Top 10 Documentaries of ALL TIME (probably) - part 4

JOINT NUMBER 2. (with Spellbound... see previous post)

Those who have bothered to read the other 8 entries in this list instead of skipping to the top two will recall my sage aphorism: "Everyone loves a tiny French man." This is proved true yet again, in the inspiring documentary that is Man On Wire. Honestly, the protagonist's name is quite literally Phillipe Petit.

When you mention this documentary to people they'll go oh yes that one that won the Oscars and stuff. Yes indeed my pretties. A documentary wins an Oscar every year but for some reason this is the one that people remember. Man On Wire also won lots of other prizes elsewhere and is quite simply marvellous.

It's essentially Ocean's Eleven for day-dreamers (because day-dreamers don't get Ocean's Eleven... everything happens really fast and then you're like, wait, what happened, it's happened already? that happened? where was I when that happened......??? And it's just all pretty baffling). Well this almost-heist is simultaneously much more ridiculous and much more straight-forward in narrative than Oceans Eleven. It's also real life. What more could you want?

And obviously, Philippe's tightrope-walking feat itself is hugely awe-inspiring. All in all, very much worthy of my second-from-the-top spot.

1. Exit Through The Gift Shop

Ok, ok. I actually genuinely only just realised that three of my top 10 documentaries feature tiny French men. Clearly my obsession must run deeper than I'd realised. This one has another in it. I'd say this guy is the best French man of all time, perhaps. Except Poirot. OH.WAIT.NO.HE.WAS.BELGIAN.

I don't wan't to spoil this doc by talking lots of gibberish about it and ruining the story. I'm just going to tell you that it has BANKSY in it. But it's not even about Banksy. THAT right there, is proof of just how cool this film is. That's right, this documentary is the epitome of cool. Thierry Guetta (aka. Mr. Brainwash) is the most amazing creature ever created by our absurd culture and his story makes amazingly entertaining viewing. Trust me: watch it. You'll enjoy. I guarantee.

Top 10 Documentaries of ALL TIME (probably) - part 3

2. Spellbound

I, of all people especially, love a good nerd. When I was growing up my dad used to call me Gretchen (she's the one with the epic glasses and freckles and teeth from Recess who speaks through her nose). I feel that on the whole I've been lucky enough to mainly grow out of my nerdiness. No, maybe I've grown into it. But either way, I will always feel a great affinity with all diminutive bespectacled creatures.

But Spellbound is more than your average lolz-they-have-no-social-skills flick (for this see: Deborah 13: Servant of God or anything featuring Mormons). Spellbound shows how, for these gawky kids, many of whom are the children of immigrants, exceptional command of the English language offers a sense of belonging, and in some strange way, affirms their Americanness.

Top 10 Documentaries of ALL TIME (probably) - Part 2

I know you've been waiting for this with baited breath. So here it bloody well is:

5. The Imposter 

Ok so this gets points from me for being produced kinda like it's a feature film. Because documentary IS an equally valuable art form. And the story is absolutely fantastically fascinating- a tiny French man pretends to be a Texan child and gets away with it... possibly because the family have a secret to hide... possibly because they are crazy too... simply fabulous. Everyone loves a tiny French man. Although this one looks a little too much like Gavin (a la Gavin & Stacy) for my liking...

Do you see it too....???

4. Paradise Lost

So this is really long and depressing and involves a court-case and intrigue and child-murder. Right up my street. It's about the notorious Robin Hood murders and tells the story of the three young boys accused of the murder and sexual mutilation of some kids even younger than them. Horrific as the subject matter is, it is incredibly engrossing. And it is sort of hideously fun to try and work out whether the accused boys are guilty or innocent. Made me want to be a lawyer for about ten minutes.

(For something similar (I don't know why but I find child criminals really interesting...) there was recently a very excellent documentary on Channel 4 called 'Twelve Year Old Lifer' about a twelve and a fifteen year old boy who shot dead the fifteen year old's step-dad. It raised lots of issues about the American justice system and about whether or not children should really be tried as adults. And significantly, I think, pointed out how tragic the situation was for absolutely everyone involved- teenage killers included. Highly recommended (not only because I did some transcribing work on it whilst I interned at NERD tv...))

