YOU KNOW YOU'RE A 90s KID IF…
YOU CAN SING THE RAP TO "THE FRESH PRINCE OF BELL AIR"
Chillin’ out, maxing, relaxing all cool
And all beating some beat-ball outside of the school
When a couple of guys, they were up to good,
Started making trouble in my neighbourhood.
I got in one little fight, and my mom got scared;
She said, “you’re moving with your auntie and uncle to Bel-Air.”
I whistled for a cab, and when it came near
The licence plate said FRESH and it had dice in the mirror.
If anything, I thought that this car was rare
Then I thought, Nah, Forget It – Yo, Home, To Bel-Air!
I pulled up to the kerb around seven or eight
And I yelled to the cabbie, “Yo home, smell ya later!”
I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there;
To sit on my throne, as the Prince of Bel-Air.
I typed that from memory. You’d better believe it.
YOU'VE WORN LEGGINGS AND FELT COOL.
Baby, sometimes, I still do. Under dresses, now, though. Not by themselves, as in my youth.
YOU USED TO LOVE PLAYING WITH YOUR "PUPPY IN MY POCKETS"
I was more of a Sindy, My Little Pony, and the original Lucy Lockets kind of girl.
YOU REMEMBER WHEN IT WAS ACTUALLY WORTH GETTING UP ON A SATURDAY MORNING TO WATCH LIVE & KICKING OR SM:TV.
Am I the only one left who remembers Ant, Dec and Cat in Chums?
YOU HAD A HUGE FRINGE AT SOME POINT IN YOUR CHILDHOOD.
It was like a fucking helmet.
YOU REMEMBER READING AND WATCHING "GOOSEBUMPS"
Surprisingly, it didn’t scare that much crap out of me.
YOU TOOK PLASTIC CARTOON LUNCH BOXES TO SCHOOL.
Oh, nope! My friends did. I only had a crummy Tupperware thing.
YOU REMEMBER THE CRAZE OF YO-YOS AND TAMAGOTCHI'S
I was that craze.
BICYCLE SHORTS AND LONG T-SHIRTS. COOL MAN
I regret it, is all I’m saying.
THE ORIGINAL TROLLS
Still have one or two.
POLLY POCKET
Anyone who thinks Polly Pocket is that weird, girl-woman, oddly-breasted, plasticine-clothed monstrosity they sell today – I pity you. I used to have all the original ones, including one I got from Paris, where her Jacuzzi actually bubbled. Back then, Polly was actually too small to be dangerous to dogs and small kids.
YOU STILL GET THE URGE TO SAY "NOT" AFTER EVERY SENTENCE.
And I also give in to that urge.
NOT.
YOU KNEW THAT KIMBERLY, THE PINK RANGER, AND TOMMY, THE GREEN RANGER WERE MEANT TO BE.
I wanted to be Kimberley basically more than anything else. In a way, I still do.
YOU COLLECTED POKEMON CARDS.
I also bought the book, the magazine, two Nintendo games and various merchandise, and I watched the series and saw the film. That’s fandom.
YOU PLAYED AND/OR COLLECTED POGS.
Can’t say I remember them.
YOU HAD A WEIRD ALIEN THAT LIVED IN GOOEY STUFF IN A PLASTIC 'POD' AND THOUGHT IF YOU STUCK 2 BACK TO BACK THEY WOULD HAVE A BABY OR THEY WOULD OPEN THEY'RE EYES ON THE MILLENIUM!
Oh my God yes. Whatever the hell happened to them?
YOU WATCHED THE ORIGINAL POSTMAN PAT, FIREMAN SAM AND NINJA TURTLES.
Anytime I hear a Welsh accent, it takes me back to Fireman Sam. Was he Welsh? I have no idea. But I loved all those shows.
YOU REMEMBER WHEN THE NEW BEANIE BABIES WERE ALWAYS SOLD OUT
I loved Beanie Babies so much, it was like a fetish. That’s how bad it was. I literally have somewhere approaching 100.
YOU GOT YOUR MUM TO BUY 'BN' BISCUITS
Well, yeah, but I hated them.
YOU USED TO WEAR THOSE STICK ON EARRINGS, NOT ONLY ON YOUR EARS BUT AT THE CORNERS OF YOUR EYES.
