Showing posts with label the naughties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the naughties. Show all posts

the book is inevitably already out of date


Books At the turn of the millennium, I was so tired from watching all twenty-six hours of the BBC's coverage and full of cold that I didn’t have the inclination to ponder the magnitude of what had been and what was to come. Or so I thought. At the turn of this new decade, on this second day of the teens, I’m not even sure what perspective really is. I spent most of yesterday nervously awaiting a new Doctor Who and writing what I thought about it.

That’s why my Noughties lists have been a mishmash and managed to talk a lot without saying much at all, probably. Not helped by my short memory. It’s for history to decide what a decade was “about” and its “defining moments”. Thirty years is my guesstimate as to how long that will take, based on the fact that only now are we really beginning to understand how the eighties influenced the way we live now (or exactly what Thatcher did).

It’s the challenge Tim Footman acknowledges in the conclusion to his entertaining book, The Noughties: a decade that changed the world. Even without the benefit of hindsight, its difficult to really disagree with his choices. 9/11 was the moment when we all realised the kind of decade it was going to be and global warming, reality tv, web 2.0, surveillance culture, the death of the highstreet, the long tail, globalisation and the credit crunch will probably be the defining characteristics, the broad strokes.

Diversification has made it impossible to quantify any one of these spans of time in a particularly meaningful way, especially since in a post-modernity society, the past and present intermingle to such a degree that the characteristics of the noughties are really an intermingling of culture from everywhere and any time. As he neatly encapsulates, family photos taken in 1960 and 1969 would be radically different, whereas similar shots between 2000 and 2009 would probably offer little difference, give or take a flat-screen tv.

The fashion trends of the 00s are really just the trends of 20s, 60s and 70s repackaged. Same for music. Same for film. Same for war too actually. But somehow Footman manages to highlight the important themes that are singularly noughties phenomena and its impossible not to find yourself nodding your head and giggle as you're reminded of something which you'd forgotten, reminding the reader that ten years can be a long time, especially now.

The book is inevitably already out of date, despite its slim publication schedule. As the author himself acknowledges, he'll probably miss some big event that really defines the decade and sadly for him that's what happened. How he must have chuckled when Rage Against The Machine became the Christmas number one, an event that neatly encapsulates most of his concerns (though there's no mention of it on his blog of the book).

Created on the web through social networking, the Rage single's success expresses the potency of the long tail and people’s embracing of old and new music due to its new accessibility, a reaction against culture defined by reality tv, reaching the top slot despite not having been produced as a physical product therefore bypassing the high street and whose title “Killing in the name of...” sadly captures the attitude of both the decade's governments and terrorists.

The Noughties: Doctor Who's Decade. Part Two


16 October 2009 Cardiff Bay, originally uploaded by omicron_22.

Clearly, Doctor Who's best moment this decade was returning to television. Believe it or not, there are still some fans who consider it the nadir, either because they don't like the way that it's developed under Russell T Davies or because they miss the small community nature of fandom as it was earlier this decade. They're wrong. The franchise thrives through its popularity and would otherwise have withered within a few years.

Timey-Whimy

The departure of one of the franchises most unsung of companions, Charley Pollard, who travelled with the Eighth Doctor for the first half of this decade was a head spinner. The Edwardian adventuress’s tenure came to a close with Alan Barnes’s audio adventure The Girl Who Never Was. For reasons too complicated to describe here, at the close of the adventure the Doctor thinks Charley has left him voluntarily, and we’re led to believe she’s dead. For loads of fans that’s how the story concluded. Except for those of us who actually like the David Arnold mix of the theme and listened to the end, at which point we were greeted with a coda in we discovered Charley alive but marooned in the 51st century. A distress signal which is answered with the sound of the TARDIS materialising. The door opens. She gleefully steps inside but she’s actually been rescued by the Sixth Doctor and the adventures continue. Companions have often returned for adventures with a later incarnation (Sarah Jane Smith and ...), but this was the first time (I can think of) one had stepped backwards in relative time, with the added twist that she couldn’t tell this unfamiliar version of their collective future.

