A RAINY DAY TO REMEMBER

RAIN wins award of Best Short Script at
the ECU European Film Festival in Paris

I'm told it was raining in Paris on Friday, so if the omens were good, now they're inveterate: my short-script Rain - which had been short-listed in the Official Selection of the ECU European Independent Film Festival in France - somehow emerged as the overall winner, claiming the award of Best Short Script 2008.

The 30-page script was also selected to receive a dramatic live-reading by a team of actors to an audience of industry professionals on the Festival’s closing night.

A fantasy-thriller, Rain is the story of a young girl who suffers from a rare water allergy and, in order to help a friend in need, tries recruiting the services of a mythological figure that lives on her bedroom ceiling. Unaware if her fabled aide has accepted her call-to-arms, she is forced to make a decision whether or not to venture outdoors and save her friend during a violent rainstorm.

More info on both the award and the script can be found on the Festival’s website: http://www.ecufilmfestival.com/2008_script-comp_winners.php

Unfortunately I couldn’t make it to Paris in time for the winners' announcement at Friday’s press conference, or the subsequent Awards Ceremony being held today. However, I will be heading over to the magical French capital early next week to collect the award in-person.

Whilst in Paris we'll be undertaking various introductions with producers/production companies who have expressed their interest in the project, and will continue to do so upon our return to the UK. Any other interested parties are encouraged to make contact as we will now be actively seeking suitable partners for a European co-production.

Please register your interest via: dmahmoudieh@yahoo.ca

A massive thank you to ECU and their Jury for recognizing the script’s potential. The fact the Festival’s president, Scott Hillier, is himself an Academy Award Winner makes the decoration an even greater honour.

Also – big, big thanks for the many kind congratulatory messages I’ve received to all who’ve sent them. Your support is – as always – appreciated beyond words. Without it I wouldn’t have the requisite assurance to do what I do with any real conviction. In fact, it’s your interminable backing and belief in this here sucka which makes it all worthwhile.

'Nuff said.

DM

© David Mahmoudieh 2008

A BUCKET HALF EMPTY



The Bucket List (12A)
reviewed by David Mahmoudieh
at the UK premier, Leicester Sq, London


In 1986 director Rob Reiner gave us one of the outstanding films of the eighties in Stand By Me, the perennial tale of nihilism versus nobility; of young zest budding out to explore this world and all the cruelties associated with growing up in it. Twenty years later, Reiner has inverted not only the premise of his greatest cinematic success, but sadly, also its appeal.

Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson play men dying of cancer. One is the ill-mannered Edward Cole, a billionaire hospital owner and all-round priggish, sanctimonious majesty of mockery, permanently afflicted with a hunger for the high-life. The other is the philosophical Carter Chambers, a humble, happily-married coulda-woulda-shoulda with only a 45-year CV as a car mechanic and an uncanny talent for general knowledge to his name. Thanks to the predictabilities of Hollywood casting, you really don’t need me to tell you who plays who, now, do you?

“I run hospitals not health-spas; two patients to a room – no exceptions” is the branded declaration of Nicholson’s Cole. So when he falls sick and has to receive a taste of his own medicine at his under-performing hospital, the enforcement of his rule comes back to haunt him as the inflated Cole finds himself room-sharing with Freeman’s feet-on-the-ground Carter. At completely opposite ends of the social scale but made to endure each other’s company, an unlikely friendship blossoms over the course of Carter and Cole’s treatments and before long both men find themselves musing over the particulars of life, death and all that lies in-between.


(Morgan Freeman arrives at last night's screening)

Inspired by their cogitations, and drawing upon an old lesson from his philosophy lecturer in college, Carter decides to devise a ‘bucket list’ – a list of things to do before you, so to speak, ‘kick the bucket’. How reverent.

Soon what was scribbled down in reluctant fantasy is made a reality as Cole stumps up the cash for both men to up and leave in pursuit of their dying dreams, the smile-while-you-talk Freeman as navigator, the sunglasses-and-cigar-clad Nicholson as the man with the wallet to make it all happen. And that, to borrow the title of Nicholson’s last remotely credible film, is about As Good As It Gets.

Downhill viewing ensues and the all-too predictable pair jet off on their all-too predictable up-the-mountain-and-down-again expeditions, the story suddenly losing whatever trace of distinction it had somehow up to that point retained.

The Bucket List really is one of those films so negligible that all intended meaning and recollection has left you by the time you’ve folded the cinema seat back up. The jokes are old or only laughed at because of who they’re being told by and the plot chases its own tail for an hour before jumping the fence of reason and retiring back to whichever kennel of indecent thought it crawled out from. I don’t think there’s possibly ever been a more conceited script.


(Timo Gilbert, star of my short-film The Confession also attended)


At little over an hour-and-a-half in length, the narrative is both rushed and intervallic, with no real defining moments to put the events we’re witnessing into any consequential perspective. One minute we’re skydiving, the next we’re mustang-racing, then we’re visiting the pyramids, then riding a motorcycle over the Great Wall of China. Africa, India, the Himalayas. And all of them done the most tremendous of injustices in the fact that absolutely none of these places were visited in real life. Everything is a CGI or blue-screen mess.

Personally I find the fake backgrounds rather fitting, considering the rest of this tripe is a mere exploitation of a common origin of sympathy, serving to do little more than de-value the currency of as grave an issue as cancer.

Naturally the overriding issue of death and its impending arrival is arguably the greatest protagonist of them all. It’s a feeling we can all identify with – if not through our own experiences, then certainly at least from death’s borrowing of those who were once tangibly and now imperceptibly remain closest to us.

But here the theme is handled like a hot potato, a plot device passed from palm to palm then filed away under “bang the wasp’s nest: completed”.

I actually struggle to recall such a poor film from a director of Reiner’s talent and track-record. Reiner has proved himself as one of cinema’s great manipulators of the human psyche, and his larger than life personality alone gives him a certain face-value lovability. But The Bucket List simply cannot be excused. A badly made film? No. It’s just soulless, in the most exemplary Hollywood fashion.

When introducing his actors to the audience at the UK Premiere in London a few weeks ago, Reiner told us, “These are the two finest actors in the world”. He may well be right, so this is one workman who certainly can’t blame his tools.

That said, with such indolent, non-committal performances as this, I question whether there can possibly be anything left on Nicholson and Freeman's own bucket lists - except cashing that huge cheque, of course.

The coreless script, as previously mentioned, certainly doesn’t help. On the rare occasion that affairs become even vaguely truth-seeking and you think there’s a line worth listening to, Nicholson interrupts with a joke about farts. Well, if this isn’t Oscar material I don’t know what is.

If nothing else, The Bucket List serves to underline (though the word ‘undermine’ could conversely suffice) the significance of the journey, not the destination. A tad predictable? Very. And it may well have been prosaic if not for Freeman and Nicholson. Neither performs astoundingly, but both are playing characters we’re so stereotypically used to seeing them portray that it renders them with such a familiarity that we accept whatever they’re about to say before either have even opened their mouths. Speaking of which (no pun intended) Freeman’s voice is, as always these days, borrowed for narration.

As for Nicholson, well he flashes that trustworthy combination of trademark grin and raised eyebrows in abundance. But even they aren’t enough to divert our attentions from his overly-eccentric articulation, awkwardly orating through sprawling sentences where each word is mouthed or dwelled on for quite literally a number of seconds.


(Reiner - w/mic - talks up the talents of Morgan &
Nicholson either side of him before unveiling his film to us)

To Reiner’s credit, the film could have been much worse. He builds up the necessary momentum between Edward and Carter during the forging of their friendship in that claustrophobic hospital room, allowing the character’s merits and mutual appreciation for beings different to themselves to spill over into one another.