If I could, it’s possible that I still would.
YOU KNOW THE MACERENA BY HEART.
Yeah.
"TALK TO THE HAND" ENOUGH SAID.
Even fucking Barney did “Talk To The Hand.” Of course.
YOU REMEMBER THE TIME BEFORE LITERACY AND NUMERACY HOUR EXISTED.
Um… as far as I’m concerned, that time is now.
GLITTER.
Yeah! And Squand. You remember Squand? It was like sand, but you could sculpture it underwater. If you wanted to Squand-er precious time and money, it was really worth it.
YOU THOUGHT BRAIN FROM "PINKY AND THE BRAIN" WOULD FINALLY TAKE OVER THE WORLD.
No, no. I hid behind the sofa because it made me sad when things went all wrong for them.
FURBY'S!!!
Furbies still own my soul.
YOU REMEMBER BUM BAGS.
Or, as the Americans imaginatively titled them: fanny packs.
ROLLERBLADES
I sucked so bad at them. I mean, really bad. Just… oh, never mind.
2 WORDS; SPICE GIRLS.
That shouldn’t be a semi-colon right there, but let’s ignore that. SPICE GIRLS! 4EVA!
YOU WORE DISNEY PLASTIC RUCKSACKS
I had a Mickey Mouse one.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Bobby
Bobby is a drama focusing on the events at the Ambassador Hotel, the day Robert F Kennedy was shot there in 1968 (also the day of the '68 presidential elections). Including such stars as Martin Sheen, Demi Moore, Lindsay Lohan, Ashton Kutcher, Helen Hunt, Sharon Stone, Elijah Wood and William H Macy - gasp for breath - it does at times become distracting, but this is balanced by the fact that almost all performances are strong and engaging. Instead of hiring an actor to play the eponymous RFK himself, old footage is used and worked through the drama convincingly, especially towards the grippingly tragic climax. So, if the story doesn't centre around Robert, what does it centre on?
Well, the clients and staff at the hotel. It doesn't divide anyone into pro-Kennedy or anti-Kennedy groups - although the RFK canvassers are a safe bet for the former - instead attempting to bring forward a fractured picture of America as it was at the time. Particularly interesting were the stories of the hotel beautician (Sharon Stone) and her unfaithful husband, the manager (an always-credible Macy); the young Mexican waiter (Freddy Rodriguez, who, while notionally too old for the part at twenty-eight, was otherwise perfectly cast) struggling with inequality; and Wade and Dwayne (Joshua Jackson and Nick Cannon respectively), the younger Kennedy supporters, in awe of the great man's human touch.
However, the expanse of interwoven threads does have its weaknesses, such as the tale of Diane - played by an earnest Lindsay Lohan - a young woman who's planning to marry her former classmate (Elijah Wood) to save him from a draft to Vietnam. While it's given a promising start, it's soon allowed to descend into a disappointing cliché, and neither of the actors really inhabit the time or role. The adjacent story of two Kennedy campaigners, Cooper (Shia LeBeouf) and Jimmy (Brian Geraghty), who decide to take election day off to drop acid with down-and-out hippie Fisher (an almost believable Kutcher), relies largely on cheap laughs, but is rescued by LeBeouf and Geraghty's straight-faced performances and realistic relationships - in particular with the lovely Susan Taylor, played by a sweet, convincing Mary-Elizabeth Winstead.
By neglecting to include the assassin in its overly-long list of characters, the purpose of Bobby becomes clear. It is not intended as an unbiased look at the past, nor as a lesson for today's society (what can we learn from a nameless, faceless killer?); rather, as an exercise in nostalgia, where a man who died too young for the public to have real cause to doubt him can be viewed in rosy colours. Indeed, Robert F Kennedy could have been the leader America needed, but there is nothing to be gained from that line of thought - Bobby shows us a loss, certainly, and perhaps one of great sorrow, but we shall never know quite how deep that sorrow is. And by making the man a hero before he ever had a chance to prove just what he was, we lose perspective.
