A Wheezing Rampage Of Revenge

It’s official. This chap Michael Caine, who has for so long gone overlooked in the movie world, is surely the planet’s greatest actor. I mean he’s just chuffing marvelous, there are no two ways about it, or if there are the other way is that he is fricking amazing.

In Harry Brown, Caine plays an old geezer, which isn’t much of a stretch to be fair, who gets increasingly Harry Browned off with the local scumbags on his estate. When his best mate, who happens to be the caretaker of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is murdered by the aforementioned scumbags, Harry takes it upon himself to go postal on their asses in a wheezing rampage of revenge.

The first half of the film is almost kitchen sink drama, in which Caine is utterly compelling in every frame. Even The Incredible Suit got something in its eye in the scene where Harry was informed of his friend’s death.

Unfortunately the second half, which is kick started – albeit very slowly – by an overlong and slightly freaky visit to a local gun dealer, loses the plot a bit as it heads toward a big finale which the budget can’t support. Ten hoodies and a handful of coppers do not a riot make. Also the police, bless ‘em, are portrayed as ineffectual plods the whole way through, and although this prompts Harry to take up arms himself, it comes across as lazy characterization. Having said that, Ben Drew is remarkably believable as the worst person in the world ever, which is saying something when you’re sharing screentime with Sir Maurice of Micklewhite.

Harry Brown is depressing, brutal and much better than its American cousin Gran Torino, but perhaps the best reason to see it is to watch a legend doing what he does better than what other people what do it does it. Yeah? As some indication of how convincing he was, the only other people in the cinema were four old ladies who I had to avoid eye contact with on the way out because I thought they were going to beat the living crap out of me.

Back by popular demand (i.e. I forgot all about it until now):

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A Cup Of Reasonable, But Unexceptional, Tea

Irritatingly, I missed Le Donk & Scor-zay-zee at the cinema, although I can’t really be blamed because it was only on for about four minutes at one tiny cinema in some obscure part of London that’s only accessible by dirigible airship. Fortunately, and I have to say quite unexpectedly, it was released on DVD almost immediately, which means it’ll probably be on Channel 4 before you finish reading this and the sequel will be out on theatrical release.

If that turns out to be the case, don’t bother flicking through the Yellow Pages to hire a zeppelin in order to find it, for Le Donk & Scor-zay-zee was merely a slice of OK cake washed down with a cup of reasonable, but unexceptional, tea.

Filmed mockumentary-style by the consistently good but never quite awesome Shane Meadows, this is the flimsy tale of an East Midlands roadie, Le Donk, and his lardy rapping bud, Scor-zay-zee, as they take a very short road trip, work with “The Arctical Monkeys”, strive to realise a long-held dream and, for Le Donk, fail to deal with his ex-girlfriend moving on.

The film perches somewhere on the same comedy ladder as This Is Spinal Tap and TV’s 'The Office', but remains several rungs below both. Le Donk, played by the always excellent Paddy Considine, is an almost David Brent-esque berk who loves the attention of having a camera crew follow him around, and while he shows himself up to be talentless, selfish and unlikeable, he’s never quite funny enough to make us forgive his disagreeable nature.

That said, it’s over in 71 minutes and has some excellent opening titles, so, you know, every cloud…*



In unrelated (and shamelessly self-promotional) news, The Incredible Suit now has what is commonly known by young people as “a Facebook page”, which means you can come out and tell the world you’re a fan of this monumental pile of old cabbages with just one relatively painless click of the mouse. Somewhere on this page is a button that says “Become a Fan”; doing so means you’ll be the first to know when there’s a new post (providing you’re constantly glued to Facebook like a laboratory teenager), and – apparently – you can even have discussions about just how peerlessly professional, staggeringly informative and bum-scratchingly thought-provoking the blog is. All of which you could just do by talking to each other, but nobody does that any more, it’s just tedious.

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* This is a David Brent quote. It’s intentional. I don’t just throw these things together, you know. I bet you didn't notice the Wordy Rappinghood gag either. Honestly, I don't know why I etc etc...