More Timey-Whimy

When the new series was announced and that it would be produced in Cardiff, my first reaction was to book an overnighter to the city. In other words, I visited the locations of the new Doctor Who and later Torchwood before they’d even been used, stood above the time rift even before Russell T Davies had decided where to put it. The excitement within the city was already tangible. I remember sitting in a coffee shop and listening to a barista talking about a job he’d been offered playing an alien because he’s tall “in some new series which is being film in Cardiff later in the year” and thinking what a good location Cardiff Castle would make (which it did eventually). The only problem is, like the people of Cardiff, it can be a bit difficult to suspend your disbelief when you see a street which is supposed to be doubling for some part of London, like the shopping centre invaded by Autons in ‘Rose’, when it’s quite clearly in South Wales.

Clatter

Taking up more space on the shelf than is necessary and falling to bits just four years later, the first release of season one of the revival was in the slightly squat shape of a TARDIS which opened up to reveal the console room inside. Some fans complained that when it was sent through the post, the discs fell out of the inside and scratched and others that it gave them an uncomfortable reminder of the police box shaped tin that Trial of a Timelord was supplied in on VHS. But the fact that it existed at all just a few years after even the prospect of a new television series looked like a myth made it incredibly special. Plus it’s a useful place to store some of the tat which has been given away with Doctor Who Adventures comic.

Wait, what, how long?

Some of us have quite a soft spot for The Infinite Quest, the much maligned flash animated adventure which appeared in three minute chunks during kids show Totally Doctor Who during the revival’s third year. An episodic faff around the four corners of time and space, it recalls those classic stories in which the travellers would pitch up in a different location each week, but with an umbrella story governing their hippity-hopping, in this case stopping a manic space pirate Balthazaar from gaining an powerful jewel. Very much for kids, it still has some lovely Doctor and Martha moments, not least at the close of the story when the timelord explains how he managed to escape the clutches of the space prison Volag-Noc, then spent the next three years reforming it. Martha registers surprise and then it’s gone. It’s never been referred to since and it renders his big speech in Christmas story with Kylie, The Voyage of the Damned, inaccurate, but it’s a wonderful demonstration that for the Doctor, time is relative.

Who?

There have been a fair few gauges as to how the popularity of the new series has exceeded expectations, but there’s none more extreme than the idea that six million people would tune in for a special episode of Doctor Who Confidential broadcast at tea time on a Saturday to reveal who would be following David Tennant in the role. In the past this was the kind of information that would have sneaked out in a press release and an interview with shots of a press conference at the end of the nine o’clock news. Yet here we all were, out hearts thumping through a lengthy description of all the previous regenerations with Russell T Davies saying some nice things about Paul McGann before Matt Smith’s face filled the screen to be greeted with a collective “Who?” from the uninitiated and smugness and glee from those of us who’d bothered to watch the (swiftly repeated on BBC Four) Party Animals the year before.


The Noughties: Food



Note: This is by no means a complete list. No pasta. Or cake.

Wagamama’s Chicken Ramen.

The Loch Ness of noodle dishes in that you’re greeted with a giant expanse of murky liquid with vegetation floating in it and every now and then some meat bobs to the surface. This soup comes in a giant salad bowl and is exactly as Johnny 5 from Short Circuit might say, it’s a meal in itself. You have to drink the soup (starter) to get to the chicken and greens (main course). Comes with a giant wooden spoon and is great fun to eat. I always use a fork. Chop sticks are fine, but with food of this magnitude you need a heavy lifting implement to work through it in reasonable time.

Costco’s Aberdeen Angus Sirloin Steak.

I don’t remember when we stopped eating Turkey on Christmas Day but for as long as I remember my Dad’s cooked us a steak. At the turn of the decade we began to buy these from Costco, massive things. They looked like someone had simply chopped the cow into slices sideways and removed the bones. One of my old pen-friends visited in 2000 and her eyes popped out of her head at the size of these pieces of flesh that nearly filled the plate and she stopped contacting me not long after. I’m sure the two aren’t connected but you can never can be too sure. The size has diminished over the years (have to stay awake for Doctor Who) but Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without masticating one of these dripping with horseradish during the Queen’s speech. I suspect all of my vegetarian readers have just unsubscribed on mass in disgust.

