I'm Only Human

Cult movie Blade Runner was last week named the best sci-fi film of all time by an on-line poll, which is a timely reminder of a prophetic and emotional tale that stands out as one of the most original and intelligent science fiction films ever made. Directed by Ridley Scott and starring Harrison Ford and Rutger Hauer, Blade Runner successfully combines and transcends the sci-fi and detective genres to forge a serious drama that is complex, thought provoking and sophisticated. Although over twenty-five years old, the movie has aged exceptionally well, thanks to the most remarkable, brilliantly imagined and visualised panorama. Yet while the depiction of a futuristic, neon-lit Los Angeles is still breathtaking, the film is backed-up by a real sense of sadness, fear and longing, thus retaining its awe-inspiring power. It is arguably the most influential science fiction film ever made and these days it is almost impossible to find a gritty sci-fi motion picture that does not owe at least a small debt to Blade Runner’s visual style.

The irony, of course, is that the film was a box office failure when it was first released in 1982, receiving negative reviews from critics who called it muddled and baffling. Made in the shadow of Star Wars, Star Trek and E.T., Ridley Scott’s dark vision was apparently too dreary for the average moviegoer of the time, despite his previous success at the helm of Alien. It was probably not helped by Harrison Ford disparagingly quipping that, “It’s a film about whether you can have a relationship with your toaster.” Notwithstanding its financial failure, the film has since become a cult classic, its reputation further enhanced by the release of a Director’s Cut in 1992.

"In the city, there's a thousand things I want to say to you"

The film depicts a dystopian Los Angeles in 2019 where genetically engineered beings known as replicants have been created as slave labour on Earth’s off-world colonies. The replicants are androids of great strength and intelligence, virtually indistinguishable from humans except for certain emotional responses, but are given a life span of only four years as a safety precaution. Following several uprisings, the “skin jobs” are forbidden on Earth and specialist police called blade runners are employed to “retire” any escaped replicants.

The plot focuses on a cunning and brutal group of rebel replicants, lead by Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), who have returned to Earth in an attempt to prolong their “natural” life. A semi-retired blade runner, Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), reluctantly agrees to take on one final assignment to hunt down the escapees. In the course of his pursuit, Deckard meets and falls in love with Rachael (Sean Young), a new kind of replicant that is so nearly perfect that not even Deckard can distinguish her from a human at first. The film climaxes in an unforgettable showdown between Deckard and his nemesis Batty.

The movie is loosely based on the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick, whose work was also the source for other sci-fi blockbusters like Total Recall and Minority Report. Although Dick criticised an early version of the script, after an initial screening he enthused that the world created for the film looked exactly as he had imagined it: “I recognised it immediately. It was my own interior world. They caught it perfectly.” Indeed, the look of the film has arguably become Blade Runner’s principal legacy.

"Have you got something to sell?"

Breathtaking visual effects, such as the opening, fire-belching cityscape, highlight the most richly detailed future ever seen on screen. It looks fabulous, even though it is set in malevolent darkness and almost constant rain, and is in direct contrast to the antiseptic appearance of Star Wars. Unimaginably tall skyscrapers tower over horrendously crowded streets. At ground level the city looks like Hong Kong on a bad day, an enormous third world bazaar. This is just one of the contrasts painted by the incredible production. Like Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, or even H.G. Wells’ Time Machine, the wealthy literally live above the desperately poor, as gleaming technological wonders exist side by side with the horrendous squalor of a decaying, old city. Gigantic neon advertisements loom large through the acid rain, the smog and the flying traffic with promises of a better life (clean air, blue waters and green grass) on the off-world colonies, while the diverse billions left behind squeeze through the dangerous, polluted remains of planet Earth. The atmospheric score by Vangelis complements the mood beautifully, while the pre-CGI special effects seem so much warmer than the rather sterile efforts prevailing today and refuse to look dated even now.

However, it would be wrong to focus on the aesthetics alone, as this might suggest that the film is all style and no substance, which could not be further from the truth, as Blade Runner contains acting as stunning as the impressive visuals.

"Pistols at dawn"

Harrison Ford gives one of his better performances as the reluctant, taciturn Deckard, a dark and noir-ish twist on his heroic everyman exploits as Indiana Jones and Han Solo. Coming off his success in Star Wars, he could have been forgiven for reprising the action hero role, but instead his deeds here are far from gallant.

Sushi. That’s what my wife called me – cold fish.

Christ, Deckard. You look almost as bad as that skin job you left on the sidewalk.

Although the four replicants he pursues are all “terminated”, the two that he kills himself are unarmed women that he shoots in the back; one is killed by someone else just as he is about to finish off Deckard; and one dies of his own accord, having just saved Deckard’s life. Hardly very heroic, but all the more realistic for that. Deckard is ultimately forced to confront painful questions concerning his own identity, namely whether he is actually a replicant too. Ridley Scott has since confirmed that in his vision, Deckard is indeed a replicant, but the controversy remains ongoing, not least because Harrison Ford himself does not buy it. Ultimately, the viewer must make his own mind up, which is always the best way.

Ford’s love interest, Rachael (played by Sean Young), is not so successful. Although she manages to project a certain humanity by portraying innocence and vulnerability, the love story just does not work, as Young’s icily cool demeanour fails to infuse the relationship with the necessary human dimension. This may not be surprising, given that she is a replicant, but with her implanted memories she is meant to believe herself to be human. In any case, there are few sparks flying between Ford and Young.

