"I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd"

So, I think this could prove to be controversial. At least, to the one internet drifter who happens to stumble across my small hut in cyberspace. Quentin Tarantino has lost it. There, I said it. While film critics have largely been saying this for the last six or seven years, it seems that I'm very much in the minority with this view when it comes to people in their twenties.

This is not an all out attack on QT, this is a study of a man who had something special, and then squandered it. There is no doubt in my mind that he has made three excellent films. Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown all stand out as triumphs in modern cinema. Whether you like his referential style, copious violence and wisecracking script or not, these films can't help but be appreciated as brilliant works. So how did he so spectacularly lose the ability to make such defining films? I think the answer is, the river of ideas drying up, as well as becoming a figure of self parody.

In Inglorious Basterds, his latest flick, there's a close-up of a bowl of cream while a conversation is taking place over a dinner table. The close up used in this style has become one of the Tarantino trademarks along with the trunk shot, and long, lingering takes. However, the difference is that before, Tarantino was using these embellishments to drive the story forward, to provide a different take on familiar situations and to render anticipation in the viewer's mind. Now he seems to include these begrudgingly in order to make the film seem his. Quentin Tarantino is trying too hard to make a Quentin Tarantino film. One doesn't feel that he creates films by an organic process anymore, but that he sits at his desks discussing scripts thus: "Ah yes, we'll have a trunk shot there....then in the next scene, that'll have a femme fatale in...oh and throw in a mexican standoff"

Tarantino's dedication to homages and tributes has, as above, turned from witty referencing to cloying and tiresome. In "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" each major character is accompanied by a little vignette, and a freeze frame outlines their respective characters as "The Good" "The Bad" and "The Ugly". Tarantino creates an obvious tribute to this in Inglorious Basterds, outlining the various Basterds in these small onscreen character profiles. Whereas in Sergio Leone's western, these depictions are used to good effect, to set up the story, under Tarantino's clumsy direction, they become tiresome. Eli Roth's character is introduced as "The Bear Jew". I was expecting a monster colossus of a man. Instead we get Roth, hardly well built,  wielding a baseball bat. Are we expected to find this clever, amusing or fearsome? It ends up being none of these.

In the aforementioned first three films by Tarantino, he used his knowledge of trashy cinema, integrated with snappy dialogue and cartoonish violence to create films which were exciting, humourous and unpredictable. He has failed to achieve this in any of his films since Kill Bill Vol. 1.

I put forward the argument that a blockbuster like Transformers can be considered superior to Tarantino's  efforts this millennium. It is easy to see the motives of the likes of Transformers, Hancock, Independence Day, et al. Their chief goal is a money spinning enterprise, providing big, dumb entertainment "for all the family". It's an effort to pack as many people into multiplex cinemas as possible to reap the biggest financial award. But, and here's the clincher, have they ever purported to be anything but that? Tarantino's slew of latest films are junk masquerading as high art, and he has struck back at critics deeming them "unworthy" saying they don't understand him. Doesn't that sound a bit like the hormonal teenager whose parents have been honest about their son's "eclectic" musical taste?

The horrible thing is that besides reasoned film critics, his army of devoted fans and sycophantic chat show hosts like Jonathan Ross manage to keep the idea going that he is still the prodigal enfant terrible of American cinema. When you find yourself yawning halfway through a Tarantino film, you have to ask yourself, if he based his early triumphs on keeping the viewer locked in with intrigue and expectancy, once these facets have faded, what does he have left?

Tarantino has run out of ideas. He should take a leaf from the Coen Brothers' book, who manage to create films with their signature stamp on, but can never be said to have created identikit films.

Lancaster bomber

I'd never been to Lancaster until yesterday. In tremendous contrast to my previous post, it seems like a town which ideally, all Northern towns would seek to replicate in terms of atmosphere, beauty and entertainment.

Late Georgian architecture adorns the high street, crowds make their way up and down the tiled pedestrianised area that makes up the town centre. It's refreshing to see so many independent shops on the high street, somehow Lancaster has not yet succumbed to the homogenisation that afflicts other British towns. It has found a way to accommodate high street institutions (Topshop, M&S, HMV) as well as provide an outlet for small business owners. Furthermore it was inspiring to see such niche interests represented; sauntering down the high street I saw advertisements for a Joe Meek themed clubnight and a French film society. I challenge anyone to find similar pastimes catered for in another town of similar size.