But towards the latter stages events merely seem to roll from speech to speech – and you know when one’s coming, by and large from Freeman, notably because there’s this huge, ominous sigh before every one of them.

I’ve little doubt The Bucket List’s pulling power will fill seats at cinemas across the country, and indeed the film has already gone on to become No. 1 at the US box office. But, critically-speaking, Reiner’s film is a piece of work from a director clearly too out of touch with contemporary audiences to know what’s in, what’s out and what’s left to be done.

Now where’s that bucket?


© David Mahmoudieh 2008

DUTY CALLS

As pre-production draws to a close and full-blown, all-out attack production begins on The Confession, I thought I had better forewarn you that there won't be any reviews for a month or two whilst I morph back into director mode. Instead of dissecting other people's films, it feels good to be back concentrating on the assembly of my own. 'Money where the mouth is' stuff.

Things should return to a degree of normality around December. It sucks, I know - but in a good way. Even though I had to turn down interviewing David Lynch at the Barbican as a result.  :(

See you soon! :)

BOURNE AGAIN



The Bourne Ultimatum (15)
reviewed by David Mahmoudieh at the
UK premier, Leicester Sq, London

It began 5 years ago: a vision of a fresh but slightly “old-school” genre of spy movie, something without all the unfeasible gadgets and downright implausible Bond-like fandango; a simple story, about a secret agent, not who wants to save the world, but merely learn his real name. It is the story of Jason Bourne. And it’s not only everything Bond wants to be and isn’t -- absorbing, edgy, real -- but, and perhaps most impressively, succeeds without the ostensible desperation to be acknowledged as all or even any of those things.

5 years, two films and a legion of appreciation later, the highly acclaimed Bourne series is ending the same way it began: with severely understated style.


(Damon with his wife at last night's UK premiere)

In this third and culminating entry of the superlative trilogy, Matt Damon returns as Jason Bourne, an amnesiac former assassin for the CIA on the run from the very agency that trained and later betrayed him.

We pick up literally mere seconds after the conclusion of Supremacy, with the CIA still relentlessly hot on Bourne’s heels as he makes his way to London. There he hopes to find investigative reporter Simon Ross (Paddy Considine) who he believes may be able to offer him a public interface through which he can explicate Project Treadstone – the secret CIA training regime that transformed Bourne into a killer.

But Bourne’s information is beaten to the brain of Ross by a well-placed CIA bullet, the Treadstone initiators anxious to tie up every last loose end of their blunders. Bourne has a few knots to untie of his own – namely the entangled mesh of residual anguish and unanswered questions spawned by the barely-avenged death of his girlfriend in the previous film. A path littered with all the kind of spectacular, beyond-belief chase sequence which made the first two films so alive and vivacious.

Don’t be repelled if you haven’t seen the previous Bourne chapters either; one rarity Ultimatum has going for it is just how surprisingly easy a spectacle it is to slip into with little or no prior knowledge of the storyline, the makers succesfully filling any newcomers in quickly and without any lengthy exposition.



One factor immediately made apparent is that this time round Bourne is facing his most ruthless, hostile opposition yet in the form of CIA Deputy Director, Noah Vosen (David Strathairn), who needs Bourne eradicated before he assembles any more pieces of the fragmented puzzle that is his mind and exposes Vosen and his death-dealing colleagues to the media.

Bourne’s best hope of finding his long-coveted elucidation, before the CIA find him, is Pamela Landy (Joan Allen), a fellow CIA Director who secretly empathizes with Bourne’s somewhat awkward predicament. She’s not the only one displaying dissent in the ranks. Things become a little more evenly-balanced for Bourne when CIA Agent and former aide Nicky Parsons (Julia Stiles) switches sides entirely, pledging her knowledge-heavy allegiance to Bourne, as she fills in some of the gaps in his un-recallable past.



Clearly the film’s plot has been premeditated to question-mark the various intelligence agencies’ modern exploitation of the Patriot Act, a post-9/11 Act of Congress which dramatically expanded the authority of U.S. intelligence agencies overnight. But despite the film’s politically-cognizant pretences, Bourne fundamentally remains a kinetic, super-charged thriller – and thankfully one in which the action serves the story, not the other way round.

There’s undoubtedly something about the whole Bourne trilogy which just breathes with realism. A cinematic lung of its own kind, different to any other – and one which seems to gather greater wind in its sails the longer the series' vessel progresses. For once I find myself actually championing a Tetralogy!

Surely that has something to do with returning director, Paul Greengrass, who is no stranger to the subject matter beyond his preceding Supremacy. Himself a former investigative reporter, Greengrass wrote the controversial Spycatcher, a book which imparted a thorough insight into the workings of MI5, providing details of alleged assassination plots devised by the British secret services. Upon its original release the book caused such a storm that in 1985 Margaret Thatcher even vetoed its publication via the Official Secrets Act.

Fueled by Greengrass’s own innate distrust for secret governmental agencies, the fiction on show here clearly benefits hugely from the truth and procedural accuracy he injects into the story, rendering Greengrass the perfect re-appointment.


(Director Paul Greengrass (middle) with his cast
before the film's unveiling yesterday evening)

Fans will also be pleased to know that the British director hasn’t shaken (no pun unintended) his unhealthy fixation with a certain shaky shoulder-cam style which has served him so well on both Ultimatum’s older brother, the Bourne Supremacy, and Greengrass’ astounding interim film, United 93. Those with motion sickness – you have been warned.

Director of Photography, Oliver Wood, deserves an honourable mention too, bringing a rugged, brooding hue to the look of Ultimatum and always keeping the visuals full of energy and urgency.



And how can we forget, Mr. Bourne himself – the surprisingly revolutionary Damon – who not just in this film but throughout the entire Bourne affair has bought a genuine buoyant plausibility to a very complex character that is a man who, ultimately, is searching for himself.

Finally, I think a huge sum of recognition is due to three off-screen ever-presents in producers Doug Liman, Frank Marshall and Patrick Crowley. They have succeeded where countless others have failed in creating a trilogy with not one weak installment.

Watch and learn Hollywood. Watch and learn.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

WHY, OH WHY, OH WHY???



OCEAN'S 13 (PG)
reviewed by David Mahmoudieh at
the world premier in Cannes

What is it about the heavy-handed self-destruction of modern mainstream cinema that necessitates any remotely respectable/financially-successful film be ruined by two terrible sequels?

My newest body of evidence? Exhibit 13. Ocean’s 13 to be precise, by far the summer’s most contrived, hollow and implicitly manufactured cinematic sham going. Yes, come and bear witness to the wet cloth of yet another franchise being wrung out until it’s as high and dry as a Bellagio Martini.

Unfortunately these days – in addition to contempt – the friendly fiend of familiarity also breeds the guarantees of a healthy box-office taking. Consider that age-old equation of supply, equals demand, equals more supply and you suddenly see why the names involved in Soderbergh's latest ocean dive weren't about to pass bet on such a sure thing.

The problem I have, though, is that if they already knew – regardless of whether Ocean’s 13 was actually any good or not – that people would still go and watch it, they could have at least had the decency to give those paying patrons their money’s worth. Instead, all that’s on offer here is a derma of recycled jokes, skits and narratively chaotic editing jinks that think themselves far cleverer than they actually are.

What's worse is that these heist-masters are evidentially so desperate for new material they even resort to stealing one-liners from cult 80’s flicks. Garcia’s Benedict replies to the question, “Are you ready?” with the quip “I was born ready” – a word-for-word, breath-for-breath regurgitation from John Carpenter’s 1986 adventure epic Big Trouble In Little China. A bounteous reference? No. A rip-off? Absolutely.