On the other hand, Rutger Hauer is triumphant as the powerful, charismatic leader of the replicants, Roy Batty. Although highly dangerous and prone to extreme violence, his thoughtful performance as a tragic replicant fighting against the ebbing of his life almost makes you prefer him to Ford’s more stolid hero. Philip K. Dick regarded Hauer as “the perfect Batty – cold, Aryan, flawless”. He convincingly portrays Batty’s desperation, while captivating us with some memorable, lyrical lines:

Tyrell: Would you ... like to be upgraded?

Batty: I had in mind something a little more radical.

Tyrell: What ... what seems to be the problem?

Batty: Death.

Batty manages to radiate danger, while maintaining a philosophical, almost child-like, air, making his character very alive. As his creator exclaims, “The light that burns twice as bright burns for half as long - and you have burned so very, very brightly, Roy”. Batty’s last moments encapsulate his existence: first, he plays cat and mouse with the outclassed Deckard, then saves his life before delivering a swan song that is perhaps the most touching in movie history, as he recalls the wonders he has seen in his lifetime.

"She's got Bette Davis eyes"

Although the female replicants come to a violent end, these are tough women along the lines of Ripley in Alien and could easily serve as the inspiration for Thelma and Louise. Played by Daryl Hannah, Pris is a basic pleasure model, but this is no “tart with a heart”. Joanna Cassidy plays Zhora, a trained assassin working in a strip club. As a police captain says, “Talk about Beauty and the Beast – she’s both”. When Zhora is finally gunned down by Deckard and sent flying through multiple plate-glass windows wearing little more than a PVC mackintosh, Scott fills his sex and violence quota in just one scene.

Although on the surface appearing to be an action movie, Blade Runner is a multi-layered film that speaks to a number of weighty issues. Technology has given mankind access to the stars, but there are bigger issues here on Earth.

"You better get it up, or I'm gonna have to kill you"

The central theme is an examination of humanity and what truly makes us human, exploring the notions of identity, memory, thoughts, feelings and mortality. As Pris says to the geneticist, “I think, Sebastian, therefore I am”. With all the humans in the film so flawed and downright unpleasant (“man’s inhumanity to machine”), the question is what is the difference between them and the replicants? Maybe just a few more years on Earth. Blade runners use an empathy test, including the emotional response to treatment of animals, as the basic indicator of someone’s humanity, but this does not really address the question of whether the replicants are “alive”. The androids are almost perfect replicas of human beings, but do they have souls? This is the nagging question that has led to Deckard’s burn-out, as he anguishes over whether he is merely consigning machines to the trash or actually killing. Even though they are artificial, are they any less human? In fact, Batty ends up behaving in a more noble and “human” way than Deckard, when he saves his life, even though he has every reason to let him die. Maybe he just does not want to die alone. Either way, his final actions, more than any other, argue for the “humanity” of the replicants.

Deckard: [narrating] I don't know why he saved my life. Maybe in those last moments he loved life more than he ever had before. Not just his life - anybody's life, my life. All he'd wanted were the same answers the rest of us want. Where did I come from? Where am I going? How long have I got?

If humanity is at the heart of the movie, it should come as no great surprise that religion is also a recurring theme with biblical references and images just about anywhere you care to look. As Batty nears death, he gains a few more minutes of life by sticking a nail through his hand, before releasing a dove as he dies. It’s impossible to ignore the symbolism here, nor when Batty meets the mogul behind the manufacture of the replicants:

Tyrell: I'm surprised you didn't come here sooner.

Batty: It's not an easy thing to meet your maker.

Later, Batty speaks to Tyrrell in an almost confessional tone, “I’ve done … questionable things”, as Tyrell welcomes home “the prodigal son”. Even Zhora performs on stage with “the serpent that once corrupted man”. Fortunately, Blade Runner is grand enough in scale to carry its holy imagery, while never feeling heavy or pretentious.

"This is what it sounds like when doves cry"

How could it be so, when at its core the film is little more than a film noir? In its soul, it’s a detective story complete with an alienated hero of questionable morality, a femme fatale, dark cinematography and a down-beat voice-over. Thematically, I suppose that you could also argue that it’s similar to the western High Noon with its story of a lone Marshall facing four outlaws.

It clearly draws on other literary sources such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which many centuries earlier had pondered the ethical question of what life is, and told the story of man creating in his own (flawed) image. There are also hints of George Orwell’s 1984, as a high level of paranoia exists in the manifestation of corporate power, omnipresent police, probing lights and the state’s power over the individual.

Incredibly, seven different versions of Blade Runner have been released, but the fact is that this movie is great in any version with every viewing bringing new discoveries. The original film was burdened by numerous studio impositions, including a happier ending and Harrison Ford’s voice-over. The tacked-on ending looked as if it came from another movie, mainly because it did with Warner Bros borrowing an aerial shot from The Shining, while both Ford and Scott never wanted the narrative. The Director’s Cut restored the film’s original bleaker vision by providing a more ambiguous ending and dropping the controversial voice-over. It also enriched the love affair between Deckard and Rachael, while adding more implications about Deckard’s past. At the same time, the Director restored some scenes of savagery from the replicants, which form an important counter-balance to the contemplative final scene.

All in all, these changes have turned this already great film into a genuine masterpiece. It is one of the most extraordinary films ever made. Not only is it a tough, idiosyncratic and highly original vision of a future that seems continually more real, but it also asks meaningful questions about life and humanity, ending with perhaps the most profound death scene of any film:

Batty: I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.

Crouchie's Having His Nachos!