3. Thin Blue Line

Are you in the mood to feel outraged? Do you want to feel ANGRY and APPALLED and for there to be ABSOLUTELY NOTHING you can do about it? Watch this film. (Then Wikipedia check what happened in its aftermath and glory in the catharsis of vindication). It's about a man who is serving in prison for a murder he quite blatantly did not commit- and tells the infuriating narrative of how and why he ended up there. It makes one glad that one does not live in stinking America. Vastly better entertainment than your average episode of CSI Miami. Next time its on tv and you're tempted, think twice, watch this instead. Honestly this one is just brilliant.

MWHAHAHAHAHAHAH that is all for now... you will have to CHECK BACK IN A FEW DAYS FOR THE RESULTS OF THE FINAL TWO BEST DOCUMENTARIES OF ALL TIME (probably).

These three will keep you busy 'til then.

Toodles x

Top 10 Documentaries of ALL TIME (probably) - Part 1

I am a big watcher of documentaries. And I am not, like some, a documentary snob. I am open-minded, and always hopeful that I may be pleasantly surprised by the excellent quality of the many late 90s documentaries still available on 4od, or even, dare I say it, Channel 5. Of course I also enjoy the weighty insightful political stuff that wins awards at obscure French festivals too.

So this is my top 10 list. In reverse order.

10. Grizzly Man

Tells the story of the life and death of the lunatic "bear enthusiast" Timothy Treadwell. Treadwell is a captivating topic, whom, it seems, would have been happier as a bear than a human. In all fairness to him, the fact that he survived so long in such close proximity to the bears is pretty damn impressive. Werner Herzog's German accent is soothing, but I can't decide if it makes the story of Treadwell's death feel more or less shocking- but it is definitely a good thing. For those who have seen the film already, I recommend this fun Sporcle quiz that gets you to identify Treadwell's bear friends by name: http://www.sporcle.com/games/MistahSchwartz/GrizzlyMan. The only one I could remember was Mr. Chocolate.

9. My Penis & I

Oh BBC Three you wonderful, wonderful beast. This is about a man and his quest to come to terms with his smaller than average... well, penis. Despite the initial hilarity caused by the majority of the content of this documentary, poor Lawrence's self-confidence issues are actually quite touching. Essentially, his emotional journey is an thinly veiled excuse for BBC3 to allow viewers to gawp and gasp at lots and lots and lots of images of our favourite male organ. I'd recommend watching this with a group of squeamish girls and lots of wine.

8. Bowling For Columbine

Probably my favourite Michael Moore documentary. Watching as a Brit rather than an American means that most of Moore's arguments in favour of gun-control seem outrageously obvious, but Moore is absolutely the best at wittily handling very serious subjects, and Bowling For Columbine gives a fascinating insight into the history of the town that has seen such horrific violence.

7. Grey Gardens

Grey Gardens is a classic, and should probably be much closer to #1 on this list. It captures the lives of two highly eccentric reclusive women, a mother and a daughter called Big Edie and Little Edie. Their garden is wild and overgrown, they live without running water and their large mansion is infested with racoons, cats and fleas. They muse about the past, and rarely admit any outsiders in. Little Edie is basically Blanche Du Bois in real life; and as such, utterly mesmerising to watch.

6. King of Kong

King of Kong transports us to a bizarre American microcosm where Video Games rule the world and where the baddies make hot sauce and have really stupid hair. The amount of time and energy that the extraordinary characters in this film put into playing Donkey Kong is just incredible; if you wrote this as a fiction it would be dismissed as far too ridiculous to be believed. Trust me, YOU HAVE GOT TO WATCH THIS ONE. 

One Man And His Cat

Oh, alas, alas, alas. The Morning. How did it creep up on me so fast? A whole night without a moment's peace and yet, there it was already. The sun through the curtains. Like a beacon of war shining into the dusty bedroom, hailing forth the dreadful new day. I awoke, (if you can call it that when you've not been asleep at all), at almost seven o'clock. That was the first time that I'd roused the courage to look at the clock. It was getting up time. As ever, I breathed in deeply and stretched my toes to the ceiling until I felt that satisfying pop. It would be good to be rid of these arthritic feet, I thought. I breathed out and shuffled to the bathroom. Shaved, brushed my teeth and splashed just a touch of cologne on my cuffs- it was a special day after all.