The hopeless justification for a third film, gracelessly disguised as a plot, centres around Daniel Ocean’s (George Clooney's) quest for revenge against one Willie Bank (Al Pacino), a sleazy casino and hotel entrepreneur who recently put Ocean’s friend and accomplice Reuben Tishkoff (Elliott Gould) firmly in the infirmary. True to their ‘honour amongst thieves’ code, Ocean and his crew vow to take revenge on Bank on the night his new casino unlocks its doors for its celebrated grand opening. And yes, before long, cool clothes are shaking down Vegas sidewalks looking left, looking right and stopping flat still in front of us before they take their shades off. Are you bored yet? I was. Actually, make that "I was bored al-ready".

When it becomes apparent – and even more boring – that Ocean and his crew are somehow skint (God knows what they did with two films’ worth of loot) they enlist an old enemy of thy enemy, Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia), who funds their sabotage strategy, joining in for good measure. And that, my friends, is about as good as it gets.

Aesthetically, there can be no complaints: the cast are beautiful, the sets are beautiful, the sleek, glossy imagery – all beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. But who gives a flying salad-fork when the eye-candy becomes so tasteless it gives you ocular indigestion? With its useless nauseating montages and over-indulgent dialogue, there are moments you find yourself wondering whether they actually made a film or twelve individual moving portraits for the dozen A-listers all wanting their fair share of the screen’s pie.



As a long-time admirer of Steven Soderbergh and his work (Ocean’s Eleven, Traffic, Solaris, Sex Lies & Videotape) I can only assume that on this occasion the director was pressed firmly under the thumb of a cast and crew who all thought they knew better. For all he's given the world of cinema he deserves the benefit of the doubt. What he doesn't deserve is the hammy, half-hearted performances his over-paid and under-par actors provide him.

Every member of the returning cast (Pitt, Damon and Cheadle included) are ostensibly far too self-conscious of their characters’ invocations and what's expected of them, they play to those traits with way too much 'cool', swagger and artificial jest that it's almost cringe-worthily unwatchable. Even Al Pacino, the fine fable he is, can’t/can't be bothered to turn the tables and redeem the degradation. In fact, in parts – not that I blame him – it doesn’t look like he’s even trying.

So, to quote Reuben Tishkoff from the first film (hey, why not – they've ripped everyone else off) this is one “gaudy monstrosity” you’ll do well to steer clear of.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

DM MEETS JOE & ENZO CALZAGHE

Local Hero Returns for WBC's
'Night of the Champions'
by David Mahmoudieh

Mention the words ‘boxing’ and ‘Bedford’ in the same sentence and it’s likely the name Matt Skelton would be the first that leapt from most lips. But the ‘Bedford Bear’ isn’t alone in carrying the hopes and expectations of a small-town on the big stage. No, there’s another less-celebrated, even if just as pertinent, source of local pride to Bedfordians – as a privileged minority were to witness first-hand last Friday.

April 27th 2007 and the loop closed full-circle on a local hero’s historical wheel as the antique township of Bedford welcomed back Enzo Calzaghe and son Joe for Night of the Champions – a WBC benefit event in aid of the Keech Cottage Children’s Trust. For a pair renowned for remaining humbly reclusive – particularly the latter – the inauguration of such a rare and expressive appearance began long, long ago:

It was way back in 1952 that Enzo Calzaghe, aged two, arrived with his family from the Italian island of Sardinia before settling in the East Anglian town of Bedford, and remaining there until his mid-teens. Still with family in the area to this day, Enzo’s returns to the maudlin streets that bore his earliest memories had – until last Friday – been severely limited. But then I guess he’s got as good an excuse as any...

40 years on since he left the UK’s Italian capital (Bedford has the highest saturation of Italians by demographic than anywhere else in the country) and the eccentric, fifty-seven years young Enzo is now proud father and full-time trainer to a truly prodigal son, Joe Calzaghe, the undefeated and current Super Middleweight Boxing Champion of the World.

(Proud father Enzo with son Joe after their career-defining
win over American powerhouse Jeff Lacy in April last year)

For those of you not overly familiar with boxing or its greats, Joe – a cross-breed of his father’s Italian and mother’s Welsh ancestry – is widely regarded as the finest Super Middleweight Champion in the history of the division and is a man already truly assured of his place in boxing folklore when he gives up the gloves. In most sporting circles the word ‘legend’ is way too often thrown around like a set of loaded dice; all seek its marker, few attain it on merit, but Calzaghe Jnr is a welcome exception and well on his way to consolidating his legacy as the genuine article. Only a handful of title-holders have ever remained champion as long or made anywhere near as many defences (Calzaghe won the title off Chris Eubank in 1997 and has held onto it ever since) and acknowledgment of such a feat was evident in 2006 when Joe earned a nomination for the BBC's Sports Personality of the Year Award.

His larger-than-life father, Enzo, isn’t short of recognition either: Enzo was recently awarded ‘Trainer of the Year’ by the prestigious Ring Magazine (“The Bible of Boxing”), an accolade few Europeans have ever had the honour of receiving, which for Enzo, is the equivalent of being recognized as the World Champion of Trainers. Nurturing world-class brawlers isn’t his only talent. Enzo stems from a family rich in musical tradition and proved so in 1998 when he wrote the England World Cup hit ‘Vindaloo’. Told you he was eccentric!

Crimes against music withstanding, it was Enzo's boxing expertise that were needed when, three weeks prior to his visit to Bedford, Joe fought another Italian, Peter Manfredo Jr, an opponent many of you may recognise from ITV’s The Contender, on 7th April at the Millennium Stadium. Calzaghe Jnr made seemingly easy work of the 20th successful defence of his title in his native Cardiff (which came via an albeit discordant stoppage in the third) and Enzo was grateful to be returning to Bedford on a high, “That’s a 20th title defence now for Joe and an added cause for celebration on which to return to Bedford. This was where I grew up and coming here tonight with Joe, showing him all the areas I grew up in, it was marvellous – especially as we were able to help a charity at the end of it.”

(Enzo watches on intently while Joe & Peter Manfredo
square up for the cameras at their pre-fight weigh-in)

Both Enzo and Joe, who make very few public appearances outside of the ring, are immensely proud of their Italian roots and Enzo felt right back at home in a town where you can’t turn a corner without hearing the rampant yet affable rambling of a full-throttle Italian debate over the weekend’s Serie A football results. “It’s really strange being back here, everything about the town’s changed but the people are still exactly the same. It really is so amazing to be back. You see, usually the family I have here come up to Wales or wherever Joe’s fighting, so for me to come back here to them for a change is really great”, enthused Enzo.

“I take it you have fond memories of the place?”, I inquired.

“Yeah, yeah! Of course I do – I mean, just being here really starts bringing stuff back”, he said reminiscently with a warm twinkle in his eye. “It’s always nice to go back to a place where you’ve got so many good memories.”

(Joe with the weight of two world titles on his shoulders
in his beloved Cardiff's Millennium Stadium, the stage
for so many of the fighter's virtuoso victories)

Over three-hundred people bought tickets to witness Enzo’s homecoming, with all the proceeds being donated to good causes. The event was masterminded entirely by the WBCME (http://http://www.wbcme.co.uk//), a charity arm of the WBC’s World Boxing Cares commission who utilize their extensive 163-country fellowship to improve the lives of many of the world’s disadvantaged children.

‘Big Champions supporting Little Champions’ is the call to arms, with current and former World Champions volunteering their time and effort in the form of visits to sick and impoverished children in hospitals, orphanages and youth centers both near and far. The Keech Cottage Children’s Hospice was this particular night’s beneficiary, receiving all profits and on-the-night donations – as well as numerous photos and memorabilia signed by all the big names in attendance.

(Shades of Ali v Liston as Calzaghe sees off the challenge
of Jeff Lacy in their whirlwind 2006 world title fight)

That proved to be a fair few signatures, as Calzaghe father and son weren’t be the only ones on show. Joe’s great friend and one-time opponent Richie Woodhall also attended, along with John H Stracey, both of whom are WBC worldwide ambassadors and regular contributors to the World Boxing Cares program.