For all the nostalgia, however, the film is immensely enjoyable. Though the dialogue is sometimes embarrassingly clichéd (Lawrence Fishburne's speech about "the once and future king" is woefully out-of-character and obviously scripted), the cinematography is, for the most part, beautiful. It doesn't quite achieve the same 1960s look and feel as other modern films set then (such as the superior, but entirely different Catch Me If You Can), and it does suffer slightly from the lack of it, but the pacing is excellent and those without particular interest in the decade may not notice. Flawed, but worth seeing, Bobby at least did what it set out to do - bring RFK's tragic assassination, and all the associated grief, to a new audience, in a new way.
Well, the clients and staff at the hotel. It doesn't divide anyone into pro-Kennedy or anti-Kennedy groups - although the RFK canvassers are a safe bet for the former - instead attempting to bring forward a fractured picture of America as it was at the time. Particularly interesting were the stories of the hotel beautician (Sharon Stone) and her unfaithful husband, the manager (an always-credible Macy); the young Mexican waiter (Freddy Rodriguez, who, while notionally too old for the part at twenty-eight, was otherwise perfectly cast) struggling with inequality; and Wade and Dwayne (Joshua Jackson and Nick Cannon respectively), the younger Kennedy supporters, in awe of the great man's human touch.
However, the expanse of interwoven threads does have its weaknesses, such as the tale of Diane - played by an earnest Lindsay Lohan - a young woman who's planning to marry her former classmate (Elijah Wood) to save him from a draft to Vietnam. While it's given a promising start, it's soon allowed to descend into a disappointing cliché, and neither of the actors really inhabit the time or role. The adjacent story of two Kennedy campaigners, Cooper (Shia LeBeouf) and Jimmy (Brian Geraghty), who decide to take election day off to drop acid with down-and-out hippie Fisher (an almost believable Kutcher), relies largely on cheap laughs, but is rescued by LeBeouf and Geraghty's straight-faced performances and realistic relationships - in particular with the lovely Susan Taylor, played by a sweet, convincing Mary-Elizabeth Winstead.
By neglecting to include the assassin in its overly-long list of characters, the purpose of Bobby becomes clear. It is not intended as an unbiased look at the past, nor as a lesson for today's society (what can we learn from a nameless, faceless killer?); rather, as an exercise in nostalgia, where a man who died too young for the public to have real cause to doubt him can be viewed in rosy colours. Indeed, Robert F Kennedy could have been the leader America needed, but there is nothing to be gained from that line of thought - Bobby shows us a loss, certainly, and perhaps one of great sorrow, but we shall never know quite how deep that sorrow is. And by making the man a hero before he ever had a chance to prove just what he was, we lose perspective.
For all the nostalgia, however, the film is immensely enjoyable. Though the dialogue is sometimes embarrassingly clichéd (Lawrence Fishburne's speech about "the once and future king" is woefully out-of-character and obviously scripted), the cinematography is, for the most part, beautiful. It doesn't quite achieve the same 1960s look and feel as other modern films set then (such as the superior, but entirely different Catch Me If You Can), and it does suffer slightly from the lack of it, but the pacing is excellent and those without particular interest in the decade may not notice. Flawed, but worth seeing, Bobby at least did what it set out to do - bring RFK's tragic assassination, and all the associated grief, to a new audience, in a new way.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The "Debate" On Same-Sex Marriage
They can call it an educated clashing of ideas all they like; I call it a shambles.
So far, even in respectable newspapers like The Irish Times (pretty much the only one over here), the arguments put forward have been shot down like particularly poorly-made balloons. And yet the government makes no move forward on the issue, even now as they near election time. Does it surprise me? Nope. In fact, we've always been in the throes of the Catholic Church when it comes to law-making; it's sobering to remember just when homosexuality was legalised in this country. It was 1995. Yes, you read it right: we missed the sixties; we ignored the seventies; disco and grunge passed us by. We just kept on denying people the right to choose their own sexuality until 1995.
And, in a significant way, we're still doing it. While the problem of immigration is more subtle than the racist/anti-racist attitudes pasted to it, there are no nuances when it comes to marriage. You're either allowed to marry or you're not; the feather-light "arguments" put up against same-sex marriage are visibly flawed. The most-cited example in Irish news is that of child-bearing: gay couples can not reproduce, therefore they cannot marry, as suddenly - and unbeknownst to most of us - procreation is an essential part of marriage. And no matter how many hundreds write to editors making perfectly valid points (such as the fact that infertile couples are still allowed to marry, though they cannot produce children), this inexplicably poor argument is still touted day in and day out.