As the new football season kicks off, we can look forward to the television networks broadcasting a veritable feast of the beautiful game. This will obviously be backed-up by in-depth discussion and insightful analysis – not. The spirits sag when you watch Messrs Lineker and Shearer giving us the benefit of their oh-so predictable views and don’t start me on Sky’s unholy trinity of Richard Keys, Andy Gray and the godawful Jamie Redknapp. Talk about the bland leading the bland.

Oh well, at least we can expect a bit more from their radio colleagues, can’t we? Do me a favour. With the honourable exception of Danny Baker, BBC radio sports coverage still resembles an old boys’ club with the same old faces voicing their banal platitudes season after season.

Take Radio 5 Live’s Sportsweek with the obsequious Garry Richardson constantly oiling up to the likes of Richard Scudamore (for the marketing manager’s latest mission statement) and David Gill (for the accountant’s incredibly interesting perspective). Or we could go to the other extreme and get our kicks (sorry) on 606, the football phone-in that seemingly gives every imbecile and half-wit in the country the opportunity to regale the nation with their one-eyed views.

Fortunately we are living in the digital age, where you can find some better stuff out there, such as podcasts dedicated to the wonderful world of football. One of the best of these is the Guardian’s excellent Football Weekly – and it’s free (at least until the Dirty Digger’s ideas of charging for content on the web take hold).

Hosted by the inimitable, pun-tastic James Richardson, the podcast appears twice a week in the football season. This may be a tad confusing, giving its weekly title, so the second show is entitled Football Weekly Extra, presumably so that the army of pedants among the Guardian’s readership can get their knickers in a twist about weightier matters.

"Like Setanta - hair today, gone tomorrow"

Football Weekly is a quirky mixture of banter, opinionated chat and informative reports from around Europe. Apart from Richardson as the regular host, there is a rotating cast of journalists, who clearly know their football, but are not afraid to speak their mind and express an opinion, however controversial their views might be.

In fact, I would suggest that even though their stance may sometimes be different from that of the traditional sports media, it is usually closer to the majority of football fans. For example, when Chelsea crashed out of the Champions League to a last minute goal against Barcelona, the prevailing (Sky) wisdom was that we had just witnessed a massive injustice, nay a national tragedy, and that all English football supporters would be hugely upset.

Actually, everybody I knew was deliriously happy about this result, especially as the odious Chelsea team had been denied at least two clear penalties. The Football Weekly pod shared our joy, one of the team describing in detail how he celebrated by launching himself across his front room, shirt off his head and fist clenched. Spot on.

The show is noted for its irreverent, often iconoclastic, approach. Although it adheres to a traditional sports chat show format, the presenters are often encouraged to digress, either to divulge marginal information from “the game” or even matters completely unrelated to football. As such, the style and level of discussion is mainly anecdotal, but is none the worse for that.

Despite the flippant nature of much of the conversation, the presenters do manage to sound authoritative and occasionally venture onto more esoteric topics, such as the recent discussion on African football between Jonathan Wilson and Paul Doyle, which are invariably well-informed and fascinating to the casual listener.

"Ciao, bello!"

James Richardson is the former Football Italia anchor, who used to illuminate our screens with his views on Italian football, inevitably flanked by La Gazzetta dello Sport and a huge, uneaten gelato. Richardson is an expert pun-slinger:

There’s no Stoke without Faye.

If Fulham are going to start going down at home, can they still be called the Cottagers?

What’s the point of having Cesc, if you can’t exchange bodily fluids?

The biggest title challenge since Danny Shittu tried to write his autobiography.

His style is incredibly laid-back, but resonates with football fans everywhere and it’s a mystery why his talents have not been snapped up by one of the major broadcasters (with all due respect to the late, unlamented Setanta), when the likes of Keys and Lineker have a regular gig. His eloquence and witty one-liners disguise an evident knowledge and understanding of football, e.g. when referring to “Steven Gerrard’s ongoing battle with the forces of gravity.”

"Barry demonstrating his usual balanced view"

Barry Glendenning is brilliant as the curmudgeonly foil to Richardson. He is a grumpy Irishman, whose off-the-cuff comments and contrary views create an edge to the discussion. Although he antagonises many of the listeners with his forthright, unusual opinions, I think that he is a comic genius whose honesty should be given total respect. Although we still love the game of football, much of the paraphernalia surrounding the sport disgust us, what with the obscene wages, the thick-as-two-short-planks superstars, the WAGs and Garth Crooks.

Glendenning reflects this dichotomy better than any other football journalist. On the podcast, minutes will pass with Glendenning brooding silently before he dives in boots first to savage any pretentious pontificating that he has detected. There is always a particular frisson in the air when he is arguing the toss with Rafa Honigstein, the German Fussball correspondent, and it may only be a matter of time before they come to blows.

Herr Honigstein is actually also good value, providing in-depth coverage of the Bundesliga with a degree of wit not often associated with his fellow countrymen, describing the Euro 2008 Final thus, “Germany completely dominated the game, but then after two minutes …”. He also made a decent fist of answering the question, “what’s the German for Schadenfreude?”

"Sid gives us the Lowe Down"

Although the podcast naturally focuses on the English Premier League, the coverage of other leagues is superb, particularly La Liga with correspondent Sid Lowe phoning in every week with a peerless summary of Spanish goings-on. Sid’s reports are absolutely excellent with his sideways look at the Spanish footballing world and he is not afraid to tackle controversial subjects such as racism – see his article on the Spanish basketball team’s faux-pas when they posed for an advert making slit-eyed gestures. His sense of humour is down-to-earth, such as when he finished off a pointless pod discussion on revelry by describing coffee-flavoured Revels as “bastards”.