Chicago Town’s Edge To Edge Miami Meaty Pizza.

I’ve had a long disastrous history with frozen pizzas. My favourite ever supermarket pizzas were the fresh discs supplied by Morissons during the 1990s, particularly the SupaDupas which came on a whole wheat base and covered in mushrooms. Since then I’ve tried all kinds of varieties but none of them have quite matched this bit of magic which, even if it's straight from the freezer, manages to cook all of the way around and right through evenly. It's moist, it's tasty (if a bit salty) and most importantly it matches the box. It might not have much to do with Italy, or Miami for that matter, but for the price it does the job and does it well.

Pan du Chocolat at the Musee d’Orsay Café.

I’m sitting in the café. On the table before me are an espresso and pain du chocolate, and they are all I can smell. Around me people are talking in a din of different languages. A Japanese girl is placed on the table almost but not quite opposite to me. She has brought an espresso as well. We smile at each other, and we share a few words: ‘You alright’ Yes.’ ‘Japanese?’ ‘English?’ But it’s obvious that is the limit my Japanese and her English so we sit in silence. I'm reading the English version of the guide book; hers is all in Japanese. Different versions of the same book. I put my book down and start to eat the pain. I can tell she is intrigued by it, so I pull off a chunk, making sure there is some chocolate and offer it to her. The girl takes it gladly and smiles giddily after eating. She tries to say thank you but can’t, so I just tell her she’s welcome. When she’s finished that piece I give her some more. We sit in silence just looking at each other, until our coffees are gone. We shake hands and go our own ways.

Necterines, tangerines and related citrus fruit.

Vying for supremacy with apples as my fruit of choice. This decade they joined the list of items which mean that I can’t completely prove within myself the non-existence of something contributing to the natural order of things and stuff. I’d be an agnostic if even agnostics could decide what that means (the wikipedia entry is a mess). It’s both a tasty food and a drink and is held together in a skin which means that it doesn’t leak its sticky liquid all over the place, which is probably how predators view everything below themselves in the food chain, but unlike an elk or zebra, a tangerine isn’t likely to make a futile bid for safety. About the only citrus variety I’ve never quite been able to understand is the bitter taste assault course of the grapefruit. Why do people do that to their mouths in the morning?

Henry Moon’s Game Pie.

My meal time experiences in Stratford-Upon-Avon were variable at best, largely because as well as detox my mind from the internet I decided to try and eat lots of healthy salads. That lasted until the Wednesday night. By Thursday I was desperate for pie and the Phyllius Fogg of the culinary world was on hand with this new taste. An oval dish filled with birds of a flavour I couldn’t identify, gravy and topped with a mountain of mashed potato but unlike similar dishes even when I thought I’d decimated the flesh, another piece appeared from underneath an onion. It tasted familiar and yet not at the same time and I was glad I was only drinking water with it so that my tastebuds could savour the culinary vacation they were experiencing. When asked all I could muster was “Lovely, thanks” which was understating things a little bit. In the donchyouknow parts of the world this is probably average, but for a mouth used to a frozen shepherd’s pie from Asda this was paradise.

Warburtons Seeded Batch Loaf.

A surprisingly disingenuous bread, despite its browness the Warburtons Seeded Batch Loaf contains about forty calories more per slice that their leading blue pack medium sliced white bread. It’s presumably because of all of those seeds which are surprisingly fatty. So although I originally began buying this for health reasons my addiction has stretched beyond that into actually risking my health by eating brown bread. Intensely versatile, it’s like flat toastable museli and there aren’t many toppings it doesn’t enhance. It also has the shelf life of nuclear material, toastable for at least two weeks after purchase. About the only drawback, if you’ll excuse the graphic nature of what I’m about to say, happens at the other end. Sesame seeds and barley do not digest very well at all.

Everyman Bistro’s specials board.

