PONTYPOOL is interesting take on the zombie film. Set for the most part in the local radio station. Stephen McHattie is convincing as Grant Mazzy. A shock jock from the big city reduced to plying his ware on CLSY. A local radio station broadcasting to the small Ontario town of Pontypool. A slow day of appalling weather quickly takes a turn for the worst. As reports start to come in of people having seizures. Developing strange speech patterns. And committing appalling acts of violence. As events unfold it becomes apparent that the violence is being spread by a virus contained in the English language. But Mazzy thinks he has found the cure. Or is Mazzy actually spreading the virus with his broadcast? From the opening sequence you know this is something more than your average zombie film. There isn’t a lot of the usual blood horror you’d expect. It builds its tension by feeding you images form Mazzy’s broadcast. The horror is for the most part in your head. And is all the better for it. It is an interesting little film. That poses some very interesting questions about the nature of language. It is, dare I say it, an esoteric zombie film?
Director: Bruce McDonald
Writer: Tony Burgess
Production Year: 2008
Running Time: 96 minutes
I heard something on the radio yesterday. The average age of a first time buyer, not supported by the bank of mum and dad, is thirty-seven. Thirty-seven years old before you have enough financial history to leap the hurdle of deposit and get a mortgage. Mid-life before you can start to buy a house of your own. And things are only going to get worse.
As the ramifications of the recent financial collapse continue to unfold. It is not inconceivable that the average age of a first time buyer will push beyond forty. This delayed ability to join the fraternity of home owners will have a devastating effect on any buyer’s ability to repay a mortgage before retirement. That’s a lot of people who will never be able to get a mortgage. Never be able to buy a house.
Some might look at the current situation and argue we are going through a “natural” period of correction. Reduced numbers of first time buyers will force down the inflated price of housing. Thus allowing more first time buyer’s to enter the market. Perhaps that is true. What is more likely is that those who already have equity will be able buy up cheap property and build their portfolio. Fuelling the ever increasing rise in prices. Pushing the average age of first time buyer’s up even higher. The truth is. A lot of people will never be able to buy. And will be forced to rent for their entire life.
The usual argument against renting is that it is a waste of money. You give away all that money. And have nothing to show for it. But renting is only an issue if you look at your life as the accumulation of wealth. If you look at rent as the cost of living. It becomes less of an issue.
So why are we so obsessed with owning property in this country? Margaret Thatcher made it the cornerstone of her monetarist agenda by selling off our stock of council housing in the eighties. She sold the family silver to socially engineer the reduction of the welfare state. She made property a pension. Ask yourself. What happens to all this house wealth in the end? It is rarely passed on to the next generation. More often than not. It is levied to pay for the home owner’s retirement. Or worse still. Sold to pay the cost of residential care.
So what’s going to happen to the increasing number of people who will never be able to buy? They won’t have the cash-cow of a property to fund their retirement. What does the future hold for them? Will they have to continue working well beyond the statutory age of retirement? Or will they be abandoned, forced to live in abject poverty? That won’t happen. The state will step in and help. What state? The current government stated aim is the reduction of the state. Less state. Less help. So private companies will come to the rescue and fill the gap. What sort of care will those who don’t have property to levy actually get? The answer. Not very good care. The state will pay them? I don’t think so. Charity then? Charity will step in to help the venerable. How very progressive. It’s that kind of thinking that consolidated the need for the labour movement in the nineteenth century.
Perhaps that’s where the future lies. The rise of a genuine labour movement in this country. Will people’s inability to buy actually change people’s understanding of the world? Perhaps the coming privations will galvanise enough of us to finally force real and lasting social change for the better. Perhaps it will reawaken left-wing politics in this country.
The sceptic in me doubts it. I would love to be wrong. But I think the vast majority of us have been blinded by the glitter of wealth for it’s own sake. We’re in love with the big screen televisions that stream advertisement for the cult of celebrity like “The X Factor” and the soon to be gone “Big Brother”. We’ve had these bright lights for too long. Perhaps so long. The glare has blinded us. Made it hard to see. All that glitters is not gold.