For breakfast I had a bowl of Scottish Oats with a banana chopped into it for some extra texture, just as my mother used to make it. I have always found that a whole banana is too much; so I only used half, and set aside the rest still in its skin for a snack later.

“Urma!” I croaked, “Urrrma!”

In she plodded. All whiskers and tail curling between my ankles.

“Good morning darling.” I said, affectionately. “I got something special for you today.”

I fetched her a tin of John West's Tuna and presented it to her in a bowl on the floor. She settled with her head in the fishy goodness, munching away until it was entirely gone.

“What an admirable appetite you do have. I've another tin for dinner.” I told her. She purred in reply.

I took my notebook down from the shelf and we decided to relocate to the sofa. I sink into it too far these days; should probably get a new one, but it is comfortable enough and I am rather fond of the floral pattern. Urma jumped up into the cat-shaped dip beside me. Together we watched the video-tape that I had made of last night's Eastenders. Important to keep up with the gossip, you see.

When the drum beat started going at the end of the episode I felt suddenly this terrible wave of ghastly sorrow. It was today. Today had actually come. I tried to clear my throat and spluttered into my fist with determination. Trying to force out that perilous emotion. Eventually the coughing stopped and I began to feel better. Somehow purged of all the sadness. Resigned. I wiped my saliva-bespattered hand on the cat, who uttered a meow of reluctance and tried to wriggle away.

Having overcome this spasm of woe I was able to focus on the task at hand. I opened my book. 11^th November 2011. 'To Do List,' the list was entitled. The only thing it said was 'Tracy.' It was a big day. I coughed.

“Shall I have a banana? Yes, I think I will. And then I shall set off.” I said to Urma. “I'm going to tell her today.”

So I munched on the half-banana that had not made it into my porridge before setting out with my great rain mac and furry hat on. My favourite one- with the flaps to keep your ears warm.

As I left the house the cold air hit me like a bulldozer in the face. Wham. I sucked in the cold and let it fill my whole body, it flowed through me, made me feel fresh. I wanted to take nice memories with me so I picked a scenic route. I walked across the green. Unfortunately, it turned out to have been a bad decision; it was foggy out and I couldn't make out the mud in order to avoid it. Nevertheless, the scenery was quite imposing enough to stop me thinking about too much else. Still, as soon as I was back on the pavement those great green eyes burned their way back into my head.

Cisburry Ring South. There it was. The white house. I rang the doorbell. Heart hammering.

“Phillip!” she frowned slightly, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, well, I just thought I would come and say hello.” I stammered.

“Oh, ok.” her lips pursed, “Come in then?”

I walked into the kitchen and sat myself down on a chair. I could hear the children stomping about upstairs.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Oh you know. Busy. But fine really. Jason has just had chicken-pox.” She said matter-of-factly.

“Right, right.” I murmured, becoming increasingly nervous. Her green eyes were looking at me. I felt myself welling up.

“Look Tracy, I have something I have to tell you.”

“Oh?” she murmured, nonchalant.

“Today. It is today!”

“What are you talking about Philip? What is today?”

“It is November 11^th 2011 Tracy. It is November 11^th 2011. Today the world is going to end. It is the end of the world! I know it and I just had to let you know because I don't want you to be taken by surprise Tracy.”

She was looking at me in disbelief. Her eyebrows were raised. There was mocking. Mocking beneath those gorgeous lashes. It made her less beautiful. I had to stop her. I got up off my chair and stepped towards her. I noticed that she took a little step back as I did so. I reached out, I just wanted to touch her hair; my eyes were wide with horror. I had to save her.

“Tracy tonight the world is going to end and I cannot let you not know about it. I had to tell one person and it had to be you because I think you're wonderful! You have such beautiful eyes, Tracy. I had to save you!”

She blinked at me. For a while, neither of us said anything. I tried to take hold of her hand but she jumped back in horror.

“Philip. You cannot talk to me like this. This is nonsense.” Her hand was over her mouth, muffling her words.

“But Tracy, the world. The world is ending.”

“Get that rubbish out of your head Philip. You have to leave.”

I tried to hug her. She screamed.

“Leave! Now!”