Richie, who lost a majority points decision to Joe in 2000, believes the event was especially important to raise the image of boxing and its untiring dedication to supporting good causes. “People have a massive misconception about boxing – and boxers, basically. So when they attend events like this and actually meet boxers and world champions, they all say the same thing, ‘God, he’s actually a decent guy’, and it’s as if they’re almost surprised by that because all they see on the TV is Mr. boxer in the ring, fighting”, explained Richie.

“But to be a champion – and to be a boxer – you’ve got to have a split personality and when that bell goes it’s a place of work, you just go out there to do a job. Look at Joe Calzaghe – the way he was tonight you’d probably guess boxing was the last sport on earth he’d be involved in. But once he gets in that ring he becomes a machine, it’s a job. I think if more boxers did more of this – got involved with local communities and actually got out there to basically meet people, then they (the people) would have a much better view about boxing and boxers in general.”

(Richie in action against now close-pal Joe in 2000;
Calzaghe went on to win the fight by TKO in the tenth)

Joe Calzaghe was of a similar disposition (see our exclusive interview below for the full transcript) and in all fairness, both have an irrefutable case. Joe, Enzo, Richie and John have all at some point stood at the very peak of their sport’s hierarchal ladder, and some still retain their sturdy foothold there: Joe is arguably the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world; Enzo is considered the world’s best trainer; Richie is a former WBC champion; as too is John H Stracey, not to mention a brief acquaintance of Elvis Presley. Yet they are genuinely four of the nicest, most grounded guys you could ever wish to meet. The only chips on these shoulders are the gashes of stray punches that shot for the moon but still landed amongst the surplus throng of scars which confirm these dauntless warriors have earnt their wisdom through nothing short of cavernously heartfelt duel and gruel.

And so indeed, why should the new breed of theatrical trash-talking pugilists dilute the fine work and sportsmanship displayed by four separate generations of boxing achievement and all other emissaries who’ve given back to the sport which they took from it in equal measure. Certainly, in an age where the perpetual press pendulum swings back and forth from the light and dark landmarks of professional contact sports, it would seem boxing and the WBCME have a mutual dependency way beyond the superficial binds that loosely tie the modern-day love-hate relationship between the boxing faculty and its illumination in the media spotlight.

For further information on upcoming events or details of how you can get involved in supporting the WBCME, please contact David Walker on 07930 507 577 or alternatively email: davidwalker@wbcme.co.uk

INTERVIEW WITH JOE CALZAGHE

After the event, World Champion Joe Calzaghe was kind enough to donate his time to an exclusive interview where I discovered the Super Middleweight WBO and IBF belt-holder has as big a heart outside the ring as he has inside it.

DM: Firstly, Joe – congratulations on a 20th title defence; was that one of the highlights of your boxing career, selling out a record 35,000 crowd in Wales and retaining your crown in front of your own people?

JC: Yeah, thank you very much. I mean, obviously it was a great night for me and of course fighting in Cardiff was special, fighting in Cardiff is always special, but the occasion and the crowd that night made it all the more better, and so yeah it was an outstanding night in my career so far.

DM: You’re of a mixed heritage – Welsh and, perhaps more significantly tonight, Italian – how much does it mean to be in Bedford, the place where your father grew up and where you have such a large Italian following?

JC: Yeah, it’s great, obviously I know my granddad came over here after the war to Bedford and I know this place has a big Italian community --

DM: -- the largest in Europe outside of Italy, apparently.

JC: Is that right, is it? I didn’t know it was that many but I always knew there was a lot of Italians who live here and obviously my dad was one of those, he lived here as a kid with his family and his brothers and so when I found out World Boxing Cares were holding the event here in Bedford that it would a great opportunity to give something back to a local area my father grew up in. He (Enzo) knows the area as well, lots of memories here for him – so, yeah, it was just a fantastic opportunity to come here for a good cause and speak to so many second-generation Italians like myself.

DM: You make very few public appearances, Joe; aside from your father’s connection with Bedford, what was it about the Keech Cottage children’s charity that drew you down here?

JC: Well, you know, I’ve got kids myself – I’ve got a nine-year old and a twelve-year old and there’s nothing more harrowing or distressing for a parent than having to go through an illness which affects your child. I do some work for the NSPCC too and there’s another charity in Wales called Latch which is a charity for children with cancer – so any charity that affects children is close to my heart and at the end of the day any small thing I can possibly do I will endeavour to. It’s a pleasure for me do so and I really hope tonight is a good evening for the charity, and I’d definitely like to support the charity again in the future.

DM: You got an electric reception here tonight; you’ve clearly secured a loyal fan-base, you’ve unified the WBO and IBF world titles, you’ve reached the milestone of 20 title defences… what’s left for you now in the sport of boxing, what else do you feel you need to achieve before you retire?

JC: Listen, I can fight until I’m forty. I’ve just turned thirty-five, I’m in good shape, still sharp as ever, quick as ever but there’s a fine line in boxing – and that’s knowing when to retire. Very, very few fighters know when to retire. You’ve always got that lure of the pound that keeps dragging you back into fighting when you get beat so I’ll give myself three, four more fights – big fights, that’s all I’m after now, I’m not interested in meaningless fights, I want big fights; Jermain Taylor, Kessler, Bernard Hopkins, Roy Jones – I’m not interested in anything else. I’ve put myself in the big league, all I want to do is fight big fights whether it’s in England, Wales or America – big fights with big money.

DM: As you said, you’re finally getting the recognition in the USA you’ve craved for so craved and deserved arguably even longer – but do you maybe regret that you never got to fight Steve Collins, who was well known in the States, and who may have unlocked the door for you over there a little earlier?

JC: Well, I mean Steve Collins retired at the end of the day, what more can I say? Frank Warren promoted the two of us and you ask Frank Warren what happened – he (Steve Collins) didn’t wanna fight me for a simple reason – he knew he was gonna get beat. He retired six days before the fight, what champion retires six days before a world title fight? And at the end of the day, Chris Eubank was training for a fight as well and Eubank to be honest, you know, he was going through a phase where he was having ten fights a year and he actually knocked down Steve Collins in the first fight, so… But yeah, of course, I would have loved to have beat Steve Collins because he was the actual champion at the time. But still, fighting somebody like Chris Eubank – I mean the guy was practically a legend and if you’re gonna win a world title Chris Eubank’s a big name to win it off.

DM: Speaking of missed opportunities: any fighter, any weight, any era – who would you have loved to face?

JC: Ooh, I don’t know… I would have liked to have tested myself against Hagler, y’know, Hagler was a great fighter, he was a southpaw like myself, very strong, very good hand-speed – I would have liked to see what might have happened between me and Hagler if he had’ve stepped up to Super Middleweight, but I don’t know, it’s difficult to say. There’s so many great fighters, I don’t tend to look at them and think ‘what would I have done against them’ I just like to look back and admire them, like Leonard, Duran, Chavez – all them sort of fighters. I don’t really think about what I’d have done with them I just admire them for the fighters they were in their day.

DM: Boxing as a sport has endured a lot of unnecessary bad press recently, do you think there needs to be more of the type of thing you’ve done tonight; boxers going out of their way for good causes to show that for all the negative attention boxing attracts in the ring, it more than makes up for with positive endeavours outside of it?

JC: Definitely. What boxing doesn’t need is bad press. Boxing needs good press. It doesn’t need fighters who disrespect the sport and slag off other fighters or brawl in the street – and the thing is, when fighters do that, when they actually get in the ring they’re s**t. Y’know, at the end of the day, I do all my talking in the ring and normally you get quiet guys at the press conferences and they’re respectful, then they have wars in the ring. That’s what you want to see, you wanna see a fight in the ring not outside the ring, so definitely it’d be great to get rid of all the bad-mouthing and frolics outside of boxing. But… listen, y’know I still think boxing’s a great game and I love the sport and ultimately it’s made me who I am.

