for no other reason than to give him something cool to wear while he killed people.

He then gets a room in an out of the way place in Tampa on the same floor as Joan (Stamos) who is now a lot prettier than in the comic, Bumpo (who isn’t as big as the comic) and Dave (formerly Spacker Dave in the book), just so the screenwriters can have those bits from the comics that they liked. After acquiring an inside man who also hates the Saints, he inexplicably turns up at a press conference, instead of hiding out and plotting his revenge, to ask why no one has been arrested for the murder of his family, which naturally alerts the Saints to his return from the dead and thus loses his only trump card. In another bit of tangent action, he steals money from Saint (who is laundering it for Columbian drug dealers), throws the rest of it out on the street, and kills two of Saint’s lackeys in a shoot-out styled wholly on a western film, down to the western shoot-out music.

Saint now sends a hitman after him, a professional from Memphis, who sings him a song in the diner where he is eating before later running him off the road and shooting at Castle in his car, which he has clairvoyantly protected with lots of armour (which shows some sense, which he lost when he made his presence public). The killer then gloats at Frank instead of killing him straight away, allowing Frank to shoot a knife out of its handle at his throat, which is very lucky albeit bloody stupid, and the killer doesn’t have time to kill Frank, even though he had a machine gun. Oh dear.

After an attempted bonding session with his floor mates because he sorted out one of Joan’s psychotic ex-boyfriends, and Joan tries the moves on him, this relaxes Frank in his attitude to security, allowing another assassin, the Russian (which was one of the funniest, if stupidest, parts of the comic book), entry and leading to a big, violent comedy fight, which is straight out of the book, but doesn’t work as well on film, and certainly not in the context of this poor movie, which is a straightforward revenge movie without the knowingness of the book. It feels out of place in the middle of the supposed grimness of killing his entire family (which isn’t canonical in the books, and isn’t shown in the book because you can’t show him killing loads of people in a black fashion while having comedy killings like the thing in the zoo, for example).

Saint’s thugs torture Dave for information (which he doesn’t provide), under the leadership of Will Patton, Saint’s right-hand man, who is gay, a fact that Saint is unaware of even though they have been working in crime together for many years. Then, Frank goes out and kills just about everybody in Saint’s hideout, after somehow persuading Saint by the most flimsy evidence that Patton and his wife have been having an affair behind his back, meaning Travolta gets to overact and be superbad by killing his wife (by throwing her on a train track) and stabbing his best friend after waffling on about the Romans or something. In this big finale, he uses bows and arrows, guns, grenades, shotguns and bombs (using the ‘Front toward the enemy’ visual nicked from the comic book), and kills Saint in the most ludicrously over-the-top manner imaginable, including shooting, dragging him from a car, setting him on fire and blowing him up, which causes a large Punisher skull shape to form in the car park, which can only be seen from the vantage point of fifty feet up in the air.

After this, Frank poses on a long bridge where he decides he is going to punish all bad guys, not just the people who killed his family, thus trying to provide the basis for an incredibly hopeful sequel. This is a very poor film that doesn’t understand the core material and uses it for a bland revenge film that wouldn’t have been out of place 10 years ago. They don’t understand Castle, or they would never have removed him from New York, which is implicit to his character, and the aspect of the Mafia as the reason for his continuing vendetta (probably because they thought the Mafia are bad enough, or they’ve been used too much, or that everyone likes them after the Sopranos or something equally inane). They also don’t understand black humour, which has to be very finely handled – Ennis and Dillon are experts, whereas the filmmakers are strictly amateurs. Another case of stick to the original material, and ignore this film.

Rating: DA

Book Review: Dead Witch Walking

Dead Witch Walking by Kim Harrison

This book was the first time I made use of the Amazon recommendation function to try a new book. Having bought Already Dead, their information gathering programme decided I should try other books involving detective work and vampires (and witches and pixies, oh my) and came up with the Rachel Morgan series, the first of with is Dead Witch Walking (all of the titles are puns – The Good, The Bad, and the Undead; Every Which Way But Dead; A Fistful of Charms – which is cute).

Rachel Morgan is a witch, a former runner with the Inderlander Runner Services, a government body that handles the crimes committed by the magical community, which is now out in the open following a genetically engineered virus that killed half of the world’s human population. She quit the service, but has to pay for it (something to do with breaking her contract – I never really understood the reasoning behind this), which she thinks she will be able to do by capturing Trent Kalamack, a suspected drug lord who hides behind the respectability of being a prominent citizen.