I think the secret to Lancaster's beauty is it's ability to effortlessly combine elements of the past with the modern. This collocation never seems contrived, and while the aforementioned shops are prevalent on the high street, they are housed in original shop fronts, their letters embossed in the old stonework. Lancaster's bygone years as a market town means that it has a long history in trade and commerce on a public level. Perhaps this means that it has adapted more readily and comfortably than some of the worn out mill towns in this part of the UK. Despite the architectural eyesore that is Lancaster University (very good academically, but I'm not sure the architect would top many "best in show" lists) it is truly a lovely town to look at. Open country is but a bus ride away, and there seems plenty of cultural investment in the form of the Lancaster Grand Theatre and Lancaster Castle.

While the current levels of poverty would betray the portrait I'm painting (second in Lancashire with regard to "Households accepted as homeless") I still think that Lancaster has a lot more going for it than other places in the region. All it needs is some investment, as currently it lives very much in the shadow of it's noxious Lancastrian neighbouring cities.

Go on, pay it a visit.

Broken Britain

Moss Side Estate. Greater Manchester. Teenagers huddled on street corners while others ride up and down on bikes outside long deserted boarded-up shopfronts.

The North of England has a tinge of sadness to it. From the gun crime that has dominated estates like Moss Side since the early 1990s to old cobbled town's whose cotton mills have laid dormant for years. This is an area of the UK with so much to give and to be proud of. Brilliant scenery, friendly locals and a refreshing lack of pretentiousness which can't be found anywhere in London.

I didn't fully appreciate how much the rest of the England, and particularly the North, was neglected as opposed to the Capital. I am constantly reminded of this fact by northern friends, but until I jumped ship to move up here I had no idea. Governments past and present have failed these people. A sea of ghost towns have been created by the loss of industry, leaving it wide open to be homogenised by the usual Tesco, McDonalds, et al.

The only southern equivalent to be found are the washed out seaside resorts located on the south coast. With crumbling piers, and sunshine providing the only real source of income, these towns have also been neglected. The fundamental difference between them and their northern counterparts, is that they never had much to offer in the first place.

Consider places like Burnley, Oldham, Rochdale. Once upon a time these milltowns provided a steady source of employment to skilled and unskilled workers alike. Times change, but when we lost the mills, we lost a fundamental sense of community and camaraderie, similar to the Welsh miners. These are towns that are now taken over by greedy property developers, creating a concrete jungle that is more akin to some kind of Gilliam-esque dystopian phantasmagoria. It saddens me more than the lonely seaside resorts, because there was once something beautiful here.

Looking at the redbrick and wonderfully precise York Stone buildings, one is aware of a gold mine of local history. It says a lot about governments past and present that they continually try to embrace the modern in order to improve and maintain Britain's global standing. I think far more respect would be given to them by the people of this country if they instead invested more in nurturing tradition, as well as revitalising local governments which are in stasis and promoting localised issues.

Non-breaking news

This is belated. My digital camera refused to work these past few days, but finally, it sprung into action this morning.

I trotted over to Picadilly Gardens in Manchester this Saturday just gone, to see Unite Against Fascism group mount a counter-protest to the English Defence League's protest over "Islamic Extremism".

I was unsure as to what to expect, but it became quite clear early on that it was the old far right in action once more. Banners reading "No More Mosques" as well as jibes towards immigrants could be seen and heard all over Manchester city centre. At one point the EDL and UAF were demonstrating about 10 metres away from each other, and only a massive police presence eliminated the chance of any real trouble.

That said, it was equally frightening and exhilarating to be caught up in such a passionate exchange of views and opinions, with the very real possibility of it spilling over any minute into physical violence. Stop and search, metal detectors, police dog teams and riot squad were all on show in Manchester, with the Northern Quarter all but deserted, police blockades having sealed off most of the main roads coming into that side of Manchester.

This isn't going to be particularly vivacious post, instead I'll let the photos do the talking.

Red top to the rescue

"Labour's Lost It"

It being the endorsement of that erstwhile bastion of journalistic integrity, The Sun. Last week Rupert Murdoch's flagship publication declared that after 12 years, the red top had finally relinquished its support of New Labour.

By making such a brash statement on the front page, The Sun assumes that their withdrawal will be the final nail in Gordon Brown's coffin. However, the looming general election will be closer than editors at News International imagine.