"Sean - delighted to leave the boy band"

Another regular guest is Guardian Sports Editor Sean Ingle, whose frequent, but often unconvincing, analogies are affectionately indulged by both presenters and listeners alike. Best of these was: “coming twice, like Ron Jeremy - no, like Jesus”. His own accounts of his time spent playing Sunday League football (as a goalkeeper) have led to his fellow presenters regularly joking that he has "played football at a reasonably high level.”

His crowning glory came with the legendary nachos story, when he related the experience of a friend in a take-away encountering lanky England international Peter Crouch, who was using his “celebrity” status to demand some free Mexican food. When this outrageous request was granted, he proceeded to stuff his gawky face while chanting to himself, “Crouchie’s having his nachos!”

Other welcome contributors include Paul Doyle, another Irish hard man, who is an expert on French football. His sense of happiness when covering the African Nations championship was a truly joyous thing to behold. Jonathan Wilson is always interesting with his extensive knowledge of, well, all football subjects, though he is particularly expert on tactics, formations, Eastern Europe and, er, Sunderland.

The Guardian’s football correspondent, Kevin McCarra, seems far too polite for the pod, but is worth listening to, when he finally manages to interrupt. I also like Scott Murray, Rob Smyth and Barney Ronay, though frankly find it hard to tell them apart. And, of course, Serie A is covered at length by the professional Italophile himself, Signor James Richardson.

The sense of community is extended with the lively comments section on the Guardian’s web site, where listeners are actively encouraged to have their say. Although attracting its fair share of rent-a-gobs, it is well worth following the reaction to the show here. If a comment is sufficiently witty, clever or dumb, then Richardson might just read it out for the listeners to appreciate or laugh at. Even if the mere presence of a podcast about football should indicate the importance to them of the sport, this show is never going to take itself too seriously.

It’s an intelligent podcast with a sense of humour that’s not going to kiss anybody’s arse: not the clubs, managers, players and especially not the listeners. Just listen to Glendenning’s magnificent response when Ingle tried to thank the listeners during the end-of-season show:

Why? What the hell do they do? All they do is download the pod and then listen to it. There’s no effort there. We put in all the work, dragging our sorry arses into the studio at some ungodly hour.

Don’t worry, Barry. No thanks required. This listener will happily continue to just download the pod and listen to it (with a smile on my face).

Inbetween Days

Will, Neil, Jay, Simon

While we can all agree that the general standard of British television comedy is pitifully low, every now and then you stumble across a diamond in the dustbin. One such gem is The Inbetweeners, a razor sharp celebration of the highs and lows of being a teenager. Perfectly capturing the relentless disappointment of suburban adolescence, the show follows a group of ordinary schoolboys who yearn for sex, booze and cheap thrills, without the emotional maturity, money or ID to get them. Basically, they just want to get laid. Named the best new sitcom of 2008 at the British Comedy Awards, it is about the squirming humiliations of teenage life with the four friends constantly finding themselves in embarrassing situations.

Simon's Dad: You've had an eventful day: bunking off school, buying alcohol illegally, defacing Carli's drive and insulting Neil's dad. Have I missed anything?

Will: We also hit a spastic with a frisbee.

None of our heroes is exceptional. In fact, they’re distinctly average. They’re not the biggest losers in class, but nor are they cool, attractive or popular. They hide from bullies, can’t pull girls and are denied service in pubs. You might think that Inbetweeners refers to that group straddling the social gulf between the in-crowd and the outcasts, but it also describes those awkward years between a teen and becoming an adult, that moment when you’ve entered puberty, but have no idea how to play it. These are pivotal times in most people’s lives.

An obvious comparison would be Skins, but The Inbetweeners are far removed from the beautiful, bed-hopping hedonists of E4’s other hit series about teenage life. While Skins is a sex and drugs filled fantasy about the youth experience, The Inbetweeners shows the way teenagers actually live their lives. The writers have flawlessly captured what middle-class teenage life is really like in their depiction of four slightly rubbish boys, so almost everybody will relate to the characters.

"I've been driving in my car, it's not quite a Jaguar"

It’s a bit like eavesdropping on a lads’ night out, when teenage angst and libido frequently cloud their judgment. Although there are many (painfully funny) incidents, it feels honest and, on the whole, realistic with banter that is both believable and hilarious. The main laughs come from the exquisitely accurate dialogue, which captures the feel of adolescence perfectly.

Jay: Carli doesn't really fancy you, so if you're waiting to lose it to her, you're gonna be waiting till you're dead.

Simon: I think she likes me a bit though.

Jay: No she doesn't, she thinks you're a twat. Becky likes you. And she likes sex. It's the perfect combination. Just don't go for anal straight away.

Simon: OK, thanks man.

Jay: No problem. Look here they come. Don't worry, I'll distract fatty boom boom with the buffet.

And that is why it is utterly charming. It never tries to be anything it’s not; it never pretends to raise moral issues; it simply shows that being a teenager can be fun.

"Briefcase mong"

The main protagonist of the show is Will, whose parents have divorced, leading to his mum moving him out of an independent school into the sixth form at the local comprehensive. Will is a geeky, well-educated, socially inept young man, whose haughty ego battles with his crippling shyness. He desperately tries to fit in, but his efforts are immediately scuppered by the head of sixth form, who makes him wear a badge proclaiming, “My name is Will. Stop me and say hello”, leading to casual abuse from just about the whole of the school. At first his classmates hate him, but he blithely ignores their insults and insinuates himself into a group of friends, which is greatly helped when they meet Will’s gorgeous mother, who is “so sexy, she could be a prostitute”:

Jay: Have you had a wank over Will's mum?

