CO2 dress

For God's sake, don't breathe on her or you'll be denounced as a climate criminal before you can say say "cap and trade".

Wavebox

The final blow to the self-heating meal–at least, while a 12 volt source is available.

Sir Peter Jackson

Peter Jackson cops a knighthood on this year's New Year's Honours list. Me? Not a sausage–again! I'd even settle for an OBE at this point.

Bloody favouritism, that's what I call it.

Dangerous theatre

Harry Stein at the The City Journal talks about David Mamet and the problems of conservative theatre.

I know just how he feels. I've been working in the theatre as an actor, writer, producer, dialect coach, dramaturge and whatever for more years than I care to think about and the one thing that never fails to amuse me is when someone talks about a "daring" play that "challenges" the prejudices of the audience. Since the play in question is invariably a far left diatribe performed in front of a far left audience that spends the entire evening nodding in smug agreement, the whole enterprise is about as "challenging" as bringing spare ribs to a barbecue. If they really wanted to "challenge" their audience they'd put on a play about, for example, a gay man discovering that he's been living a lie and he's really straight, but that might get the house torched.

Heck, I have an adaptation of Kipling's The Butterfly that Stamped that's been cooling in my files for the past three years because its moral that wives shouldn't torment their husbands means it can't get produced in Seattle.

Yup. Dangerous theatre.

Edwina (1987-2009)

The oldest duck in Britain has gone to that great baking tin in the sky.

Messiah watch

From an editorial in Denmark's Politiken.DK regarding Barack Hussein Obama's place in history:

Obama is, of course, greater than Jesus – if we have to play that absurd Christmas game.

How can anyone argue with that? Jesus is merely the only begotten son of God who brought the Gospel to the world, died on the cross to atone for the sins of all mankind, descended into Hell, was resurrected, and now sits at the right hand of the Father Almighty where he will judge the quick and the dead. The One, on the other hand, is much greater because he... Well... He... Yeah.

Avatar: The Making of the Bootleg

New Years resolution

Synthohol

Scientist claims to be on the verge of creating an alcohol substitute that tastes the same, but does not inebriate.

One question: WHY!?!?!

Avatar: Born to be bad

In 1977, a film came along that remade the entire industry. It ushered in the era of the blockbuster, introduced rafts of new technologies and marriages of old, integrated symphonic music into popcorn cinema, and demonstrated that the audience had become so familiar with the vocabulary of science fiction that they no longer had to be sold on the concept in the story. It was the most successful film up to that time, influenced the popular culture of a generation, was responsible for at least half of all content on the early Internet, and resulted in some of the best jokes on Spaced.

It was also one of the worst films ever made with a plot that was stitched together with a cleaver and dialogue so bad that one of its stars conned the director into killing his character off early so he wouldn't have to say any more of those god-awful lines.

Yes, I'm talking Star Wars. It was beautiful. I well remember back then how incredibly impressive it was sitting in the Odeon with the first chord of John Williams's score, the story so far roller, and the unforgettable opening shot of the spaceship that went on forever with all ray guns blasting.

God, it stank.

I never thought I'd relive that time of youthful innocence, but I have. I have seen Avatar.

God, it stank.

I know I said I wouldn't see it until it came out on Pay Per View, but it's the Christmas hols and I was outvoted by my wife, daughter, and the five-year old neighbour boy who went with us, so it was jumbo popcorn and 3D specs all 'round.

First, let's get the praise out of the way. The CGI is very impressive. The resolution is very high, the textures are detailed to the point where you could almost touch them, the lighting effects are excellent, and the motion capture technology is state of the art. In fact, it works too well. It's the first time I've seen the subtleties of facial expressions captured properly, allowing the actor to really come through. This is great if the subject is someone who has some real acting chops like Sigourney Weaver. For others, this is not an advantage. The tag line could have been, "You will believe that a CGI character can overact". Overall, however, the effect of all the computer animation was that I kept reaching for the game controller, which is where I suspect most of the CGI techs cut their teeth.

As for the much-vaunted 3D, I merely found it distracting for the first five minutes and then I forgot about it entirely. On the upside, the Polaroid glasses are much more comfortable and don't give me a headache the way the old bichromatic jobs did.