DM: What practical advice would you give to anyone who wanted to get into the sport of boxing?

JC: It’s a great sport, it teaches you discipline, keeps you very fit and gives you a focus in your life. If you learn it properly with a good trainer and you stay dedicated to it then it can take you far in life. There’s many dedicated (boxing) gyms all over the country for all ages and if you want to get involved, go along, see if you like it, even if just to keep fit, and who knows? I guess you never know unless you try.

DM: Thank you very much for your time and thank you for being here tonight, Joe.

JC: Absolute pleasure.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

FACTORY FOR THE FALLEN

FACTORY GIRL (15)
reviewed by David Mahmoudieh at the UK premier

New York, 1965. If you were a hippie (and, hey, even if you weren’t) you may remember it as a time of Marx, Mahler and Mahatma Ghandi; of bell-bottoms, bra-burnings and boo; of Herman Hesse, crash-pads and driving around in beat-up Volkswagen vans with pink flowers painted on the side of them. It was the height of the swinging 60’s – and it had love, man. It also had Edie Sedgwick (Sienna Miller) and so is the setting for Factory Girl, a trepid and tragic tale of hedonistic overload amidst a race for the American dream that turned into a spiralling nightmare via the briefest of flirts with reality.

Less like watching a film and more like watching an accident waiting to and then eventually happen, Factory Girl inventively unfurls the meteoric rise and demise of Edie Sedgwick (Sienna Miller), a real-life 60’s female icon whose star blazed so bright it burnt out twice as fast. Such is the film’s quest for historical accuracy over contemporary chronicle, I feel better compelled to first summarize Sedgwick’s celebrity as it was rather than as it is here foretold.



On the face of it Sedgwick was adored as the hip-hype silver-mini-skirt wearing darling of America; fascinatingly beautiful, charismatic and full of zest. That was, until she crossed paths with Andy Warhol, the anti-enfant terrible of fashionable non-cinema with his breed of eccentric, and by his own admission, meaningless films which somehow inspired an entire generation to extrapolate all manner of meaning from them. Warhol proved to be the beginning of the end for Sedgwick, as an alluring new World opened up before her; one besieged within the upper circles of a neo-artistry era which was a perpetual eruption of sex, drugs, rock, roll and Sedgwick's speciality – urbanite fashion. Eventually becoming an actress, her short-lived but fast-spent life became legend when a diet of amphetamines and vodka lead her to a fatal drug’s overdose in 1971.

Alas, back with the times and similar to the Warhol of yesteryear, the Warhol depicted on-screen (Guy Pearce) sees promise in Sedgwick’s raw and vivacious vulnerability and quickly introduces her to his wild world of ‘The Factory’ – a rundown industrial unit he's malformed into a bohemian paradise. This rag-tag mix of musicians, poets, artists and actors do little more than craft outré-artistic expressionistic films by day before throwing glam, drug-drenched parties by night.



As always, stories riddled with this much ravishment and declension remain compulsively watch-able solely for what they are and don’t need to be told in complex terms. So credit director George Hickenlooper who has added a hint of sophistication to a simple narrative, keeping the film nourished with the power of understatement and cinematic delicacy. What’s refreshingly unusual is that Factory Girl isn’t trying to pass judgment – rather just tell the story as it happened, not as we’d like to think it did.

Equally, Hickenlooper’s casting skills seem similarly adept, with Sienna Miller the obvious choice for the title role: just like her character, Miller first found fame through a brace of failed relationships with celebrity boyfriends only to now herself these days trying to find her feet as an actress.



And special mention to Hayden Christensen (Star Wars) as Warhol’s love-rival, Billy Quinn (who despite the ‘purely coincidental’ disclaimer is clearly meant to be Bob Dylan). Christensen delivers an inch-perfect portrayal of a character he can’t for legal reasons play too obviously but still manages to exemplify with sufficient familiarity.

The character of Quinn appears to offer Edie a way out of Warhol’s addictive World and straight into another, but the sincerity of their romance is not all as it seems. You wouldn’t think it...

Despite the merit of the eerily convincing performances on show, the film looks certain to become most famous for its steamy and controversial love scenes, in which Miller and her co-star Christensen (who dated for while during and after filming) are reported to have performed the scenes for real.


(Sienna Miller last night at the film's London premier)

Whether that’s true or not, and as persuasive as the scene is, it functions only as extravagant ballast, almost pinning the audience’s attentions down and away from the more interesting things happening on the film's periphery.

Factory Girl has much greater lessons on life to offer us than the potential lowly depths of modern acting habits, and first-and-foremost serves as an insight into the actions of a somewhat forgotten princess of pop-couture that can be both abhorred and yet, at the same time, tragically admired.

As for the controversy and critical storm that is certain to rain upon the film's unavoidably flagship scene, I'm sure Edie wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

Let's get FUZZical



HOT FUZZ (12A) reviewed by David Mahmoudieh at the
UK premier, Leicester Sq, London

Big Cop. Small Town. Tight Fit. Hot Fuzz!

Simon Pegg, Nick Frost and directorial spouse Edgar Wright firmly promoted themselves to the A-League of British comedy with their 2004 cult magnum opus Shaun of the Dead. Now, three years later, the talented and tumultuous trio let loose their eagerly-anticipated second feature, Hot Fuzz – an on the whole simple but stylishly told tale.

Pegg plays Sergeant Nicholas Angel, London’s top cop and by-the-book enforcer who lives for his job. Problem is, he’s good – so good he makes his colleagues look like the bad-guys, and is fast-becoming a victim of his own success.



Eager to sweep their top-performer under the metropolitan carpet, Angel’s superiors (Bill Nighy and Steve Coogan’s respective two-cents) decide to “promote” the overachiever to the most criminally-inactive village in rural England – slow and sleepy Sandford.

Paired with local bobby Danny (Nick Frost), a wannabe Don Johnson with abundant puppy-like enthusiasm but about as much steel as Marlon Dingle, Angel endures a massive culture-shock when he gets cracking on some of the town’s toughest cases – like that of a missing swan.



The breaking dawn of reality that the most exciting facets of this ostensibly idyllic settlement are garden parties and the weekly neighborhood-watch meeting only add to Angel’s growing frustrations. But like all good detectives, the far-from-home-and-fury law-enforcer begins to see cracks in the town’s veneer when a series of anomalous and baffling events are flounced aside as 'accidents'.

If Sandford is indeed a sleeping tiger, then it’s about to get one hell of wake-up call, as Angel – armed with his replenished instincts and an awe-struck sidekick – sets out to unearth the commodity of truth. And that’s where the real fun begins.



Pegg, Frost and Wright, who accumatively wrote the screenplay, are adroit enough entertainers to know how to avoid any over-reference or resemblance to past successes. And, in many ways, Fuzz is a clever reversal of Shaun of the Dead’s design of amiable guy thrown into extreme circumstances in a bid to restore order, with the conversely extreme character of Angel as the fish-out-of-water finding himself in seemingly peaceful environs as a bringer of chaos.

Aside from the inverted prototypical subterfuge, it would be largely unfair to compare the two. Meaning all the more credit on merit, considering the weight of expectation augmented by their previous big-screen endeavour. And not many comedies can stretch two hours and still provide enough laughs and gaffs to make it seem like half of that. 'Time' indeed 'flies', as they say.



Fuzz isn't completely without its niggling and largely avoidable imperfections, most tellingly the swift and speedy compressional cuts – an evocative nod in the direction of the 'hip-hop montages' in Requiem for a Dream – appear funny at first but grow tiresome and prehistoric come the ninth and tenth time. Maybe that's being a little too harsh, but nevertheless did come as a surprising piece of disregard from a group of filmmakers who so clearly and accurately understand the needs of their audience.