So I left. There was nothing I could do. I had warned her and surely that was enough. I went home and sat staring at the television with Urma. I felt somehow calmer. I had told her. I had warned her. When it happened she would know I was right. I had tried to help. She would be grateful then. Perhaps she would think of me at the end. I ate another banana. I had done all that I could do. I sat there all the rest of the day wondering about what was going to happen when everything was gone. As the clock ticked 11 thirty it was time to begin. I had decided in advance what had to be done. I went to the drawer in the kitchen. I took two tins of tuna out of the cupboard. Urma slunk in, her ears twitching with pleasure at the thought of food. I mixed one of the tins with some sweetcorn and mayonnaise to make a sandwich for myself. The other I emptied into a bowl which I gave to Urma. We ate together. When I had finished washing up, I reached into a drawer. A gun. The tears welled up in my eyes as I thought of the good times.

“Urma. I love you.” I said, a lump bulging in my throat. “I love you even more than her.”

And I took the gun in my hand. And I shot Urma all over the wall.

I returned to the sofa and wept. At least she would not suffer now. I stared at the clock as it counted down the hours. Tick tick tick tick tick. Midnight had come.

Why Johnny Depp holding a puppy almost made me cry.

As a girl, I try not to be the type who transforms into a blathering dimwit when confronted with images of aesthetically pleasing male specimens- and pride myself on this fact. Unfortunately, this photo caused me to let myself down. As it appeared on my Facebook feed (posted by Poking Smot - http://pokingsmot.net/ - they post truly excellent photos daily, well worth a follow), I froze mid-thought and stared. I clicked. Yes, IT WAS REAL. The stunningly beautiful Mr. Depp was indeed tenderly and contentedly holding a small Spaniel puppy, as though it were a new born babe. With one eye-brow somewhat raised, his lips stretched into an almost-smile; he asserts his paternal prowess and he confirms his emotional depth with a gaze full of candid sentiment. Yes, it is true, he is wearing a fabulous striped polo-neck sweater, similar to one that I myself own. Of course, he smoulders. Of course, he is wearing not one watch, but two.

The Best Surreal Headline Fails

Drunk Get Nine Months in Violin Case

Stolen Painting Found By Tree

Enraged Cow Injures Farmer With Axe

Father Philanthropy

This is a short video about one of the most prolific art forgers in American history, Mark Landis. What is amazing is that he didn't sell his paintings, just donated them to over 50 museums... 

The worst things about involuntary holidays

I'm now two weeks into my four week break between internships. It is not going well. I am definitely one of those people who would prefer to be stressed out of my mind with multiple lengthy and looming lists of things to do-- than bored. These are the worst things about involuntary holidays:

1) Excruciating Boredom - I'm on level 2002 of Unblock Car. No word of a lie.

2) Having too little to do makes it hard to do anything. (Except play Unblock Car).

3) Loss of social skills - it is now normal not to speak to anybody other than family members for anything up to six days at a time.

3) Replacing friends with food. Because I'm always sitting in the kitchen.

5) Pent up creativity leads to really bad poetry-

Does anything rhyme with poem?
I'm sure somebody knows,
But I don't know'em.
I'll think of something myself,
And that will show them.
Or not.


... I joined a temp agency this morning.....

"You Had Me At Hello"

"London Review Cake Shop" - or: Why I don't need a therapist.

Recently one of my best fiends asked me if I need to see a therapist. The answer was a clear, "no thank you." The thing is, I'm not depressed, I just secretly (ish) love to complain. If I got all of my complaining out of the way in the presence of a shrink, I'd have nothing to talk about to anybody else all day long. Moreover, if I never felt sorry for myself, I'd have very little opportunity to allow myself to feel better by indulging in cake.

I read somewhere this week that the amount of pleasure that any individual can enjoy is directly proportional to the amount of pain that they allow themselves to suffer. The further the pendulum swings, the greater the impact that any restorative can have. I like the impact to be huge.

The London Review Cake Shop is a small cafe in Bloomsbury, just around the corner from the British Museum, where one can go on a dreary day for a real wallop of sugary penicillin.

Nestled in the corner of a book shop about twice its size, the cafe, though unfussily decorated, is warm and inviting. Customers get to chose between slightly cramped tables for two lined up against one wall or a large rectangular table by the back windows, which seats around twelve. If not massively comfortable, it's cosy, and the atmosphere is cheering and friendly.