STATE AND MAIN is David Mamet’s satirical swipe at the movie business. If you’ve read his book Bambi vs. Godzilla you’ll know he doesn’t pull his punches. Overall it plays like a speeded up Preston Sturges comedy. A troubled Hollywood production descends on the sleepy “small town American” hamlet of Waterford, Vermont. The production has everything you’d expect from a Hollywood movie. There is the egocentric actor, the infantilised actress, a duplicitous director, the soulless producer and last but not least, the neurotic writer. All of them striving to get their movie made. Now throw in a corrupt politician. Some sycophantic residents. Mix it with some underage sex. A pinch of vandalism. A swirl of Bourbon and milk. And you get the idea. It’s funny. And has the acerbic dialogue that is Mamet’s trademark. I can’t recommend this film highly enough.
Director: David Mamet
Writer: David Mamet
Rating: 15 Running
Time: 100 minutes
I bumped into someone yesterday who damaged me both personally and professionally. I hadn’t seen him in almost ten years. And met him quite by chance in a confined situation. My gut reaction was to vent. Punch him in the face. Make him pay for the things he’d done. But I didn’t. I put my hands in my pockets. Bit my tongue. And let him walk.
My father. In his youth. Would’ve punched his lights out. At least one of my cousins would’ve taken a baseball bat to his shins. But I put my hands in my pockets. Bit my tongue. And let him walk away. My lack of visceral action no doubt leaves me on the moral high ground. But there is still a part of me that thinks. I should have taken him outside. And damaged him. Physically. That’s what you’re supposed to do where I come from. Stand up for yourself. Physically.
This kind of behaviour is portrayed in the media as a symptom of social decline. A disease with no cure. The subtext to all that hyperbole is fear. Fear of the countless people who fall out of the pub on a Friday night. And respond to an insult with physical action. Put simply it is fear of the working class.
It is the working class who respond to insults with physical action. It’s all they have. The thing of it is. The thing I have come to realise. The person I am talking about. His behaviour was no less violent. No less damaging than the fist thrown in a street brawl. But he did it in the name of a profit. With a smile. And a sense of entitlement I only ever come across in the middle class. The thing I’m struggling to articulate is this. The middle class façade of polite behaviour. Is just that. A façade.
I have had something of an education. Not as much as I would like. But enough to move in middle class circles. And survive. Almost. I say almost because no amount of education will ever make me one of them. I will always be on the outside looking in. I lack the ruthless sensibility that is innate in these people. The cold selfishness that is their birth right. I come from, dare I say it, more honest stock. They might punch you in the face when you cross them. But they would never betray you for thirty pieces of silver.
Fortunately there will always be a part of me that remains working class. A part of me that still lives on a council estate in the North East of England. A part of me that wants to take duplicitous scum outside. And damage them. Physically. A part that keeps me honest. I suppose that’s why they say. You can take the boy out of the council estate. But you can’t take the council estate out of the boy.
First entry. Where to start? A good place is probably the name, “Less Beauty More Brains”. It came to me January nineteen eighty nine. I was sat on a National Express coach, pulling out of the station in Newcastle city centre. Some enterprising feminist had daubed “Less Beauty More Brains” over one of the sixteen sheet hoardings that lined the slip road. I don’t remember what was being sold. I do remember the model, semi clad, staring at the camera. Images of a woman in a fur coat come to mind. But I might be mixing it up with one of those PETA adverts from the eighties. You can pick almost any advert featuring a woman. Apply the slogan. And it works. It is great bit of copy. The agitprop graffiti artist was no doubt offended by the blatant exploitation of women. But I was struck by its succinctness. How she was able to sum up so much with so little. I was still at art school at the time. And her corruption of modernist mantra “Less Is More” struck a chord. Since then I have used it repeatedly. Its repetition has given it greater significance. Now it seems more like a statement of intent. A way of approaching my artistic endeavours.