That said, Hot Fuzz is a thoroughly enjoyable endeavour which will no doubt wash down well with the army of fans this close-knit team have deservedly secured, and go some way to winning a few more.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

DM MEETS STEVEN SEAGAL

THE SOUND OF THUNDER

STEVEN SEAGAL AND THUNDERBOX RUMBLE INTO TOWNby David Mahmoudieh


WHOEVER said the Blues were dead? Well let me tell ya something, if they were, then one thing’s for sure – they’ve just awoken to the sound of Steven Seagal’s thunder. Thunderbox, to be precise – his superb, seven-piece Blues band straight from Memphis.

It may come as a surprise to some of you, but long before he picked his first fight, Steven Seagal picked the strings of his guitar.

In the all-black Detroit neighbourhood where he was born and tendered his early childhood years, the man we know best for his distinction as a martial arts master first and foremost began mastering the mercurial art of the Blues. And there you thought he was just another regular, one-trick-pony action hero, huh?

Well the pony is still there, but his box of tricks has blasted wide open to reveal there’s more to this man-of-many-talents than his more familiar screen exploits. Sure, one could be forgiven for initially adding writer, director, producer, environmentalist, eco-warrior, animal rights activist, Buddhist and finally 7th-dan black-belt aikido pioneer to the most obvious of his faculties. And at fifty years young, it makes you wonder where and how he fits it all in.

Yet despite the mantle of being the first “westerner” to open an aikido dojo in Japan, despite a film career that has grossed over $600m in worldwide box office receipts and despite his selfless work as an active behind-the-scenes charity-man – if there’s one thing Steven Seagal doesn’t reap enough universal credit for, it’s his fine gift for writing and performing some damn good music.

Having learnt to play the guitar from the age of five (by contrast, Seagal didn’t begin learning martial arts until his mid-teens – nor make his first film until age thirty-three), the Blues have been the longest, most loyal constant throughout his eclectic rise to fame.

Now, returning to his first love, and for the first time in 20 years, Seagal is back in the UK as part of a year-long World tour performing his new album, Mojo Priest.

Keen to gain ground on their equally impressive 2005 album Songs From the Crystal Cave – a hybrid assembly of Blues, reggae and motown containing duets with both Ruth “Lady” Brown and the inimitable Stevie Wonder – in Mojo Priest (see our interview for full vindication of the album’s name) lead-vocalist/guitarist Seagal has conjured up an all-in-all pleasantly surprising mini-masterpiece in the genre.

Alright, so I’ll confess – I love the Blues, which probably renders me more prone to this particular breed of contagion. But it’s hard for even the most homogeneous, genre-devout music fan not to be – especially when it’s being played this live and with this much ardour and energy.

And let me stress, this is no “transition” of an actor-turned-musician in an overnight levity. This is a return to the rawest roots; the ageless brimstone of musical cinder from a man who loves nothing more than living every note in unison with his guitar seized indulgently in his hands.

Any of you expecting to heed the company of some egocentric movie-star rambling with stories of his past-time film experiences between songs like most other actors who settle for the stage once the camera departs, will be relieved to find that Steven Seagal is no such animal at the mercy of the Hollywood huntsman. Blues doesn’t get much more real than this, and Seagal seems focused solely on preaching only the sacred word of his beloved Blues through the microphone – and boy, can this guy sing live!

Some of the songs are absolutely awesome but above all else, Seagal lays claim to an amazingly natural, un-contrived voice, delivering great lyrics in compliment to some truly astonishing lead-guitar work. In fact, his string-bending skills alone are enough testimony to authenticate Seagal as a musician clearly endowed with the deepest understanding and sagacity of the Blues – blessed with that rare kind of innermost connectivity that cannot be obtained but rather discovered. Even non-Blues fans will appreciate and enjoy the ecumenical mix of songs, their rhythms and librettos as bombastic as their titles.

Alligator Ass, for example, will have you up out your seat, wondering what you’ve been missing out on all these years. Then there’s the reflective, contemplative chords and soulful bellowing of My Time Is Numbered, sung with a real matter-of-fact sentiment that underlines the desolation of the song’s message.

Yet regardless of Seagal’s not-so-much new-found as newly-valued musicianship, when laid in contrast with his more presupposed pastures of cinematic familiarity, there belies an unavoidability that some may not adjudicate the credentials as a singer/songwriter on merit rather than affiliation. But this level of talent is Hard to Kill – though some of the more conceited musical press have already tried. They may wish they hadn’t bothered as what hasn’t slayed Thunderbox has only served to make them stronger, and the platform is now set for Seagal to establish himself as one of the most respected modern-day, white Blues artists out there.

Associate ambassadors of soul and Blues, such as the UK’s own late, great Dave Godin would be on cloud nine to see a return to these shores of live Blues music right from the core of where true Blues came from.

If you've ever had the joy of sitting in a New Orleans bar and listening to a jam session, you’ll know what I’m talking about. And if you haven’t, now’s your chance to see it on your own doorstep.

So whatever your plans for February and March, check out a venue local to you at: http://www.stevenseagal.com/ and be sure to spare a night in your calendar for an opportunity not to be missed.

STEVEN SEAGAL INTERVIEW

THE BLUES AND MARTIAL ARTS MAESTRO LENDS HIS THOUGHTS ON MUSIC, MAGIC, MONKEY-HANDS… AND HIS LOVE OF JOURNALISTS

Making the journey up to Birmingham to meet with Seagal, I already half-expected to come across a man who had recently become increasingly annoyed with the misrepresentation of his trip to the UK, thanks in part to some valuable advice the night before from his tour promoter. Seagal wasn’t too happy with the press, who had been calling his musical expedition a “transition”, a “new career”, failing to understand that Blues to Steven Seagal isn’t some new fad he learned overnight. I wasn’t too wrong.

Meeting him in his hotel room, Seagal was a very hospitable gentleman who spoke with the mystic enigma of a shaman, whilst always displaying an extremely calm and welcoming demeanour.

We spoke about all manner of things from Blues to the media circus, as you’re about to find out, and our discussion proved to be one of the more fun interviews I’ve done in my time:

DM: Congratulations on another great album. I’m pleased to tell you I’m a big Blues fan.

SS: Thank God for that. I come over here to play music and all anybody wants to talk about is a load of b******t; how they thought I was gonna ‘swing onto stage from a chandelier with an Uzi, with explosions’ and everything. They don’t seem to wanna understand that’s not why I’m here.

DM: You may be just a little relieved to know then that I'm only interested in talking blues.

SS: That’s… re-assuring.

DM: I wanted to start by talking about the album. Listening to that took me back to the early Blues Movement, with shades of Robert Johnson and Robert Pete Williams in there. Were any of the old Blues Movement guys influences for you?

SS: Well yeah, sure. I mean, I listened to a load of Blues as a kid. So I was influenced by tonnes of people. Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, all those guys – I grew up with them, and BB King also, and they’re great examples of what it takes. So yeah, Blues is in my soul and those guys were all big inspirations.

DM: Since the shift of focus from regularly filming to regularly performing in a musical sense and the pressures of being on-tour – how has that changed your life? Is it more demanding, less demanding?

SS: For me it’s not really any more or less demanding. Touring is something I’ve done a lot of. Done a lot of playing, shows and concerts – more than cinema, so it’s more of a pleasure than a pressure.

DM: You’ve achieved a great level of respect through your musicianship, and I know you’ve said recently how you were getting slightly disillusioned with the film stuff. Can we expect to see more of you on stage than screen?