They sell Monmouth coffee (arguably the best in London) and the cafe sports a tea menu longer than the wine lists in most good restaurants. I opted for a green tea with rose which was, as expected, really good. The tea is brought to the table on a wooden board with a baffling array of different receptacles. The gregarious Australian owner came over and showed me how to infuse and decant my tea- a process that involved flipping a glass teapot upside down into a small jug and then refilling the first teapot with hot water from another, larger clay teapot.

I was told that the (very pretty) pink and green leaves in the glass pot were strong enough to make ten infusions worth of tea. Although this was far more tea than anybody would want to drink in one sitting, I tried my best anwyay, since I felt that doing so somehow justified the admittedly pretty hefty fee that the dainty tea leaves and hot water were going to set me back. (I believe it was in the range of £3.50- a lot, but well worth it for both the taste and the show).

The great selection of home-made cakes and pastries all looked glorious, and the proudly "full fat" muffin that I chose was extraordinarily yummy. They also offered a selection of salads, soups and sandwiches for those seeking savoury, rather than sweet treats.

Though £9 lighter, when I left the cafe I felt so uplifted that I practically frolicked back into the wintery air, taking a moment on my way to look around the book shop. In a world of soulless Starbucks and Costa Coffees, London Review Cake Shop is a place of robust character, seriously yummy food and damn good tea- the best therapy anyone could hope for. Foodies unite, you're bound to love it.

"The important thing is not what they think of me, but what I think of them." -Queen Victoria

WANTED: friends

So this is me today:

That's right. I am sad/bored/woebegone. Because all my friends are lame and stupid. They all either live too far away, are on exciting trips abroad, were more successful at attaining jobs than me, or just don't really give a damn. Either way, I've been sitting in the house for about two weeks now, searching for a reason to eat my own eye-balls, just so that I might have something the hell to do.

Thus, I have decided that selling myself is the only way. So here goes:

Young, dejected, 21 year old female seeks vibrant and interesting types to befriend her/ show her a good time. Sophie enjoys long walks on the beach, poetry, and water-painting. She likes dogs more than cats, and though somewhat socially awkward, Sophie is a valuable member of any friendship group, happy to assume the vital role of, 'the one who doesn't mind being laughed at'. All applicants please call: 0800-LONERSUNITE.

IT'S SUNNY

(To the tune of 'I'm Horny' by the epic Mousse T)

IT'S SUNNY, IT'S SUNNY SUNNY SUNNY, SO SUNNY, SUNNY SUNNY SUNNY TODAY.

That is all.

Real People

I'm not sure if this is something that other people do too, but very frequently, when sitting upon a train or a bus or in a cafe, I'll look at somebody. Some girl with straightened hair and make-up on, a man in a business suit, and I'll think, that right there, that is a real person. All around us are these people. The people who look 'real.' They could be extras in Hollywood, they probably have very serious arguments on the phone, they look god-damned solid. If you pricked them they would bleed.

I, have never felt like one of these real people. I look at them with a mixture of envy and befuddlement. I wish I was real too, but I don't know how they do it. See, I do not look the same everyday. I look alright if I try, but often my hair is frizzy and there are spots under my nose clumsily plastered with the wrong colour foundation. I do stupid things like leave my purse on the underground, fall up stairs and go through phases of using expressions way too frequently. These days its, "shit's gwanin down" and "shit has hit the fan." For no apparent reason. Except that I wish I was more gangsta, perhaps. Fat chance.

I just know that I could never be a Hollywood extra. They'd look at me and think, nope, she's not palpable enough. Unlike that guy over there, he's a real bona fide, valid human. I'll bet he wakes up at the same time every day and walks his dog. He'll do.

I think that this 'real'-ness is something to do with a person seeming significant to themselves. Like their issues are really fucking important. They really fucking matter, like, even if its just to them, ok? Like, god. Have some fucking sympathy, is the kind of thing they'd say. I don't think I really have many issues and if I did, I'm really quite aware that they don't matter all that much. What can I say, I'm lucky.

Anyway the point of this post is that on Monday I am becoming a real live working woman with shit to get done, and bills to pay and a professional working appearance to maintain. And I'm frightened. I know that when I walk into the office all these solid people will be there. And I don't know how the hell to talk to people like that.

AGH.