In doing this, she is helped by Ivy, a vampire who doesn’t feed, who quit with her (for reasons of her own); Jenks, a pixy she worked with; Keasley, an old yet knowlegable neighbour (across from the church she and Ivy now share); and, eventually, a human called Nick who knows all about the magic world. These people all her in her investigations into Trent and trying to find evidence that can be used against him.

The world Harrison creates is well realised (even if she does go overboard at times; however, it is the first book, so she has a lot to do) and the use of magical characters naturally in the world is impressive. I enjoyed the slightly strange world she writes about, and the different characters and interpolation of the magical into the normal world are both engaging.

The major I had problem was the tone of voice used by Harrison. The narration is first person, and there is a strange jauntiness that jibes with the hard-boiled feel of the world. I really hope it isn’t a male/female thing but it just got on my nerves, which is a shame as there is a lot to enjoy in the book. Also, it doesn’t help that the character of Rachel feels like an author wish fulfilment – witness the red-haired author and the description of red-haired Rachel.

Another factor was the setting up of the Trent character as the major villain for the series. It felt very forced, especially having him as such a large-scale bad guy but having Rachel as quite a lowly runner. He gets away in the end, of course – sorry to spoil it for you – but he’s needed for later in the series. Well, I assume he will because I won’t be around for them. The occasionally irritating narration, the forced plot mechanics and author-as-lead-character (at least, as obvious as this – Joe Pitt doesn’t feel like a Charlie Huston substitute in Already Dead) were all too much to for me, even if I enjoyed the world Harrison created. At least I tried something new, and I’ll know not to go by Amazon’s recommendation in the future.

Films that made me cry

I think I've gotten to know you well enough to share with you. Hope I'm not being too forward.

As a man, it is a biological imperative that I not cry as a result of watching a film. I do not know why this is so; perhaps it is because we are not supposed to show emotion, or it makes us appear weak, or crying is for girls, or because we are just heartless bastards.

As I have gotten older, I’ve noticed a subtle shift in my emotional response to movies, and I’m not afraid to discuss this openly. When I was young, the concept of tears due to visual storytelling was absurd. The whole point of films is to be entertained, to be excited, to laugh, to be thrilled, to be dazzled … and to be quiet for two hours to give your mum and dad some peace and quiet. There was no reason to cry at a film because you would be unable to understand the depths of emotion felt by the actors and the story line at a young age, where the greatest heartache you had survived was not getting the fully operational Millennium Falcon with the complement of Star Wars figures. Anyway, you didn’t watch those sort of films – emotional films were for girls.

It was when I moved away to university, and began to mature into the human being I am now (and will hopefully become when I completely grow up) that I began to notice that I could connect emotionally to a film. For me, the first film to do more than entertain was Dead Poets Society. When Ethan Hawke, an actor who now mostly manages to elicit the emotion of annoyance, on learning of the fate of his beloved teacher, stands on his desk and shouts, ‘O captain, my captain’, and is joined by other students (not on the same desk, obviously, as it would’ve been too small), I was extremely worried by the strange sensation in my throat, as if I couldn’t swallow properly. I gulped, in order to correct the unusual biological phenomenon, shook my head as if it would evacuate the bizarre sensations behind my eyes, sniffed as if clearing my nose, and tried not to give it a second thought. It was only a few years later, while watching the film on television in the privacy of my bedroom, that the tears came to my face fully formed, and I let myself over to the emotion that the film had so adroitly created. After that, there was no turning back.

There have been other films subsequently, where I could not control the ocular leakage that I could not have imagined as a teenager. Some have been ‘chick flicks’, romantic comedies where you know you are being emotionally manipulated but concede victory to an above average film-maker. Recently, it was Love Actually, not a great film by any means; however, it was funny when it was supposed to be, and romantic when it was supposed to be (even though it was a bit muddled in places, lost its way for a bit in the middle, and ignored some storylines at the end) and emotionally resonant in the hands of Emma Thompson, whose quiet and attempt-at-control of the reaction when discovering her husband is being unfaithful was moving beyond words, so I let tears do my talking.

However, while ‘girls films’ seem to have crying as a desired affect (something I always found a little bizarre, personally, as crying isn’t particularly pleasant, what with the puffy eyes, the snotty nose, and the drying out of the mouth) and girls seem to be in on the fact – I’ll never forget sitting behind two girls at a showing of Ghost (I was only there because of my girlfriend of the time, I assure you) who were passing a box of tissues they had brought with them specially for the film; talk about being prepared – films that affect me similarly don’t appear to be in the same vein.