Will: Please don't have a wank over my mum!

Neil: I can't promise that, Will.

Will is like a teenage version of David Mitchell with his pompous and patronising outbursts. He is invariably wrong, but his enthusiasm and optimism keep him going, even though this often leads him into the most awkward situations, such as when he confronts people pushing in on a rollercoaster:

Get them off! Get them off! Fucking pushing in! Are they so dumb they think it’s OK to push in? Make them move! … Fine! Fucking fine! I’ll just get on. I’ll just get on and sit at the front next to these inconsiderate arseholes!!

(On realising that they’re mentally handicapped) … I’m the worst human being in the world.

When the boys bunk off school and get drunk, it ends badly after their parents find out what they’ve been doing all day:

Will: Oh, piss off.

Neil’s Dad: Don’t talk to me like that in my own house!

Will: Oh sorry, my manners. Piss off PLEASE!!

Neil’s Dad: I've had enough of your lip.

Will: Oh you'd like my lip wouldn’t you? Right round your bell end! If Mr. Chippy doesn’t get there first! What’s he gonna knock up, a closet for you to hide in!? You BUMDER!!

When the end of term examinations loom, Will’s manic preparations include consuming vast quantities of energy drinks, resulting in: (1) a messy accident in the exam room; (2) a barrage of insults referencing his unfortunate bowel movement: shit pants mong, Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, Wayne Pooney, Take Shat, Dr. Poo, Brad Shit, Bumlog Millionaire, Vladimir Pootin and The Lion The Witch and the speccy kid who shit himself.

"Hopelessly devoted to you"

Simon is the romantic of the group, who is secretly in love with Carli D’Amato. Well, it was a secret until he drunkenly spray-painted “I love Carli” on her driveway. His efforts to impress Carli always end badly, most notably when he drunkenly vomits all over her younger brother. His mates are initially impressed when he is the first one of them to get a car until they realise that it’s bright yellow and would make a Lada look cool.

Simon: Shit, stalled it.

Jay: You dick head. They’re getting away!

Will: Jesus, you make it sound like we’re about to attack them.

Jay: I can’t believe you lost the muff wagon.

Simon: Well, what are we going to do anyway? Follow them until they’re forced to drive to a police station?!

Jay: They love it, you tool. It’s called flirting.

The useless car does at least enable them to insult the “losers” standing at the bus stop with the legendary “Bus Wankers!!!”, though this also has an unfortunate conclusion when the car stalls.

"Let's talk about sex"

Jay is the cockiest member of the group, though in reality he’s a porn-obsessed master of exaggeration, if not downright lies, about his sexual conquests. He’s a potty-mouthed, verbal bully, who is unbelievably crude, yet extremely funny:

Jay: See you at the Fox and Hounds tonight, Neil. Oh and bring your wellies!

Neil: Why?

Jay: Cos’ you’ll be knee deep in clunge.

 

Simon: You wet the bed when you were ten.

Jay: Yeah, I wet your mum’s bed...with my spunk. 

Of course, once we meet the monster that is Jay’s father, we have more sympathy for him: 

Jay's Dad: I know what you're up to, you think cos’ she’s so massive, she'll count as two shags. Well she doesn’t! 

Will has no hesitation in pulling apart Jay’s boasts and the two quickly become verbal sparring partners: 

Will: Has she got any special dietary requirements? Only I’ve never cooked for an imaginary woman before.

Jay: Well I know she’s not allergic to nuts…my nuts!

Simon: Brilliant.

One of the funniest moments is when Jay meets a new friend, foolishly giving him the thumbs up. His mates predictably rib him mercilessly until Jay cracks, jumping up and down on the bonnet of his friend’s car, shouting out expletives in a scene reminiscent of Alan Partridge (or even Basil Fawlty) at their finest.

"Shut up, Del Boy!"

Neil is the obligatory stupid one with a vacant stare inspired by Rodney from Only Fools And Horses. He lives in a world of his own, but sometimes does say something almost profound. His uncomplicated persona, not to mention his slick dance moves, very occasionally see him triumph with the opposite sex. To his horror, his dad, a single man struggling to raise his family after his wife walked out, is often the butt of the gang’s jokes with constant aspersions cast on his sexuality:

Neil: My dad's not gay!

Jay: Well...let's look at the evidence...1) your mum left him because he loves cock!

 

Neil: Come round tonight. My dad’s out.

Will: Oh, at last!

Neil: No, I mean going out.

Simon: Cottaging?

Neil: No, he’s playing badminton actually.

Will: That’s a euphemism.

 

Simon (to Neil about his new job): I suppose your dad needs the money.

Neil: No, he doesn't.

Simon: Rent boys don't come cheap, you know.

Neil: My dad’s not gay.

Jay: Why’s he paying for rent boys then?

Neil: He's not paying for them.

Simon: What, they're freebies?!

Although the situations are funny, one of the keys to this being such a great comedy is the relationship between the main characters. The banter between them is realistic and very funny, with most discussions soon turning into arguments before coming to an end with a classic puerile insult. Some would see this as vulgar and simple, but actually it's a very accurate (and extremely funny) portrayal of male teenage mates and what they get up to.

Will: Your dad's moved out?

Simon: It's no biggie. They've not been getting on lately, so he's moved out for a few weeks while they sort stuff out.

Jay: What, like her face? It's gonna take more than a few weeks to sort that mess out.