The plot? If you've seen A Man Called Horse, Dances With Wolves, Soldier Blue, At Play in the Fields of the Lord, The Last Samuri, or even Dune, the Endor scenes from Return of the Jedi, or pretty much any trendy lefty film since 1972, then you've seen this film–over and over again. Civilised man meets primitives, man is accepted by primitives as one of them, man turns traitor and slaughters his civilised brethren. If you're into written science fiction, if you've read Poul Anderson's "I am Joe", Clifford D Simak's City, Alan Dean Foster's Midworld, Harry Harrison's Deathworld Trilogy, Ursula le Guin's The Word for the World is Forest, Eric Frank Russell's "Symbiotica", or just about anything else written since 1935, you know the fantastic side of the story. I'd include Edgar Rice Burroughs and Alex Raymond as well, but the poor men have already suffered enough and our hero isn't John Carter or Flash Gordon by a long chalk.

Short version: Paraplegic ex-marine Jake Sully is sent to Pandora, the tropical moon of a gas giant orbiting Alpha Centuri to pilot an "Avatar"; a genetically engineered duplicate of the Pandoran natives. Using a padded coffin strung with magic Christmas lights, Sully can connect his mind to his Pandoran body so he can move about freely in the moon's poisonous air and make contact with the natives to learn more about them and negotiate peaceful relations. He's a bit of a cipher and, given the plot, I'd have been happier if he'd been written as a 22nd century Harry Flashman (Flashman and the Blueskins!), but...

Unknown to Sully or the altruistic missionaries scientists who created the Avatars, the evil military commander and the evil corporation that apparently runs the evil military in 2154 not-so secretly plan to wipe out the natives because it's so gosh darn more fun than haggling over mineral rights. In a burst of incredible originality, Sully learns the ways of the natives and when he discovers the evil Earthmen's evil plans to evilly destroy the natives with great evilness, he turns traitor, leads the natives (who follow him out of curiosity) into battle, and slaughters thousands of his fellow humans without a touch of remorse. The human survivors are then frog marched aboard their spaceships back to Earth and the natives and Sully live happily ever after–or until Earth Command sends an orbital bomber force to wipe them all out a month later, but the film doesn't explore that detail.

James Cameron worked on getting Avatar to the screen for fifteen years, though from the plot it seems more like since 1968. Indeed, the frog march ending reads like a Vietnam War protester's wet dream. During the climactic battle I kept waiting for our hero to scream, "Damn you, Bush!" while Dick Cheney whizzed by in an attack helicopter with Tony Blair in the Gunner's seat.

The entire film is a beautifully imaged cliche fest. The military are mindless killers lead by a commander who is just itching for an excuse to take the safeties off for no readily apparent reason other than racist blood lust. Of course, he and his men a) have all the brains of a wet teabag b) make every mistake imaginable and c) have never seen the Endor bit in Return of the Jedi, so it's no wonder that a 22nd century force is taken down with bows and arrows. Any other director I could excuse this from, but James Cameron? The man who coined the phrase, "Nuke the site from orbit"? Doesn't he even see his own movies?

The natives, on the other hand, are without exception brave, noble, wise, in harmony with nature, have perfect teeth, vote Labour, recycle, buy only Fair Trade coffee, and drive Prisuses. They even react with horror if someone exhibits a knowledge of fire. Rousseau would feel his dinner coming back around this bunch. Mind you, for all their virtues, not a one can hold a bow string for toffee. And they have yet to discover anything resembling a sense of humour or the ability to speak in other than the most stilted of sentences. Though they live an idyllic existence, they do suffer, as do the Earthmen, from one pestilence of civilisation: The Action Girl cliche that was old when The Swordmaster's Daughter hit the stage in 1894. It never works unless the writer and director really think it through and here it's just embarrassing. When our native princess went into a knife-wielding crouch toward the end of the film, I literally burst out laughing. Dejah Thoris this Pandoran is not.

Okay, but suspension of disbelief and all that. Sorry, I'm all for it and will suspend with the best of them, but the flying mountains wrecked not only my suspension, but my shocks of tolerance and leaf springs of credulity as well. As in Titanic, Cameron imagines that imagery will cover every plot hole and excuse his dogged refusal to pick up better plot opportunities that would have improved his story immeasurably. Instead, we have a nearly three hour diatribe about Cameron's ideal Gaia-worshiping aliens who are literally connected to their world fighting off wicked Earth capitalists who deserve no better fate than to go back to face extinction on their own dying planet. It's a message that is not only offensive in its self-loathing (especially when I drop $12 for the privilege of his insult), but also because Cameron, who produced at least two excellent films back in the '80s, has prostituted his own art to share his loathing with the rest of us.