100

Woo hoo! It’s The Incredible Suit’s 100th post! The entire team, which is to say me, Mrs The Incredible Suit (above) and Fidgit from Time Bandits, are in the pub celebrating, so here’s a vaguely century-related clip to keep you distracted until we sober up and remember where we left the keys to the blog.

Banzai, Daniel-san!



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Gagalanche

On a recent day off from whatever the hell it is I do for a living, I treated myself to a triple bill from the holy trinity of silent comedians – Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Not that this applied to me, but if you’ve had the kind of day where it would have been improved by an elephant defecating on your dining room table just after you’ve served up dinner then you could do a lot worse than sit down with these guys for a couple of hours.

Harold Lloyd’s short film Number, Please? is, it has to be said, not one of his best, but it does feature some of his typically inventive gags, especially a scene in which all he has to do is make a phone call, but is prevented in doing so by a cigar, a midget, a stupid woman, a bad memory, a lack of cash, a screaming baby and a Jewish stereotype. The film also features two excellent performances by dogs, which I realise is neither here nor there but canine thespianism is a much-overlooked aspect of cinema these days so I’m just doing my bit to big it up.

Charlie Chaplin’s first feature (although that’s pushing the limits of what qualifies a film as a feature – it’s 50 minutes long), The Kid, is a rare thing in silent cinema – a comedy with emotional depth, featuring as it does an abandoned child, a heartbroken mother, a fiercely protective father-figure and the social services sticking their oar in. Rest assured, however, there are plenty of people getting kicked up the arse and Charlie gets baby wee on his hands, so there’s something for everyone. Chaplin took a year to make The Kid, starting just after his own son died when he was just a few days old, and shot about 44 hours of footage, but it paid off. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and you’ll praise the dream sequence at the end for featuring another great dog, this time one that actually flies.

Buster Keaton, as regular viewers of The Incredible Suit will know, is worshipped as something of a god round these parts. His 1920 short Neighbors is a seventeen minute gagalanche* of gobsmackular stunts and astonishing use of props. Here’s the whole thing, but the first three minutes give you a fair idea of what to expect, and if it doesn’t make you want to watch the rest then there’s a small bit of you that isn’t working properly. Get it seen to.



Sadly no award-winning mutts there; in Keaton’s defence his previous short The Scarecrow had a great dog in it but it’s not as good. Conclusion? A brilliant dog does not a great film make. Although Digby, The Biggest Dog In The World is awesome.

* An avalanche of gags. Did you really need that explaining?

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A Fart I Have To Face

Earlier this year I went to an evening at the BFI with David Arnold, legendary composer of film scores. By which I mean that I went to see him talk, I didn’t go with him, we’re not mates or anything.

He was talking specifically about his work on the Bond films, which as I’m sure you’re aware is fantastic (proof here), and he let slip that he was working on a new project which would be of great interest to fans of James Bond music, but he couldn’t say what it was at that time. I set my anticipationometer to ‘quite excited’ and waited to see what goodies would spill forth.

Sadly the answer turned out to be ‘a new Shirley Bassey album produced by David Arnold’. It was a bit like being told you might be getting the complete Bond film collection for Christmas, only to open your stocking and find a VHS of Never Say Never Again.

Anyway, the other day I heard one of the tracks from Shirl’s album and, as has been pointed out elsewhere, was quite surprised to hear what was clearly a possible theme song for Quantum Of Solace, which had obviously been shot in the kneecaps in favour of Jack White and Alicia Keys’ effort. Not only that but I was even more surprised to find that I quite liked it. If I’d had any more surprises that day I probably would have had to have my spleen replaced, as everybody knows that each surprise shrinks one’s spleen by 2%.

So have a listen to ‘No Good About Goodbye’ and see what you think. Is this a Bond theme? Is it a great Bond theme? Is it better than Another Way To Die? And, perhaps most importantly, what does Burly Chassis mean by the line “There’ll always be a space, a fart I have to face now” at 0:42?

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Was Russ Abbot In Time Bandits?