Witness the end of two film epics of recent years – The Return of the King, and The Last Samurai. Big, male-dominated movies about war, sacrifice, honour, loyalty, and with lots of fighting with swords and stuff. Not exactly what you would call eye-moistening material. But, at the end of both, tears sprung freely down my cheeks: in Return of the King, the moment where the newly crowned Aragorn says to the Hobbits, ‘No, it is we who should bow to you, and then he and everyone else bows to them; and The Last Samurai, where Tom Cruise’s character confronts the Emperor with the sword of leader of the samurai rebels (and former teacher to the Emperor) and the Emperor realises the enormity of what has happened and the sacrifice involved. The ability to make men cry in movies about myth and legend is quite impressive, in my opinion, and I am quite pleased that I was able to be moved to such a degree.

The film where tears came mostly freely, however, was also at the most inopportune. I was at a preview screening for Good Will Hunting at a screen in London to review it for my student paper. When Robin Williams, as the psychologist counselling Matt Damon as the tortured genius, Will Hunting, keeps repeating to him, ‘It’s not your fault’, causing Will to breakdown and cry for the first time, I was blubbing like a little girl who had grazed her knee. Tears poured down my face, as I empathised and related to the scene on the screen (what with me being a tortured genius who can’t emotionally connect with people), not caring that I was supposed to be the calm and collected critic. Fortunately, I was able to clean myself up before anyone saw me, but I knew then that I made the transition from being a totally heartless man, to being still mostly heartless, but with the ability to be moved to tears by quality drama, which my girlfriend seems to like. And I don’t mind a bit.

From A Library - Spider-Woman: Origins

Spider-Woman: Origins by Brian Michael Bendis, Brian Reed and the Luna Brothers

Everything you wanted to know about Bendis’ obsession, in one handy tome. Jessica Drew’s father is a scientist in Wundagore Mountain, and her mum is pregnant with her when she is hit by the DNA compiler ray – D’oh! Jessica is born and everything is fine until she gets to 6 years of age and there is oddness. Dad tests her DNA and finds it matches with spider. Her parents fight, causing Jessica to stop it by accidentally releasing one of her spider blasts. Next thing she knows, it is 11 years later in a Hydra base with her Dad’s old boss. We've all had nights like that ...

Jessica is trained (by the Taskmaster) and indoctrinated into the Hydra way of thinking, before being sent to rescue her boyfriend, who she has been told by Nick Fury and SHIELD. She gets in but is captured by SHIELD. Fury shows her what her boyfriend was actually doing, and that Hydra has had her in a tank for all that time to find out what she was, not the coma story they told her. She escapes and stays off the espionage radar for over two years, before she is found by Hydra again. However, she kills them and flies their plane into the Hydra base, including her Dad’s old boss (obviously she gets out beforehand).

Our nascent Spider-Woman stays off the radar for another two years (gosh, that was easy) before Fury finds her and he tells her that her parents aren’t dead. He takes her back into SHIELD, and to where her mother is, only to find out she is dead. She then goes undercover on her own (these SHIELD agents are rubbish at keeping track of people) and finds the head of the new Hydra project, killing him in the process, and then invades the base of the new project. It is here she finds her Dad.

Her Dad talks about how much of a Hydra man he is; Jessica goes to attack him but is mentally blocked by a Hydra back-up hypnosis to stop her if necessary. She then blows up the base (so the hypnosis isn’t that effective then, is it?) after fighting a gaggle of experimental attempts at Spider-women, and her Dad is shot by Madame Viper (although Dad’s old boss survived the plane blowing him up, so there are some soon-to-be background villains for the future for Jessica). Jessica is rescued by Fury, who offers her a job, but she refuses, before going to San Francisco to become an investigator (and to re-join normal continuity).

This is rather feeble stuff. There is some nice spy bits from Bendis (he loves the espionage thing, doesn’t he?) but there’s not enough to justify a series. I’m guessing here, but it feels like Bendis plotted this and Reed wrote it up because it doesn’t feel like a Bendis book. The whole thing is made worse by the artwork. The line work is like the sort of stuff I could have drawn. Admittedly, there is a nice sense of design (the use of blurring the backgrounds to focus on the foreground of the panel) and the ability to draw backgrounds and tell the story clearly is not at fault, but the pencils of people, and particularly their faces, is rather horrible. And I this was in hardback – a bit of a waste of the format.