Or anyone’s specials board. The idea of the specials board appeals because of my acute inability to make up my mind about anything. It’s frankly much easier if someone makes it up for me. Just ordering whatever is on the specials board (unless it’s fish related) takes away the arduous j-word through the menu and the mental paralysis which inevitably follows as I simply don’t know if I want it with chicken or beef, what sauce or even if I want mousaka when the lasagne sounds so nice. The game pie listed above was a “special” and look how well that turned out. Soup of the Day is a particular joy because it focuses on a single food stuff and then tells you how it’s going to taste. Some day, someone should experiment with a restaurant were the indecisive patron can simply order “pizza” or “curry” and be happy with what they’re given. Culinary free will is overrated.

The Noughties: Doctor Who's Decade. Part One.



Some of the best Doctor Who adventures this decade have torched the usual format in an attempt to do something different, something other than the TARDIS materialises, the Doctor overthrows an oppressive regime/repels alien invasion/causes some history to happen, the TARDIS de-materialises. There have been musicals, reality tv parodies, stories set in single rooms, that happen backwards or repeat themselves or take place solely in the form of emails. Here are three of my favourites:

Blink

So why was Blink voted the second best story of all time by Doctor Who Magazine readers? It’s certainly as atypical as some of the other adventures on this list, in that the Doctor has precious little screen time and we don’t see the climax to his side of the story. You could point to Steven Moffat’s writing, the willingness to text the audience’s ability to comprehend the complex narrative pinioned around a pre-destination paradox and the poetry of the dialogue (“I have til the rain stops.”), the strength of characterisation particularly in Sally Sparrow who within her forty-five minutes is just as interesting and strong a figure as the Doctor or any of his companions. There are the performances, far more naturalistic than we’re used to in the revival with Carey Mulligan’s understated deadpan a refreshing change from the heightened emotions seen elsewhere. The imagination fuelling story happening on the fringes, of the Doctor and Martha trapped in the 60s recreating Star Trek’s City of the Edge of Forever. The subtle photography presenting an overcast and more scuzzy image of the Whoniverse than usual. If we're looking for indications of what new nu-Who under Moffat’s guiding hand will be like, let’s hope it will be like this.

The Earth Arc

Or what happened after the first time Gallifrey was destroyed. In similar circumstance to the revival, the Eighth Doctor of the novels is forced to destroy his home planet to save the universe from an intractable enemy. But rather than leave him with the guilt, his then companion, Compassion, a living TARDIS (with me so far?) exiles a now mysteriously amnesia-gripped Doctor to the late nineteenth century his only direction to meet a friend in a café in 2001. The following six novels describe his journey through the twentieth century, focusing on his interactions with the world wars, the cold war and the space race as he attempted to reconstruct his identity and wondering what the enigmatic blue box, his only possession really is. Often very poignant, we watch as this figure so familiar yet so alien bluffs his way across the years instinctively knowing that he can’t be too special but desperate to help if the need arises. The best entry is Lance Parkin’s nostalgic 80s set Father Time, in which the Doctor gains a daughter and repels an alien invasion with a realistic interpretation of Thatcher’s Britain as a backdrop.

Unbound: Exile


Big Finish’s What If? series from 2003 threw up a peculiar group of scenarios in dramas of varying quality but for my money the most unusual and enjoyable is this adventure in which to hide himself from the timelords at the close of 60s adventure The War Games, he commits suicide and returns as a female in the form of Arabella Weir and takes a mundane life on Earth, supermarket worker by day, alcoholic by night. Written and directed by voice of the Daleks and later Big Finish exec Nick Briggs, it’s rather like Human Nature played for laughs, the incongruity of the timelord (or lady) preferring to get pissed than deal with the world’s ills. In other words, Bridget Jones hiding in the working classes. Not hugely popular at the time of release, in retrospect, it has the intelligence and humour of some of the best Radio Four drama. Features somebody called David Tennant in minor roles playing one of the Doctor’s timelord pursuers and a barman (he was formerly Weir's lodger and is godfather to one of her children).

The Noughties: Girly-Pop and other experiments.


Vinyl Exchange, originally uploaded by photocat7.