It is time for a more open debate, involving - more than any other - the groups whom the legislation will actually effect. If there's one thing I hate about the governement system in Ireland (and probably elsewhere, too), it's that all legislation is discussed and edited by middle-aged, wealthy, white men. Legislation concerning social welfare for the unemployed, healthcare regimes for the elderly, funding for people working in the arts, and - most irritatingly for me - legislation protecting the youth of the country: all of these things are dealt with behind closed doors by a group of balding men. I know we elected them, but surely they don't have to shut us out quite so much? What we need is open forums for interested parties, and clearer information for the average Joe (or Josephine) - even those too young to have the vote.
And gay marriage. For God's sake. It's time, already.
So far, even in respectable newspapers like The Irish Times (pretty much the only one over here), the arguments put forward have been shot down like particularly poorly-made balloons. And yet the government makes no move forward on the issue, even now as they near election time. Does it surprise me? Nope. In fact, we've always been in the throes of the Catholic Church when it comes to law-making; it's sobering to remember just when homosexuality was legalised in this country. It was 1995. Yes, you read it right: we missed the sixties; we ignored the seventies; disco and grunge passed us by. We just kept on denying people the right to choose their own sexuality until 1995.
And, in a significant way, we're still doing it. While the problem of immigration is more subtle than the racist/anti-racist attitudes pasted to it, there are no nuances when it comes to marriage. You're either allowed to marry or you're not; the feather-light "arguments" put up against same-sex marriage are visibly flawed. The most-cited example in Irish news is that of child-bearing: gay couples can not reproduce, therefore they cannot marry, as suddenly - and unbeknownst to most of us - procreation is an essential part of marriage. And no matter how many hundreds write to editors making perfectly valid points (such as the fact that infertile couples are still allowed to marry, though they cannot produce children), this inexplicably poor argument is still touted day in and day out.
It is time for a more open debate, involving - more than any other - the groups whom the legislation will actually effect. If there's one thing I hate about the governement system in Ireland (and probably elsewhere, too), it's that all legislation is discussed and edited by middle-aged, wealthy, white men. Legislation concerning social welfare for the unemployed, healthcare regimes for the elderly, funding for people working in the arts, and - most irritatingly for me - legislation protecting the youth of the country: all of these things are dealt with behind closed doors by a group of balding men. I know we elected them, but surely they don't have to shut us out quite so much? What we need is open forums for interested parties, and clearer information for the average Joe (or Josephine) - even those too young to have the vote.
And gay marriage. For God's sake. It's time, already.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Blood Diamond
Wow, my titles are uninspiring. Hopefully the text below is somewhat more engaging, and hopefully the majority of you are not cringing in light of two posts in a row about DiCaprio. Well, don't fear. This isn't really about him. He gets a few mentions, I guess. Scan through, and avoid the sentences you don't like.
Blood Diamond opens with Solomon Vandy (a credible, solid Djimon Housou), a hard-working black fisherman living in Sierra Leone with his wife and children, who is quickly whisked away by rebel forces (the RUF) to pan for diamonds. His wife and daughter escape, but his son, Dia, is captured and given arms in the war against the government. When Solomon finds a goose-egg sized diamond, he manages to hide it - but not without rebel leader Captain Poison (a predictably evil David Harewood) seeing him. Meanwhile, diamond smuggler Danny Archer (DiCaprio in typically stellar form) lands himself in prison for smuggling over the border into Liberia; in prison, he hears tell of the large diamond and sets himself on a mission to find it. Exchanging directions to the stone for a promise to help Solomon locate his family, the two set off together - with the help of friendly, morally wholesome American journalist Maddy Bowen, played by a fresh-faced Jennifer Connelly - on a life-threatening adventure.