Yes, at times it’s crude, crass and even offensive, but it never plumbs the depths of Little Britain. Granted, you have to find schoolboy sexual innuendo funny, but the script is consistently amusing with side-splitting one-liners coming thick and fast (as Jay might say). It may be immature and even childish, but that’s what gives the show its charm – a sort of down-market version of The Rotters’ Club.

The Inbetweeners is obviously aimed at young people, but it has a universal appeal and can be enjoyed by any adult with an open mind. After all, everyone was a teenager once; so older viewers can buy into a memory, rather than an actual experience. Mucking about and laughing with your mates is a timeless pursuit and The Inbetweeners captures the awkwardness, frustration and humiliation of being a teenage boy better than anything else on television in recent years. Teenage dreams – so hard to beat.

Don't Walk Away In Silence

Here are the young men, the weight on their shoulders.

Some youngsters may have become aware of Joy Division through Control, Anton Corbijn’s excellent biopic of lead singer Ian Curtis, but it would be difficult for them to truly appreciate the impact that the band made with their stark, beautiful music.

The film recounted how Curtis hung himself at his home in Macclesfield at the age of just twenty-three. His tragic suicide came just days before the group was due to embark on an American tour and conferred Joy Division with mythical status, even inspiring U2’s “Day Without Me”. The full impact of the tragedy was to be underlined shortly afterwards, for it became evident that Curtis had taken his life at the peak of his creativity.

Closer was released two months after Curtis’s sad demise and showed the band at an artistic peak, creating a haunting atmosphere of darkness and despair. The album stands as a fragile suicide note spread across nine incredible songs. Closer is very much the product of Curtis’ troubled, depressive mind with an elegant, funereal quality that only makes the album more poignant. Starting with the elegiac cover that displays a black and white image of figures praying at a tomb, Closer seems resigned to fatality with a vision steeped in deathly fixations – even the title has a menacing double meaning.

Closer was Joy Division’s second (and final) studio album. If the debut album Unknown Pleasures was the catalyst that marked Joy Division’s transition from the punk thrashing of previous incarnation Warsaw, then Closer was their crowning glory with the band at the zenith of their powers. Closer was even more austere, more claustrophobic, more inventive, more beautiful, more glacial and more haunting than its predecessor. It's Joy Division's start-to-finish masterpiece, a flawless encapsulation of everything the group sought to achieve. The bleakness of the music and lyrics only amplified the already strong mystique surrounding the album after Curtis's suicide.

Any band that names itself after the euphemism used to describe the prostitute section of the Nazi concentration camps is likely to have a serious side and there is no doubt that Closer is a gut-wrenching effort with Curtis’s distant voice articulating his anguish over hard-edged, occasionally brutal music. And yet the music is remarkably eloquent and effective, drawing you into its desolate depths. It sounds so important, so vital that it is impossible to resist and ultimately becomes a surprising testament to the life force. It’s an album filled with contrasts, as the bright dance-hall rhythms blend with the dark lyrics, creating a sound that is simultaneously depressing due to the tortured lyrics, but uplifting due to the magnificence of the music What is certain is that no-one could listen to this album and remain unmoved by its emotional charge.

Closer is a record that demands to be listened to in one sitting, as it all fits together like the pieces of a jigsaw. Each track delves deeper and deeper into a world of despair, yet there is a delicate beauty in the shimmering music and Curtis's doleful accent complements the sparse textures created by mesmerizing synthesizer lines and occasional, highly effective, piano. Slow, hypnotic tempos increase the sense of brooding mystery and if the few faster songs provide musical relief, their lyrics prove equally sorrowful. Around the same time as the album, Joy Division released the peerless Love Will Tear Us Apart as a stand-alone single. Although this was probably the finest song of 1980 and covered similar territory, being a haunting account of a fragmented relationship, it just would not have worked on Closer.

The album’s abrasive opener “Atrocity Exhibition” starts appropriately enough with an invitation, “This is the way/Step inside”, though it sounds more like an entreaty to participate in a nervous breakdown with ferocious drumming providing a thumping, tribal beat, punctuated by strangulated shards of electric guitar, as Curtis paints a picture of degradation and pain, while referencing the work of JG Ballard. “Isolation” is built around a futuristic synth line and dance beat that most closely anticipates the direction that the remaining members of the band would take (as New Order) after the loss of Curtis, though the positive rhythms are juxtaposed with the sadness of the lyrics, “Mother I tried please believe me/I’m doing the best that I can/I’m ashamed of the things I’ve been put through/I’m ashamed of the person I am.”

The dark claustrophobia of the early tracks continues with the self-doubt expressed in the morbid lament “Passover”, as Curtis already sounds like he’s singing from beyond the grave, “It all falls apart at first touch”; and the cry for help in “Colony”, when Curtis accusingly takes on the role of anti-prophet, “God in his wisdom took you by the hand/God in his wisdom made you understand.” ”Means To An End” is a different matter. With its urgent drum beat and descending bass line, this death disco is almost catchy, until Curtis’s accusing tone chills you to the bone. “I put my trust in you”, he declares, his disconsolate voice leaving no doubt that his trust has been betrayed. There’s no anger here, just resignation, which only adds to the impact of the message.

The first side of the LP (in old money) gave Curtis the perfect framework for his highly personal outpourings, but the second side has an even stronger emotional impact, as the remaining tracks pull us along with heartbreaking intensity. The hypnotic, melodic “Heart And Soul” makes you want to dance, but Curtis’s lyrics are once again punishing, as he looks upon the futility of the mortal soul and understands the gravity of what he sees, “Heart and soul/One will burn.”