At the turn of the decade I wasn’t entirely sure what kind of music I liked, forever standing in Vinyl Exchange in Manchester looking at the racks full of inlay cards, not have a clue what to buy, pocketed hands desperate to flick through the racks but paralysed by indecision. The stock answer was that I’d listen to anything but in truth the pregnant pauses of life accompanied by Alanis Morissette or Sheryl Crow albums with the odd film soundtrack on heavy repeat. Slowly it became apparent that in fact my approach to music was similar to most people’s approach to art, I knew what I liked, but I couldn’t simply acknowledge that. I was embarrassed by it. The whole of music history has passed me by. All I knew was that I hated country music and dance (without much of an inclining about either of them).

Across the decade, I’d like to think that has changed. Firstly there were the world music courses, reading Rolling Stone Magazine, the trips through the local libraries listening to everything from folk to R&B indiscriminately, then ploughing through all of the Proms in 2007, forced myself to experiment across the genres, slowly educated myself with cds and latterly Spotify as my Henry Higgins. Eventually I realised that I didn’t hate country music and dance, that there wasn’t much music worth detesting, prejudice and ignorance blown apart. The month of music writing contributed to this blog in 2008 is symbolic of that change, of embracing the eclectic. Now I’m the kind of person who can genuinely say they like Britney Spears’s early releases, Haydn’s Mass In Temore Belli and Miles Davis’s A Kind of Blue, which doesn’t make me deep, I know, just more receptive than I was.

Despite all of that I’ve also spent much of the decade listening to girly-pop, which I hadn't properly noticed until I was working my way through the 411 album the other day noting the influences and imitations. Honestly. For all my snootiness about the Simon Cowell axis of shit, I’ve somehow managed to amass a surprising knowledge of a genre which I’m only about fifty-percent appreciative of. I know all of the words to Avril Lavigne’s Let Go album. The Promise by Girls Aloud grew on me. Which means I have had to listen to it enough times for it to grow on me. And let’s not get started on the Sugababes saga which has threaded through this blog like poison ivy. I was one of the three people who thought Jewel’s only proper pop album 0304 was a good idea. I’ve heard of Gretchen Parlato. No one’s heard of Gretchen Parlato.

I’m not embarrassed by this. While strong musical tone of the nineties was indie music and Brit pop, the noughties saw a proliferation of purer pop music, most specifically by female artists. There’s been the odd boy band and revived boy (now man) band, and the three guitars and a drum kit model still ploughs on ahead, but its female voices have been the prevailing sound. For once, the zeitgeist caught up with me (or the other way around). The quality threshold hasn’t been brilliant. It’s the singers on the fringes of the genre that seem to work best in album terms, the Norah Joneses and Regina Spectors. Those in the epicentre tend to be sustained by their singles, a reaction to the increase in downloading probably. The aforementioned 411 album genuinely only has one and 1/8 good tracks, the one everyone’s heard of On My Knees and the unison singing that greets the opening of Chance.

It’s plaudits then for Norah Jones’s politically tinged Bush-era Wake Me Up with the opening refrain “Wake me up when it’s over, wake me up when it’s done, when he’s gone away…”. To Natalie Imbruglia’s White Lillies Island and its opening track That Day which comforted me through the rubbish commutes earlier in the decade. To Little Boots, A Fine Frenzy, Kate Nash, Joss Stone, Lilly Allen, Lady Gaga, Paloma Faith, Girl Aloud, Bananarama, Christina Aguilera, Jewel, Madelaine Peyroux and everyone I've missed for producing at least one good singable single each. To the Sugababes for being so consistently entertaining even if their music always hasn’t been. And to All Saints for setting aside their differences and trying again, even if the resulting album lacked the power of some of their solo efforts (particularly Appleton’s Fantasy). C’mon Siobhan, if Shazney can do it …

But my favourite singer of the decade, and the most consistently brilliant is Shakira. Oh yes. Most Europeans probably first encountered the Columbian hip-wiggling prodigy as be burst from the sea in the Whenever, Wherever unaware of her already lengthy career in her home country, but the depth of her subsequent English-crossover album, Laundry Service demonstrated that she wasn’t some thrown together new blonde sensation but an artist of real substance. Subsequent listens demonstrates that the key to her success is the fusion of the Latin American sound with more standard rock tropes laced with hints of dance music. It simultaneously sounds like nothing else but entirely familiar and if anyone sought out her earlier nineties material they’d find that the only thing that had changed was the shift in language.