One of the things almost worth thinking about mentioning about having a blog is that people stumble onto it by accident all the time, usually because they’ve typed something into Google like “where can I buy a Mr Incredible suit”, and inadvertently landed on this pile of tiresome pizzle. I’d like to think that these weary travellers might have their curiosity piqued, pull up a comfy chair and stay for a while, but statistical evidence shows they leg it quicker than Indiana Jones evading the Hovitos.

Although it gives me a feeling of some moral superiority when I see what some people are typing into Google, it simultaneously horrifies me that such things bring them here. I can only imagine the disappointment they must feel when they settle down in front of their computer with a very specific intention, only to find themselves staring at the rantings of a misguided berk who’s watched too many Bond films.

As a caring, sharing type, I thought I’d reveal some of my favourite searches that have brought unsuspecting types to The Incredible Suit. I’ve left the spelling mistakes in deliberately so don’t even try to pick me up on that, you pedants.

They fall into two broad groups which, for the sake of argument, we’ll call “Er…” and “Nipples”.

Er…
was russ abbott in time bandits?
if i put you in a dustbin
muse penile suppository review
the incredible machine fishtank target
how to make realistic intestines
turtle bowel magnet
wher can i find emma watson fakes
blogger content warning horny hunk

Nipples
incredible nipples
insane nipples movies
moulin rouge nipple
bonnie wright niple
ann-margret nipple
nipple in the camera
catherine weaver nipple terminator

I’ll keep you updated if any more come in, but if you’ve seen any of your own there I hope you can explain yourself. More importantly, though, I hope you stayed and learned something new and soul-enhancing that might at least postpone your impending blindness. If not, this ought to dampen your ardour:



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James Bond In A Nappy In Outer Space

When The Incredible Suit was several sizes smaller, it was customary to watch anything that starred Harrison Ford, based entirely on the premise that Han Solo or Indiana Jones in any film would still be Han Solo or Indiana Jones. I probably would have watched Gardener’s World if Indy had been in it up to his elbows in geraniums.

Likewise with various other childhood heroes; James Bond in a nappy in outer space? I’m there. Marty McFly coked up to his eyeballs? Yes please. Even now I’ll watch Daniel Craig in pretty much anything, because all these guys have that certain something few film stars have: a charisma that’s carried over from their defining roles and keeps you coming back for more in the absence of another Star Wars / Bond / Back To The Future film.

So what the hell is Pierce Brosnan playing at?

Here’s a man who was so cool as 007 that projectors literally* froze when the film ran through them. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him, and he always wore an incredible suit.

But Brosnan has spectacularly failed to capitalise on his Bond success in just about every film he’s been in since he bungee jumped off that dam in GoldenEye. I only watched The Thomas Crown Affair and The Tailor Of Panama because he was in them, and they were duller than a trip to the Cumberland Pencil Museum. I didn’t expect him to be James Bond, I just thought his presence signified quality. I thought wrong.

Things haven’t improved; here are IMDb’s synopses of three upcoming Brosnan films:

“The Greatest: Drama centred around a troubled teenage girl and a family trying to get over the loss of their son.” Sounds great. Can I bring a book?

“Remember Me: Drama centred on two lovers whose relationship is threatened as they cope with their respective family tragedies.” I actually died of boredom in the middle of that sentence and had to be resuscitated with a direct injection of GoldenEye into my spine.

“Vanilla Gorilla: An albino gorilla in captivity uses sign language to communicate his plight to a little girl, setting in motion an international escape plan.” What? An albino gorilla? Did someone make this up playing Balderdash? Here’s a more sensible plot: “A shy carrot comes out of his shell when a dying telephone catapults him into another dimension populated by unicycling gherkins.”

The Broz-man’s next big flick is Percy Jackson & The Olympians, in which a boy discovers his Dad is Poseidon and subsequently gets involved in all kinds of mythical and legendary shenanigery. Brosnan plays Chiron, Percy’s immortal mentor. It looks OK, although it does feel a bit like someone’s desperately scrabbling around for the next Harry Potter.



So be warned, Brozzo; if Percy Jackson turns out to be less than Olympian, your future might lie with George Lazenby’s in convention hell. Act now – literally!

Mamma Mia! (2008)

*Not literally in the literal sense of the word

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