For me, the centrepiece of the album is the astonishing “Twenty Four Hours”, as perfect a demonstration of the slow, soft build-up and fast, loud release as you will ever find. This schizophrenic song rages at some points, then draws back with exhausted sighs to provide tender, anguished moments, as Curtis allows himself a couple of last glances at the fading vista of existence: “Just for one moment, thought I’d found my way/Destiny unfolded, I watched it slip away” and “Just for one moment, I heard somebody call/Looked beyond the day in hand, there’s nothing there at all.”

But Closer does not end there. Instead, the funeral march of “The Eternal” with its monochrome simplicity and spare piano line again makes you feel that the end is nigh, “Procession moves on/The shouting is over.” You’re left with the impression of listening to a man watching over his own memorial, voicing his thoughts without anger, with no bitterness, just nothing. It’s utterly affecting.

The album closes with the agonizing, extraordinary “Decades”. By now, you no longer feel that you are merely viewing the nightmare of Curtis’s life, but somehow inexorably you share his feelings of isolation. The swirling synthesizers take you into the very heart of paradise lost, “We knocked on the doors of hells darker chamber/Pushed to the limit, we dragged ourselves in/Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying/We saw ourselves now as we never had seen”. The song ends majestically, gathering pace before fading out with crashing cymbals and a haunting synth refrain, “Where have they been?/Where have they been?”

The band is on fine, fatalistic form on this album, providing Curtis’s words with driving rhythms and pounding bass lines to create the sense of urgency and pain that the songs required. Peter Hook’s low-slung bass has long been revered, but Stephen Morris’s tight, powerful drumming also gives the music a real edge. Bernard Sumner adds the flourishes, both with his staccato guitar and atmospheric use of synthesizers. It is nevertheless difficult to imagine that these musicians (along with a keyboardist called Gillian Gilbert) would go on to form New Order and become the hugely successful flag-bearers for electronic dance music.

A lot of the credit for the musical style goes to producer Martin Hannett, who "dedicated himself to capturing and intensifying Joy Division's eerie spatiality." Hannett took as many chances as the band itself: differing mixes and moods with many twists and turns. The group embraced space, ambience and an imposing austerity, producing a sound that is both lusher and more sombre than Unknown Pleasures. Their post-punk sound was unique at the time and almost thirty years later, it still sounds like almost nothing else ever recorded.

Of course, their influence can be heard in many groups, most obviously Editors and Interpol, though others like The Cure and Bloc Party must have also paid homage. U2 front-man Bono said, “It would be harder to find a darker place in music than Joy Division. Their name, their lyrics and their singer were as big a black cloud as you could find in the sky. And yet I sensed the pursuit of God, or light, or reason...a reason to be. With Joy Division, you felt from this singer, beauty was truth and truth was beauty, and theirs was a search for both." It’s an impressive legacy from such a small canon of recorded work.

The album is an appropriate epitaph for the lead singer. NME reviewer Charles Shaar Murray wrote, "Closer is as magnificent a memorial (for Joy Division as much as for Ian Curtis) as any post-Presley popular musician could have". Joy Division created bleak, austere slices of suffering that reflected a band utterly committed to their music. There’s a poetry, purity, beauty and sadness to Closer that is incredibly compelling.

Ian Curtis’s descent into despair resulted in the ultimate tragedy, but left us a timeless and essential collection of songs that is guaranteed to move you. He meant it, man.

Family Fortunes

Never mind the width, feel the quality. A Fraction of the Whole is the huge, sprawling debut novel by the Australian writer Steve Toltz. Shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2008, the book received much critical acclaim, but has not had the commercial success that it deserves, given that it’s a modern classic. It is indeed a fat book, but it’s anything but heavy going, being very light on its feet, skipping from anecdote, to rant, to reflection, like a stone skimming across a (very large) pond.

The title comes from a quote by Emerson: “The moment we meet anybody, each becomes a fraction”. The book has the weight and complexity of a masterpiece, but is written in the style of a stream of consciousness. It recounts an amazing adventure, full of surprises and unexpected turns, often very funny, but equally a very moving story. It covers such a breadth of topics that each page seems to be bursting with new ideas. There are many observations about human behaviour, frequently illuminated by witty one-liners. This fascinating book is crammed with contradictions: sad yet hilarious, ridiculous yet accurate, meandering yet incisive.

Defying description, the book is actually in three parts (fractions of the whole, if you will), following the adventures of the eccentric Dean family. The story is narrated from two points of view: Martin Dean and his son Jasper.

Martin Dean is a paranoid genius, eager for recognition, but wanting to be left alone. Philosophical and intelligent, this complex man’s sanity may be debatable, but he also has a profound understanding of people’s motivations, gloriously constructing damning opinions of humanity. His life is over-shadowed by his brother, Terry, who was a sporting hero as a child and a criminal mastermind as an adult. Martin blames most problems in his life on the fact that his brother is Australia’s most violent and best-loved criminal (in the manner of a latter day Ned Kelly). Desperate to be remembered as something more than “Terry’s brother”, Martin embarks on a series of “immortality projects”, only achieving his own identity/notoriety by committing a worse crime than his brother, thus becoming the most hated man in Australia.

However, it is Jasper’s relationship with his dysfunctional father that is the central theme of the book. The spectre of his father haunts Jasper’s life, as he leads a confused childhood due to Martin’s bizarre lessons and diatribes. Although well intentioned, Martin often inflicts damage on Jasper without meaning to in an all-too-common cycle of destructive parenthood, leading to a deep well of filial resentment:

Most of my life I never worked out whether to pity, ignore, adore, judge or murder my father. One thing’s for sure. My father punished me for existing and now it’s my turn to punish him for existing. It’s only fair.