But threading through her work is the undercurrent of intoxicating oddness, of the music and of her image. Hoots of derision greet her lyrics. A standard interview or profile piece will mention some of the linguistic hoops she spins through but the truth is that a large proportion of her words are poetry. Don’t Bother from her next album Oral Fixation Vol. 2 (whose title is easily explained by the previous overlooked in this country Spanish language Fijación Oral Vol. 1) is almost Dickensian in its subtle setting out of a character, the popular rival for a boy in her school. Unlike those purveyors of girly-pop whose albums are structured around singles and whatever else can be bunged on a cd, Shakira’s album are consistently interesting and refreshing right the way through.

And like the fusion of world music sounds within mainstream pop, Shakira constantly seeks to be different to the pack yet remain popular. So while she’ll collaborate with Beyonce she’ll also appear on album covers mimicking the Virgin Mary or Eve in Eden accompanied by a snake or on her latest a ferocious image of feminity. The other interview cliché is to mention how clever she is, and she is. When Evan Davis interviewed her at the close of the decade for the Today programme about her charity work, it was car crash radio simply because he’d expected a pop princess using poverty as a vehicle to sell records. It didn’t take the listener long to realise that there was far more to her than that.

The Noughties: Pessimism


If there’s something I’ve been reminded of in this decade, it’s that financial systems are all connected and that a person in a posh shirt or blouse abstractly shifting small numbers across a screen in the hopes that they become bigger numbers has the capacity to effect the everyday lives of dozens even hundreds of their fellow humans at the click of a mouse, the tap of a key. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have that power, but equally I can’t imagine having that power and not making sure I was aware of the results of my actions, of being shut out from the process. Over and over I’ve heard early digital gold-rushers, usually those who’ve lost their job too and have some distance, note that they simply didn’t know, or even if they did know that they shut that out of the equation simply so that they could do their job.

But when I hear these stories, I don’t shrink away in horror, I want to offer sympathy. Because in the end they, and we, are just part of the system. When I was working in the credit card centre, and call centres in general in fact, I was very conscious of being part of the machine. I’d say it to myself whenever I had a bad call as a way of remembering that whatever the person on the other end of the line said wasn’t personal and that indeed they were as much part of the machine as I was, that other pressures, professional or personal, will have led them to having that attitude. It’s all wheels within wheels, and even those of use who think we’ve dropped out of society, are working against the system, are probably part of the system ourselves, a kind of fail safe in case the mechanism slips out of control.

The Noughties: Film. Part Two.



Manic Pixie Dream Girls

An apparent film construct, and originally so named by Nathan Rabin in this seminal AV Club article, I’ve known a fair view manic pixie dream girls real life and if I’m being really honest, been in love with most of them. Which is why it’s entirely gratifying that the noughties has seen the exponential increase in their appearance on film. You know the type, the mysterious, funny, beautiful girls next door who turn up in some geek’s stolid existence and give them the experience which turns their life around. In old Hollywood, typecasting led to some actors playing cops, lawyers, doctors and politicians their entire lives. Some actors (female and oddly male) spent the noughties playing manic pixie dream girls (or boys) over and over and over again.



The holy trinity are arguably Zooey Deschanel, Natalie Portman and Kirsten Dunst though as Rabin notes, Elisha Cuthbert could be added, and not just for My Sassy Girl – what about Love Actually and The Girl Next Door? But there have been some one hit wonders. Rie Rasmussen in Angel-A (assuming her height doesn’t disqualify her). Norah Jones in My Blueberry Nights. Kat Dennings in Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist. Amy Adams in Enchanted. Scarlett Johansson in Lost In Translation. Even Maggie Gyllenhal has a sinister twist on the type to her name with her unruly gold digger from Don Roos’s Happy Endings. Though we have to be careful with definitions. Do these stop being Manic Pixie Dream Girls if the films shows us too much about them?