But, say other reviews I've read, don't be so negative. It's only a movie. Forget the plot and just go with what's on screen. At that point, I merely sigh and answer with two words: Star Wars.

Another honour

Having won the Nobel Peace Prize, Mr Barack Hussein Obama has been voted US President Most Likely to Have His Lunch Money Stolen by Other World Leaders.

Briton of the Year

Joanna Lumley is chosen as The Times' Briton of the Year.

I'd have given her the title back in 1975–though for entirely different reasons.

Mistletoe Madness

Mistletoe causes mating frenzy among sea horses.

Randy little buggers.

The Seeds of Destruction Part 2

The Final Sacrifice

Happy Christmas

Happy Christmas
from
Ephemeral Isle.

Scrooge

Watch Scrooge (1951 Alastair Sim) DVDRip XviD MP3.avi in Entertainment  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Our Christmas Eve treat and a story I've done many times on stage. Never as Scrooge, I fear, but my Bob Cratchit was very well received.

Christmas lights

Why light just your house when you can do the whole street?

Avatar defined.

What I suspect will be the definitive review of Avatar.

No, I haven't seen it, because from what I've seen and heard (and having survived the horror of Titanic) I'm waiting for it to show up on Pay Per View.

Update: This one comes a pretty good second.

Coca Cola Santa

Excerpts from the man who formed our modern images of The Man.

Saving us from the horrors of Christmas

What happens when free men allow themselves to be treated like livestock.

Santa's new sleigh

At least Land Rover left room for Rudolph.

Cream of Tartar

In the words of P G Wodehouse, Christmas almost has us by the throat, so yesterday I decided that there was nothing else for it but to sally forth and buy what we needed for Christmas dinner. Actually, it was for Christmas Eve dinner because we're spending Christmas day driving all over the Pacific Northwest, or a fair fraction of it, visiting friends and relatives. I know that sounds a bit odd, but this is because, despite their reputation for being big eaters, Americans are positively dainty around the holidays. Even their Thanksgiving meals would be scarcely a entrée at an English Christmas. And I've never seen a crate of milk stout rolled out in America after the cheese course–maybe because they don't have one. Not for them gorging on rafts of appetisers, three meat courses, meat pies, smoked salmon, mince pies, savoury courses, desserts, nuts, and then washing the entire lot with an eclectic mix of wine, beer and spirits like Mr Creosote on a binge. Leave it at the turkey and stuffing and call it good, says your average American. The means that they are something the British are not on Christmas day: Mobile.

The upshot of all this is that Christmas dinner at Chez Szondy is put forward to the night before so we can drive up and down the Puget Sound area to watch friends and relatives not eating and drinking. It also means that a) I have to cut down on my traditional caloric and alcoholic intake at our family dinner because b) I am not going to be allowed to sleep through Boxing Day like a civilised human being and c) I have to take my seven-year old daughter to the supermarket on Sunday to pick up the viands.

Normally, I rather enjoy doing the grocery shopping. It allows me to indulge in one of my favourite activities of not spending money. Do we need butter this week? No, I bought a pallet load at the wholesale place last month. Name brand macaroni and cheese or the store brand that's a fourth of the price? The store brand's a little chewy, but you can still swallow it, so let's get that. 2006 Mouton Rothschild at $999.99 a bottle or half a dozen of the "two-buck chuck"? Don't even ask; just pass the corkscrew. This is not a normal Sunday, however. It's five days before Christmas and not only are the crowds insane, but the Salvation Army bell ringer has gone over to the Dark Side and is rolling on the floor in an eye-gouging match with a Buddhist monk over the last Zhu Zhu Pets Hamster. Since I'm staying in the food section, except for a detour to pick up some sporks out of the camping department (long story), I figure I'm relatively safe aside from the day-release patients who think the shopping trolleys are bumper cars.

For the most part, we're doing okay. We get the ham, the bread, the stuffing, and the rest without much incident. Even my daughter is relatively quiet because a few more synapses have linked up in her young brain and she's discovered that reading isn't that hard after all, so she's sitting in the child seat quietly reading a book about vampire squids. We're home free, I think. That is, until I got to the bottom of the list where lurked the Cream of Tartar that my wife wanted.