Blood Diamond is a victim, not of its length, as some suggest, but really more of its own indecision. Laid out with all the grisly action of a proper rollicking adventure, it still struggles to reveal the dubious morals of the diamond industry in an interesting way. It can't seem to make its mind up whether it wants to be Indiana Jones or Hotel Rwanda. While on some level, it functions as both - and certainly both aspects have great moments - it would be all the more effective were it to pare down to a single genre. As an example, let me contrast two scenes from the film itself: one, where estranged son Dia is forced to shoot a man while blindfolded, and thus the plight of child soldiers is revealed to the audience; another, where - near the denouement of the film - Danny Archer is shown remorselessly shooting reams of child soldiers to death. Where conflict is concerned, the film occasionally lapses in its morality, and therefore seems to be built on shaky foundations.
Another irritating aspect of the movie is the unnecessary "life-changing" romance between Maddy and Archer. Danny's character is too wise and world-weary for a sweetie-pie like Connelly's American girl, and her affect on him is never truly credible. On the other hand, the tentative friendship between the two leading males - Hounsou and DiCaprio - is sensitive and wholly watchable. Both actors give consistently excellent performances throughout, and deserve lashings of praise; it is merely a shame that a sometimes-clichéd script obscured the true relationship development.
If you watch a film for acting content, engaging action, and beautiful cinematography, this film is for you. If, on the other hand, you like your reality unhampered by shoot-outs and romance, perhaps you're better off looking for something a little more serious.
Blood Diamond opens with Solomon Vandy (a credible, solid Djimon Housou), a hard-working black fisherman living in Sierra Leone with his wife and children, who is quickly whisked away by rebel forces (the RUF) to pan for diamonds. His wife and daughter escape, but his son, Dia, is captured and given arms in the war against the government. When Solomon finds a goose-egg sized diamond, he manages to hide it - but not without rebel leader Captain Poison (a predictably evil David Harewood) seeing him. Meanwhile, diamond smuggler Danny Archer (DiCaprio in typically stellar form) lands himself in prison for smuggling over the border into Liberia; in prison, he hears tell of the large diamond and sets himself on a mission to find it. Exchanging directions to the stone for a promise to help Solomon locate his family, the two set off together - with the help of friendly, morally wholesome American journalist Maddy Bowen, played by a fresh-faced Jennifer Connelly - on a life-threatening adventure.
Blood Diamond is a victim, not of its length, as some suggest, but really more of its own indecision. Laid out with all the grisly action of a proper rollicking adventure, it still struggles to reveal the dubious morals of the diamond industry in an interesting way. It can't seem to make its mind up whether it wants to be Indiana Jones or Hotel Rwanda. While on some level, it functions as both - and certainly both aspects have great moments - it would be all the more effective were it to pare down to a single genre. As an example, let me contrast two scenes from the film itself: one, where estranged son Dia is forced to shoot a man while blindfolded, and thus the plight of child soldiers is revealed to the audience; another, where - near the denouement of the film - Danny Archer is shown remorselessly shooting reams of child soldiers to death. Where conflict is concerned, the film occasionally lapses in its morality, and therefore seems to be built on shaky foundations.
Another irritating aspect of the movie is the unnecessary "life-changing" romance between Maddy and Archer. Danny's character is too wise and world-weary for a sweetie-pie like Connelly's American girl, and her affect on him is never truly credible. On the other hand, the tentative friendship between the two leading males - Hounsou and DiCaprio - is sensitive and wholly watchable. Both actors give consistently excellent performances throughout, and deserve lashings of praise; it is merely a shame that a sometimes-clichéd script obscured the true relationship development.
If you watch a film for acting content, engaging action, and beautiful cinematography, this film is for you. If, on the other hand, you like your reality unhampered by shoot-outs and romance, perhaps you're better off looking for something a little more serious.
Greetings, Blogreaders.
I like Leonardo DiCaprio. Okay, this is going somewhere, don't drop out on me just yet. When I say I like him, I mean, I'm an actress and I admire his work. Sure, I also admire his cheekbones, but come on. Who doesn't? See, the thing is, he's one of these eco-stars, who purportedly drives a Toyota Prius and saves his co-stars from shootouts , etc. And I admire that. I like his anti-drug stance, I like the fact that he's a Democrat, and I even liked Blood Diamond, but more on that later. So it's not just the acting I admire; it's his most of his opinions, and the fact that he's not constantly trying to garner publicity for himself.