SS: I mean, I love and am very grateful to film. I never said I was giving up acting or anything like that. I wanted do the tour because this is what I love. Movies are great and I had, and still have, great fun doing all that stuff, but Blues is what I’ve always loved and always done, so to do be able to do that every day is, y’know…

DM: Sure. I guess your movie-roles are a job but your music is more a way of life?

SS: Yeah, I mean it’s what I’ve been doing since I was five or so, and that’s why in many reasons I was so kind of, I guess not really outraged, but I couldn’t understand when I went to Scotland how the whole of Scotland could provide me with that level of a journalist who all he could talk about was swinging from a chandelier and just stuff that was nothing to do with why I’m over here, which is the music. I mean, journalists have a hard enough time as it is because most of them, particularly in America, but a lot in the UK, are completely thoughtless. They’re like lawyers, only worse. Not only do they write things that we don’t say, you sometimes wonder whether maybe they should be doing something else for a living because they’re asking the wrong questions, they’re not... (gestures with his hand to our conversation) So when an – apparently – good one like yourself comes along and asks the right questions, I’m always happy to answer them.

DM: The title of your new album, Mojo Priest, intrigues me. I take it the ‘Mojo’ part harkens back to its earliest meaning of a black-magic guardian? Was that something you were conscious of given the origins of Blues music?

SS: Well you say and seem like you’re Blues efficient, so you probably know what a Mojo is, right? Well, when I was a kid a lot of the Blues guys, they all carried a Mojo bag. You know what a Mojo bag is?

DM: Isn’t that a voodoo-bag of which people use the contents to warn off bad spirits, etc.? Am I right...? Your gaze suggests I’m wrong!

SS: (laughing) Weeeeell, I never really looked as it as a magic bag, but it’s more like a custom – particularly to people down in Louisiana, who have a real understanding of the history as to where all this [the Blues] comes from. So black magic isn’t something they practice, it’s just something they look on as kind of tradition and history. But – I think it must have come from somewhere, y’know, because it came from Africa and similar to a Mojo hand – you know what a Mojo hand is, right?

DM: (tongue in cheek) ...yes?

SS: (smiling) What’s a Mojo hand?

DM: Isn’t it a hand they put on the end of a stick and bless people with it… warn off spirits...?

SS: Do you know what the actual Mojo hand itself is?

DM: Not the hand – but I’d love to know!

SS: Well an actual Mojo’s hand is a monkey’s hand. They used to cut off a monkey’s hand [once it had died naturally] – (laughing) by the way, does this stuff bore you, because we can talk about something else if you want?

DM: No, not at all – unless it bores you, otherwise please do continue.

SS: Okay, well they also use the Mojo hand a lot, particularly black men in the South, in order to keep their women to themselves, y’know, keeping their women from ever having another man. And you’ll hear that in a lot of Blues songs. It’s very, very interesting if you listen to the heart of these lyrics. But to answer your question, Mojo to me doesn’t really in my life have too much texture to do with black magic, but more in a protection sense. And also, [I chose the name Mojo] because it’s important to acknowledge the history of something.

DM: That’s an interesting point, because it does seem through the music that you’re very honourable to the history of black music, whether Blues-infused or not. For example, there are shades of reggae in there also. But then there’s also this hint of country & western in there, too. That’s quite a diverse mix. I was just wondering whether you were perhaps consciously aware of any correlation between the combinational style of your martial arts and the diversity of your music?

SS: We and everything around us in some way are all connected. Even the most diverse and diametrically opposed or opposite things have some kind of balance between them. As vast as it may be, one way or another we’re in a very small world. Blues people live and think, this very unique sort of thing... I mean, sort of, I’ve never really looked at it as in ‘is there any similarity between my music and martial arts?’, however, there’s always been in the Blues a lot of... (thinks) okay, like Charlie Patton, for example, he had his throat slit, was shot three or four times. Every Blues guy I knew, from Muddy Waters to Albert King – Albert King who lives where I live now in Memphis, all those guys all carried a gun, a pistol, they all gambled. In the jukes joints, they- I’ve been in juke-joints where all of a sudden you just hear gunfire and everybody ducks because they’re all gambling and drinking there, and... So there is sort of a, as you call it, correlation of the warrior monk, or warrior musician – whatever – that has a deeper appreciation for the history and the people who grew up in a time when writing Blues was their life, but who were also trying to protect themselves.

DM: Moving onto some of the songs on the album, now; one of them that really struck me was Alligator Ass. Not just the name but the lyrics. What does that song represent to you?

SS: Alligator Ass is a really, really good example of Louisiana. My father’s family were from Texas and Texas and Louisiana are kind of like sisters. I remember when I was I was a kid I’d be walking down the street and hear these drums, and I started out on drums so my bond with that instrument never left me. But the drums on those streets were something I’ll never forget. You’d just hear them playing and you’d notice it was for a funeral procession, moving through the middle of the road. And everybody, I mean EVERYBODY, people on the streets, people in the shops would just start joining in this procession, it was really amazing.

DM: A kind of celebration of life rather than the pain of death?

SS: Well, kind of both, you know. And Alligator Ass is really a classic example of that. If you listen to the lyrics closely, you’ll hear what it’s about. It’s actually one of my favourite tracks on the album.

DM: Another one I really loved was My Time Is Numbered.

SS: Actually, those are maybe my two favourite songs [from the album]. Of the two though I’d probably say My Time Is Numbered is my favourite.

DM: Is that your favourite from a rhythmic or a lyrical perspective?

SS: Oh the lyrics, definitely. That song really means something – all my songs mean something to me, but that one I think applies to all of us, everybody’s time is numbered and I just love singing that song. It’s actually my favourite song of this album [Mojo Priest] and the last one [Songs From The Crystal Cave].

DM: Well let’s talk about that last album, Songs From The Crystal Cave, because on one of the songs on the album, My God, was a duet you performed with none other than Stevie Wonder? How did that come about and what was it like both working and sharing a recording studio with such a legendary musician?

SS: Stevie Wonder has been a friend of mine for a long, long time. He’s more like a brother. When I played him the song he decided he really liked what it stood for. And that really should be a national anthem right now, it’s a pity we haven’t re-released that record, because that song asks a lot about what’s wrong with the World today.

DM: Songs From The Crystal Cave was your first album with your band Thunderbox and did fairly well, particularly in Europe. But I saw that Mojo Priest debuted at No 1 in France. Do you have a large following out there?

SS: I’ve performed in France a lot, yeah. I have a pretty decent following in a lot of the Mediterranean, but yeah, it was nice to see it get to No 1.

DM: So how are you finding the UK?

SS: In terms of England everything has been wonderful, so far. Scotland was also wonderful, I just was really disappointed with some of the interviews and the journalists up there. I’m not saying they were bad people, I don’t think they were trying to be hurtful in any way which is something one could be upset about. It was just… disappointing that they didn’t really listen to why I’m over here. Y’know, I told people over and over again that I’ve been playing music since I was five or six year old but, it’s like they don’t hear it. (imitating) ‘Oh you’re just starting out, it’s your new career’. I’ve never said to anyone it’s my new career, I’ve never said to anyone I’m quitting the movie business. It’s like, they sorta hear what they wanna hear. So yeah, but apart from that, it’s been really great. I’ve been here before in the past but not for a long time, and I’ve always loved the UK.

DM: Just touching upon the fact you were playing music way before you learned martial arts, do you think the obvious hand-eye co-ordination gained through guitar-playing facilitated with the martial arts in any way?