Film Journalism

In the Noughties, everyone became a critic. I should know. At the risk of repeating a hundred op-ed columns on the subject with the advent of blogging and later twitter it’s possible to read thousands upon thousands of voices giving their opinions on new films. If the latest studio financial experiment is indeed rubbish, you’ll know about it weeks or months before you get to see it, even something like Avatar which is about as locked down as films can be. When Ang Lee’s underrated Hulk opened, it flopped overnight because of people texting their friends to tell them not to go. Since Twitter went mainstream, that is not a rare occurrence. Film writing as a discipline has eroded and paradoxically, despite the increased availability of material, an understanding of basic concepts is simply missing from this kind of discourse. Too often I’ll read reviews from people who’ve missed what the director was trying to do or will dismiss a work as boring or pretentious simply because it’s not treating the audience with contempt and with some intelligence (like Ang Lee’s Hulk).



Which I still find myself returning to those professional critics, and especially those critics or groups of critics with years of experience, with a track record. Mark Kermode (even though he’s wrong about Synecdoche, New York and a great many other things). Sight and Sound for independent, international and historical releases. Empire Magazine out of habit and for blockbusters. Time Out for the second opinion and because they’ll often review a film based on whether it’s a good example of its type. Beyond all of that and if I’m in a hurry or I just want a spoiler free percentage of star rating (it happens), it’s the aggregated but still informed opinions at Rotten Tomatoes Top Critics or Metacritics. The instant opinion of peers has its place, but there’s nothing quite like the informed opinion of someone who’s seen more films than you and can see where Sandra Bullocks’s new opus fits within film history. The importance and regard for that has reduced during the noughties and when it’s something very precious that should be preserved.

Cinema

This was the decade when I stopped going into cinemas. During the nineties, this was a weekly pursuit, often greeting three films in a day. But somewhere in and around 2003 I got out of the habit and it’s very rare that I’ll see the inside of an auditorium now. Initially this wasn’t a conscious decision, but a string of poor experiences over time have led me to consider the proper release of films to be on dvd and to look forward to Lovefilm sending me a copy. Often I don’t even know when something is being released at the cinema unless I hear Mark Kermode reviewing it. Which is quite a change from someone who actually kept a diary, diligently copying them over from Empire Magazine each month.



The cost of tickets has skyrocketed; there’s really no justification for charging eight pounds to see a film, especially if it will then be available at roughly the same price or cheaper two or three months later (factoring in travel expenses). Attending the cinema is a different experience of course, but at home there’s less chance that you’ll have to deal with total strangers talking all of the way through the film, running around the auditorium and laughing inappropriately during tense moments (all of which happened during my first viewing of The Dark Knight). I’m not sure if cinema audiences have got considerably worse behaved over the time or if my tolerance level has reduced, but I really can’t understand why someone would pay those prices and then not bother to watch the film.

Getting It Wrong.

Both of which lead to my most surprising discovery of this decade – that all too often studios, some critics and even other humans don’t seem to know anything about film. Time and again, over and over, there have been films this decade which I’ve been beguiled by, which I’ve thought were impressive, interesting, even classic additions to the canon, which others have dismissed out of hand, marked as artistic failures or which haven’t managed to find an audience for one reason or another. I mentioned some of them in my old Forgotten films project. Arrogantly I assume it’s because I have an innate ability to see what the director or writer were trying to achieve which others don’t, but it’s more likely that I’m just different. 'Twas forever thus.