Anyway, I was reading some crummy DiCaprio bio a couple of days ago, probably from when Titanic was the latest craze, which made reference to his famous (infamous?) "Pussy Posse." Apparently, it was just him and a group of his friends who drank beer and chased skirt together. That's fine. I'm a feminist, but I'm not going to foam at the mouth or anything; hell, me and my friends do pretty much the same thing with guys, so I'm not taking issue with it. It just brought up an idea I find interesting, and that is - what do girls want to be, now?
In the 1950s, we had the generation of demure housewives; the '60s brought free love and expensive drugs; the '70s picked up the broken pieces of the decade before. Clear aspirations shone through for generations: to be perfect; to be free to imperfection; to be free. And now, what? In a way, teenage girls now are left arching backwards to the fifties, reaching for the comfort of embroidery and baking, and yet emblazoned across so many MySpace and Bebo pages of girls as young as ten and eleven, what is the symbol that takes precedence? The humble Playboy Bunny. We want to be the chasers, the predators: we want to be allowed to say who we like, to make the first move. And yet there's not one girl I know who doesn't a) prefer a guy to do all the hard work, and b) feel flattered when she's the one being pursued. Without any real female icons in teenage culture today - or at least none recognised at large by society - who do we turn to when we are confused about what it means to be female? Do we roll our eyes at DiCaprio and his pals, and look back with equal frankness, or do we blush and smile in the knowledge that they are the lovers, and we are the loved?
Surely the desire for admiration is natural, but so too is the need to be seen as equal (a need which has caused as many conflicts as any other). This is not a rant against the media, or Leo and buddies, but merely a question about what it means to be female now. After the submission, after the bra-burnings, what are we left with? And is it any wonder that in our grapple with such questions, we turn to the ultimate icon of female desirability - the Playboy bunny? Our need to believe we are attractive has made cosmetic surgery popular, and cosmetic products more expensive and ridiculous, and yet we insist that girls are equal to boys in every way. It is time to address the imbalance, and ask ourselves what we truly want.
I still like DiCaprio, though. Maybe it's the eyes.
Anyway, I was reading some crummy DiCaprio bio a couple of days ago, probably from when Titanic was the latest craze, which made reference to his famous (infamous?) "Pussy Posse." Apparently, it was just him and a group of his friends who drank beer and chased skirt together. That's fine. I'm a feminist, but I'm not going to foam at the mouth or anything; hell, me and my friends do pretty much the same thing with guys, so I'm not taking issue with it. It just brought up an idea I find interesting, and that is - what do girls want to be, now?
In the 1950s, we had the generation of demure housewives; the '60s brought free love and expensive drugs; the '70s picked up the broken pieces of the decade before. Clear aspirations shone through for generations: to be perfect; to be free to imperfection; to be free. And now, what? In a way, teenage girls now are left arching backwards to the fifties, reaching for the comfort of embroidery and baking, and yet emblazoned across so many MySpace and Bebo pages of girls as young as ten and eleven, what is the symbol that takes precedence? The humble Playboy Bunny. We want to be the chasers, the predators: we want to be allowed to say who we like, to make the first move. And yet there's not one girl I know who doesn't a) prefer a guy to do all the hard work, and b) feel flattered when she's the one being pursued. Without any real female icons in teenage culture today - or at least none recognised at large by society - who do we turn to when we are confused about what it means to be female? Do we roll our eyes at DiCaprio and his pals, and look back with equal frankness, or do we blush and smile in the knowledge that they are the lovers, and we are the loved?
Surely the desire for admiration is natural, but so too is the need to be seen as equal (a need which has caused as many conflicts as any other). This is not a rant against the media, or Leo and buddies, but merely a question about what it means to be female now. After the submission, after the bra-burnings, what are we left with? And is it any wonder that in our grapple with such questions, we turn to the ultimate icon of female desirability - the Playboy bunny? Our need to believe we are attractive has made cosmetic surgery popular, and cosmetic products more expensive and ridiculous, and yet we insist that girls are equal to boys in every way. It is time to address the imbalance, and ask ourselves what we truly want.
I still like DiCaprio, though. Maybe it's the eyes.
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