Murdoch and co. have been in the news quite a lot recently, most notably back in late August when James Murdoch (son of Rupert) gave a lecture in Edinburgh attacking the BBC, declaring it to be a threat to independence of news provision. While he was storming around the stage, I hardly think that Mark Thompson was quaking in his shoes. The BBC is, and will remain one of the best examples of how a broadcasting corporation should be run. One need only hop over the Atlantic and tune into the likes of Keith Olbermann to see how good we have it in the UK. Murdoch's Sky News prides itself on being first with breaking news, often to the point of throwing unsubstantiated quotes onto the screen, so obsessed are they with getting the scoop.

Rupert Murdoch sees himself as an all conquering, Alfred Harmsworth, Lord Northcliffe style character.

I think it's a shame that history seems to have blotted out Northcliffe and his emergence as the first press baron in modern newspaper production. Having created The Daily Mail and Daily Mirror, he subsequently went on to rescue several papers whose sales were in free fall. At one point he owned both the aforementioned newspapers as well as The Observer, The Times and The Sunday Times. He pioneered modern techniques like advertising and headlines, amongst other modern conventions like serialisations and machine operated typesets.

If Murdoch (whose father, interestingly, was mentored by Northcliffe) truly wants to be the Northcliffe of the 21st Century, he a) Better come up with some ideas to revolutionise media quickly (and charging for online content isn't going to cut the mustard) and b) Has to become a lot more pleasant in the process.

Undoubtedly Northcliffe was a difficult man. Rampant expansionism and megalomania contributed to a nervous breakdown before his death, and he was unpopular amongst rival newspapers for his aggressive taste for pioneering new techniques. But could you really forsee Murdoch leaving money in his will to all his employees, as Northcliffe did? Or starting a campaign proclaiming the evils of white bread and the virtues of wholemeal? It was these little eccentricities that gave him the edge that Murdoch lacks.

With his business-like approach to news, Murdoch has no doubt amassed a gargantuan fortune, but none of his media outlets have endeared themselves to the British public like the BBC. The Sun, as the most read newspaper, is still only read by 11% of the electorate. When you turn on Sky News, there is no authority, no sense that the newscaster understands the issues being presented. Instead a garish newsroom which resembles the control room on the Starship Enterprise is hurled before your eyes, which makes the presenters look like Gerry Anderson's cast offs.

We'll see what happens at the polling stations come 2010, if Cameron and Osborne are triumphant no doubt The Sun will be first to accept the plaudits. For now let's just enjoy the fact that News International are faced with a problem that they've never seen, a media world which is changing beyond their control.

Oh the humanity.

Humanity's sense of self preservation is ironically, only matched by it's ability to create new ways to blow each other apart.

Since the beginning of time, the human race has time and time again been defined by conflict. Whether it be the antics of 1066, the horrors of the Somme or riled captains barking orders into the ears of grunts in 'Nam, the subject of warfare is fascinating to everyone, whether we experienced it first hand or not.

When discussing war, it's very easy to romanticise what is an atrocious and vile part of human nature. The kinship and bond that forms between soldiers under fire is compelling to those of us lucky enough to never be involved in the bloodshed. What seems to be a common trait amongst people who've lived through battles is that they were just trying to get through it, day by day. Humanity's sense of self preservation comes to the fore during this time of danger. Interestingly it's this same sense of self preservation that humanity applies in a less immediate context, that is, climate change.

I have mixed views about this now popular issue. Wading through the reams of publicity and products that are pure tokenism is difficult, and means that sometimes those with pure and well meaning intention are often overshadowed by their more glamourous cousins. I'm referring to the pedal pusher wearing Notting Hill mothers who guilt trip the rest of us by "buying organic" and dressing up little Artemis and Ophelia in 100% fairtrade cotton. They are also the same people driving their 4 x 4's down Kensington High Street, doing their best to smash me off my bike into the kerb and pumping enough odious gases into the air to rival a pre-Thatcher northern mill.

Humanity is threatened by climate change. We dropped a stink bomb down the vest of mother nature, and now the universe is calling us into the headmasters office for a caning. Thus we're frantically scrabbling around to appease him on high (God, Allah, Richard Dawkins, Simon Cowell, whoever you believe in) by saving our planet. Interestingly if all of humanity was wiped out tomorrow, the universe would heal itself, wildlife would thrive and ecosystems would recover to a state that won't have been seen since the first ice age.

So if we were truly selfless we'd give it all up tomorrow. But we're not. We're the young private dodging bullets on the frontline, senses heightened, adrenalin pumping, thinking of nothing more than to batten down the hatches and save our scrawny behinds. So mankind blunders on, trying to find new ways to delay the inevitable. We're all going to hell in a handcart, and my children's children's children's children's children's children's children's children's children's are going to be burnt to a crisp.

Lovely.