Jasper fears turning into his father, though he has a similar oddball worldview and way of expressing himself. Actually, Toltz could have given the two narrators more distinctive voices, though he has obviously decided to deliberately highlight the similarities. The irony is that the more Jasper attempts to differentiate himself from his father, the more alike they become. Martin himself believes that Jasper is a premature reincarnation of himself. The reality is that Martin and Jasper are both unpleasant people, difficult and abrasive, yet Toltz draws them with such sympathy that you find yourself liking and even caring about these characters, even as their attitudes repel you.

Come back to the five and dime, Terry dean, Terry Dean. Terry is Martin’s younger brother and Jasper’s infamous criminal uncle. Although he grew up as a natural athlete, his sporting career was over after he injured his leg defending Martin against local bullies. Terry then turns to a life of crime, gaining fame when he launches a vigilante crusade against every cheating athlete in Australia. He is eventually captured and later presumed dead when a bushfire (caused by one of Martin’s inventions) burns down the prison.

Another theme running through the narrative is the human search for meaning. The major characters are all highly cerebral, though their outlook is full of caveats and counter-arguments, as philosophy should be. Even after everything is taken away from them, they steadfastly believe in the power of thought, though they often end up thinking themselves into trouble.

It was as though great big trucks filled with words drove up to our heads and dumped their contents directly into our brains.

Although you might feel that you “have just overheard a conversation between two people who took themselves too seriously”, there is no doubt that this book will also get you thinking. Essentially, there is a very simple message here: don’t let the idiots get you down.

The plot is chaotic and episodic, taking you from the Australian bush to bohemian Paris to the jungles of Thailand, stopping off at strip clubs, asylums and a leaky boat in the Pacific. It is a remarkable, almost unbelievable tale with many seemingly bizarre coincidences, yet Toltz makes the unlikely events thoroughly convincing. He also never resorts to allowing his characters forget their deeply ingrained mutual mistrust and dislike, no matter how close to one another they get.

Almost all the projects start with good intentions, but end up with catastrophic results: a town hall suggestion box; a Do It Yourself guide for aspiring criminals; building a house in a labyrinth, a scheme to make everyone in Australia a millionaire; becoming an Australian member of parliament. The ideas are brilliant, but none of them work as well as the protagonists imagine. Taken individually, they are very funny, but taken as a whole, the inevitability of disaster is heartbreaking.

Almost every sentence contains a quotable aphorism, ranging from light-hearted observations on human thought to devastatingly funny comments on society:

My problem is I can’t sum myself up in one sentence.

These were big thoughts; really obese … I wanted to kiss my own brain.

As soon as my idea was embraced, I no longer liked it.

When Jasper didn’t want to start a new school, his justification was:

He couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of making a whole new set of enemies.

The male menopause is questioned thus:

There were no two ways about it: I was in a crisis. But recent shifts in the behaviour of different age groups made it hard to know what type. How could it be a midlife crisis, when the forties were the new twenties, the fifties the new thirties … I had to read the lifestyle supplement to make sure I wasn’t going through puberty.

A suicide note strikes a jaunty note:

So what if life’s a gift? Haven’t you ever returned a gift? It’s done all the time.

These quotes give a flavour of the book’s style, but every aspect of human inter-action is examined by the author, from friendship to love to treachery to forgiveness, all shot through with a healthy dose of black comedy.

A formidable cast of colourful supporting characters drifts across the story, back and forth, in and out, complementing the absurd situations. Although not as well painted as the male leading roles, the principal female characters are well served by Toltz, especially Anouk, the beautiful housekeeper who changes out of all recognition from her initial appearance keying Martin’s sports car. There is also Caroline Potts, the childhood sweetheart of both Martin and Terry; Astrid, Jasper’s mysterious European mother; and the Towering Inferno (yes, she's a tall redhead), who first shows Jasper the meaning of love. Other memorable characters include Eddie, the strange Thai doctor who frequently lends Martin money, while taking pictures of the Dean family with no explanation; and Harry West, the career criminal hired by Martin to mentor Terry in his criminal activities and author of the Handbook of Crime.

"Steve Toltz - or a young Howard Jacobson?"

Steve Toltz has created a highly original and refreshing novel, full of surprises. His prose flows with such ease that this epic should in no way be considered daunting. He often lightens some of the more harrowing passages with the quality of his writing and surprising humour:

I would like to acknowledge my father for giving me a taste for violence, my grandfather for giving my father a taste for violence … and the New South Wales police force for their indefatigable corruption and tireless brutality.

I would compare his style to a young Peter Carey, though I can also see elements of Jonathan Franzen and Joseph Heller, and even John Kennedy Toole in their shared love of what I shall call “knowing comedy”. However, the closest reference may well be John Irving, whose quote from the novel Until I Find You could equally apply to Jasper Dean:

In this way, in increments both measurable and not, our childhood is stolen from us – not always in one momentous event, but often in a series of small robberies, which add up to the same loss.

Steve Toltz has written an audacious manifesto for a better life, which will absorb the reader with every twist and turn: each page a fraction of the whole story; each story a fraction of a whole person; each person a fraction of a whole society. Ultimately, it echoes Philip Larkin’s famous poem that:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

The son may well pay for the sins of his father, but what a ride the Deans give us. The fractions are just fine, but the whole is indeed greater than the sum of its parts.