Now I'm not entirely sure what Cream of Tartar is, except that it's a fancy name for potassium bitartrate, and I have no idea as to what it's used for, but I do know that it's in the spice section and that's easy enough to find. It's where over a dozen people are milling around, hunting up and down the shelves like there's been a massive coincidence and everyone has simultaneously lost their ferrets there. I manage to squeeze myself, daughter and trolley into the throng and join them as I look for the Cream of Tartar. Pretty soon, I'm completely lost. Cream of Tartar is nowhere to be found despite there being 582,612 varieties of salt. Then I overhear the other shoppers talking to each other. I discover two things. First, there is no Cream of Tartar on the shelves and second, that every one there was also looking for the same, albeit absent, C of T.

Soon, a young shop assistant appears and in calm tones suggesting someone who is trying to take a caribou away from a hungry polar bear announces that there is no Cream of Tartar left. The crowd begins to turn ugly in that way that Eisenstein tried so hard to capture on film and the beleaguered young shop assistant keeps one eye on the nearest exit while his right hand gropes among the fish boil packets for a suitable weapon to defend himself with. Any second now., I think, something is going to set them off and there'll be a pram rolling down the steps in no time.

But before the the scalpel of Fate can reach the frisky puppy of Destiny, I jump on top of a crate of marshmallow fluff and with hands in the air shout, "Listen to me! Listen to me! You can use white vinegar! In equal proportions!"

A hush falls over the nascent mob. Then a murmuring starts as some shoppers start asking where the white vinegar is while others remain committed Cream of Tartar purists. A small, sharp-faced woman starts extolling the merits of white vinegar on teleological grounds. A large man with heavy red jowls bellows that Cream of Tartar was good enough for his father and it's good enough for him. A man in a jacket a size too large for him starts to ask if salad dressing will do, but is glared into silence. Soon the crowd starts arguing. A schism forms with the battle lines drawn between the Tartarists and the Vinegarites. Before you could say "two for one sale" a tin of Allspice strikes a man who looks remarkably like Keir Hardie clean in the face and a full-blown religious war erupts in Aisle 5. It was at this point that my daughter and I make our escape through Soft Toys.

By last reports, the violence has since spread to Produce, the Deli section has declared itself a free republic, Notions is ablaze, and the store manager has lashed himself and a Japanese friend to the lobster tank. State officials trying to restore order have not ruled out air strikes at this time.

As for the Szondy family, I think we'll do a Chinese takeaway this year.

Poor didums

A terrorist commander with blood on his hands up to his elbows and who walks free (and is a member of Parliament!) only thanks to the most craven deal ever made by a British government reveals that his daddy abused him.

Pardon me while I get out the violin.

Cyber Tortoise

Cybernetizoo explores Russia's Cyber Tortoise of 1962.

Hunts for Sarah Connor very, very slowly.

A modest proposal

Britain's armed forces are once again facing swinging budget cuts at the hands of New Labour. The new aircraft carriers, the independent nuclear deterrent, fighter aircraft, warship numbers, and bases are all in the hazard. How? How? How can Britain find the £1 billion a year to protect the realm?

How about taking Britain out the the EU? The £18 billion we'd save every year would be very welcome. Then, with economies of scale and firing a division of MOD parasites, we could replace Trident annually and throw in a new carrier group as well.

Jame Retief, call your service

As I've said before, Barack Hussein Obama's kowtow to the Chinese premier was nothing but an invitation for the Chicoms to humiliate him, but I do give The One five out of ten for pushing his way through when Wen Jiabao tried to make him cool his heels at the door. Where The Light Worker feel down was in losing his temper and shouting “Mr Premier, are you ready to see me? Are you ready?”

A better course of action would have been to have his security detail be as rough as they please with the Chinese and then for Mr Obama to politely tell Mr Wen that he has apparently been working the aide who tried to block him too hard and that the young man needs a vacation before telling Mr Wen that he can give him fifteen minutes of the president's valuable time–all of this sweetly delivered in the voice of a man confident that he can turn Bejing into a glass lake in ten minutes.

Not much hope there, though.

The Seeds of Desrtuction Part 1