SS: You know to be honest with you, you’re not supposed to look at your guitar, so hand-eye co-ordination isn’t something that should be too important. I look at my guitar all the time – and I shouldn’t, but I somehow do. One of the reasons I do that is because I grew up playing a Silvertone and then ended up with a Stratocaster, and it’s, y’know, the neck is (demonstrates) this long, it’s a certain scale. And then I started playing a Firebird, and with a Firebird, the neck’s about (demonstrates a smaller width) this long – it really has a different scale. So, when you’ve been playing one scale, one really long and the other not – when they’re that different, and you switch anywhere between five and ten guitars on a set or something, (laughs) you kinda have to look at your guitar because they’re all that different. But I guess, yeah, it probably did help in some way, got me used to using two hands at the same time for different functions, or something.

DM: One thing I noticed about you is that you do so much charity and environmentalist work – and you do it very discreetly, not to throw it in the media eye or use it to your own advantage. Therefore, these are obviously highly important issues to you. To you, is music or film a better medium for you to be able to get these messages across?

SS: Well, both are great platforms. To date, my movies have probably been seen by more people than have heard my music. But I don’t underestimate the power of movies. However, I do feel that with the music there’s a little more freedom to play with and expand on those things. Everything I write has to mean something to me. I don’t just write for the sake of it, it’s all got a message somewhere in there. And like you said, I don’t do the work for the spotlight of for attention, which why I don’t throw it [publicity] around. I do it because I want to and because they’re important things that I care deeply about.

DM: Songs from the Crystal Cave was quite diverse, wasn’t it – with layered tones of pop, Blues and world music. Would you say Mojo Priest was more a return to straight-Blues?

SS: Yeah, it’s still got a bit of everything in there but Mojo Priest has a little more focus on just being pure Blues, I guess.

DM: What about the next album, when can we expect to see that?

SS: If I’m really lucky I’ll start something in the fall.

DM: Thank you for time and good luck with the rest of the tour, it’s been a pleasure.

SS: It’s been a pleasure, too. Thank you.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

LORD OF THE RING


ROCKY BALBOA (12A)
reviewed by David Mahmoudieh at the
UK premier, Leicester Sq, London

Boxing movies have persistently proved themselves as prudent parables to life’s continual struggle. Now, 30 years since his original Oscar-winning Rocky back in 1976, master of the genre Sylvester Stallone dusts off the old robes and proves he still has every glint of a champion in that proverbial eye of the tiger as he brings back the most famous boxer that never was in Rocky Balboa, the last and arguably most developed instalment of the six-film saga.

A full 16 years after hanging up those golden gloves, and still appearing to talk through the combination of a permanent head-cold and a muzzle, the “Italian Stallion” now resembles more a tired, worn-out work-horse, leading a modest life back in Philly where he runs a small Italian restaurant – Adrian – named after his late, sorely-missed wife.

But even with his boxing days long departed, Rocky still hungers with a sense of unfinished business beyond the affectation that posing for mobile-phone photographs with his patrons offers him.


(Stallone greets fans who braved the
cold at the London premier)

So when sports-show ESPN broadcasts a computer-simulation of an in-his-prime Balboa battling the reigning heavyweight champ Mason Dixon (played by real-life boxer and former World champ Antonio Tarver), the result, a resounding victory for Balboa, more than intrigues the former people’s champion and inspires him to want to climb back in the ring.


(Fact vs Fiction: real-life Champ and "Welsh/Italian Stallion"
Joe Calzaghe poses for a snap with Sly)

Faster than one of Rocky’s trademark left-hooks, promoters are arranging an exhibition match between the two warriors, welcomed by the publicly-loathed Dixon whose credibility is flailing fast in the absence of any real competition.

It isn’t long before the ripened-old Rocky (screen-age 50, compared to Stallone’s real age of 60) is rounding up all the familiar touchstones of brother-in-law Paulie (Burt Young) and corner man Duke (Tony Burton) for that “one last fight” – but not a second before one final gruelling training montage complete with Bill Conti’s “Gonna Fly Now” bursting through the speakers.

And by the end of it, even if his neck does resemble the tail-ends of a rubber mask, Sly’s body is in incredible shape for a man who technically qualifies for a free bus-pass.


(Stallone's chin appears to have grown a
fist as he lets his knuckles do the talkin')

What impresses me most, though, about writer/director/star Stallone is how this one evidently means so much more than just some frigid attempt to fathom a quick buck or two from a long-gone but clearly not forgotten franchise, and is in fact more a painfully-sung romantic serenade, in a kind of kiss-of-death incongruity, as Stallone delivers the knockout blow to the title character he created on both paper and screen that provided the career momentum to shoot to present-day fame and prominence.

A fitting end to a genuine screen hero.

© David Mahmoudieh 2007

‘TIS THE SEASON TO BE SOPPY



The Holiday (12A)
reviewed by David Mahmoudieh at the
UK premier, Leicester Sq, London

You know what they say about holiday romances – they don’t last. Well, Nancy Meyers, director of Father of the Bride and What Women Want aims to prove us wrong, by exploiting the hard-sell of the festive period as the idealistic axis for the current in-office rom-com.

Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet play life-swappers; two contrastingly simultaneous women who have never met, live thousand of miles apart and yet find themselves in the exact same place – both plagued by that age-old proverbial snag: ‘guy-problems’. Fed-up with the turbulence of failed romances, the two women decide they could do with a change of man-less scenery.



So when the Godmanship of Meyers leads neurotic American movie-trailer editor Amanda (Diaz) and clingy newspaper-worker Iris (Winslet) to cross paths at a home-exchange website, both weary hearts impulsively elect to leave all physical and emotional luggage behind and switch homes for the Christmas holiday period. What neither of them know is that rather fortuitously, the elusive Mr. Right is waiting for them on the wrong side of the Atlantic in the form of Iris’s brother Graham (Jude Law) and Amanda’s film-composer friend Miles (Jack Black; complete with impromptu outbursts of weird and unfunny high-pitched singing that’s quickly becoming his rather exhaustive brand).

Of course, the credibility of strangers letting strangers into their clearly-valued lives at the drop of a hat is questionable, but Meyers does put a plausible case forward – mostly thanks to a casting phenomenon. The writer/director revealed that she wrote the screenplay specifically with Diaz, Winslet, Black and Law all in mind. I’ll have some of whatever magic lamp she’s been rubbing.



With all her self-conceived characters seemingly devoted to their vocations as media-industry slaves, you do get the impression Meyers is sticking to what she knows best – either by way of her own subjective or perhaps more observational experiences in juggling the selfless acts of love with the selfish desires of a career.

And such acquired knowledge is not least reflected in a strange if somewhat curious sub-plot involving Iris befriending one of Amanda’s neighbours, Arthur (Eli Wallach, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly), purportedly a 90-year old Oscar-winning screenwriter.



On the whole, I like the idea of what Meyer’s is trying to declare - the notion of how you’re never truly alone in your troubles, that there’s always someone just like you, out there just right now, like two elaborate jigsaw-pieces slotted into the right parts of the wrong puzzle.

The execution isn’t too shabby either. Aesthetically the film is well-staged, well-acted and I guess in one sense even visionary when you consider Meyers wrote, produced and directed.

However, although The Holiday does comprise some alluring moments, it’s way too narcissistic for its own good measure. There’s a glut of completely unrealistic me-to-you dialogue which repeats itself constantly, and the film clearly thinks itself funnier than it really is, seldom injecting any spark or originality into a stale and worn-out genre.



Wallach’s Arthur and Winslet’s Iris do shine a light, sharing an impressive screen affinity, and her romance with Miles is entirely believable – especially when Black shows he can actually restrain himself from screaming at the top of his lungs and act his part decently.

Regrettably, the less rewarding half of the film seems to get the majority share as we witness the at-times distasteful slush of an oblivious Law and overanxious Diaz trying to figure out whether this is just, as per my opening line, another one of those fleeting holiday flings, or indeed the stirrings of true love.

Unfortunately, it takes almost two and a half hours later before they find out. And by then you need a holiday of your own.

© David Mahmoudieh 2006