Just for the record, here are some of the films this decade which I’ve loved against the tide of popular and critical opinion and this is just what I can see on my dvd shelf from where I’m sitting: My Blueberry Nights, Hollywoodland, Heaven (Twyker), Tristan & Isolde, Easy Virtue, AI, Intolerable Cruelty, Charlie Wilson’s War, The Family Stone, Planet Terror, Across The Universe, Rent, The Fountain, The Beach, Angel-A, Paris J’Taime, Kate & Leopold, Music & Lyrics, Sunshine, Stranger Than Fiction, Superman Returns, Jersey Girl, King Arthur, 13 Conversations about one thing, Ocean’s Twelve, Ocean’s Thirteen, Bubble, Elizabethtown, Full Frontal, The Island and The Italian Job (remake). I’d include The Happening too but I’m still not sure what “Night” was trying to do. Why would anyone do that on purpose?

The Noughties: Film

As studios run scared from ploughing too much money into experimental choices and with mainstream cinemas essentially offering what used to be called summer blockbusters all year round, I've generally retreated to dvd and a tv screen. The mainstream media is already putting together plenty of worthwhile review lists, so rather than copy them, I thought I'd simply talk about my own obsessions:

William Shakespeare

There haven’t been any truly great Shakespeare films over the past decade. Plenty of noble attempts in the slipstream of the late 90s teen cycle with Michael Almereyda’s city set Hamlet with Ethan Hawke in the lead and Michael Radford lucid Merchant of Venice that had Al Paccino’s Shylock striding about real locations both noble experiments. After the triumph of Hamlet in the late 90s, Ken Branagh went back into acting with his Macbeth project left unmade. Love’s Labour’s Lost was a fun musical with some lovely performances, but As You Like It was a strange disappointment, never quite gelling until the epilogue with Bryce Dallas Howard taking us on a tour of the production trucks (but it could have been that it just didn’t measure up to the remarkable Globe production I’d recently seen).



In the main the bard’s own language has taken a back seat in adaptation, either within a teen setting (O, She’s The Man) or international locations (Omkara, Ye Yan) sometimes illuminating the original story but often obscuring it. Otherwise the best works has been about the history of Shakespeare in production. Stage Beauty cleverly pulled the Stanislavsky technique backwards in time a couple of centuries to demonstrate the change in the acting process brought about by the introduction of women into the profession. At the other end of the decade Me and Orson Welles and me, coincidentally also starring Claire Danes is receiving great notices. I can’t wait.

Hyperlink films

Or the subject of my dissertation. Multi-stranded narratives were nothing new. Shakespeare, Dickens and Tolstoy all wrote in that style, and examples appeared throughout the first century of cinema from DW Griffith, MGM and Robert Altman. But during the noughties they became the key approach to covering a social issue, with drugs (Traffic), globalisation (Syriana), fast food (Fast Food Nation), karaoke (Duets), border politics (Happy Endings), race (Crash) and love actually being all around (Love Actually) covered.



They lost traction later in the decade because although having dozens of characters allows for dozens of star names and famous faces on posters, the sheer process of editing these behemoths has led to directors and studios shying away – plus despite cache they only ever tend to be moderate box office successes. With the exception of Altman, few come back and make one again. The original cut of Love Actually was three and half hours and was absolute torture for Richard Curtis to deal with. You can tell at the climax because Martin Freeman seems to drop Joanna Page off at the end of a date and then we’re expected to believe he picked her up again and they went to a nativity. On Christmas Eve. Um, no.

Harry Potter

The decade began with the Lord of the Rings spread over three Christmases and I could write volumes about that, crying over the sight of an Olyphant again as I go, but to an extent the Harry Potter films are the more interesting choice because of their longevity; the chance to see these child actors slowly develop their craft (under the tutelage of some legendary British stage and screen presences) and age into talented teenagers across the series, which isn’t something you can otherwise see outside of soap opera or long running sitcoms.



Most Hollywood franchise things also become very bothered with the business of making sure the main character has a goal which is set up at the beginning and is dealt with at the climax. The Potter films inadvertently appropriate the alternative narrative style of the art house, in which a collection of incidents cumulatively lead to a story, with only the broadest of linking tissue between the scenes. Not everything is clear, sometimes we don’t really know why something is happening. It’s as a result of adapting huge books into two and half hours and having to chop whole swathes of J K Rowling’s text and relying on the fact that a large percentage of the audience will have read the story already and will know this information. But if you’re simply keeping with the films they can at times be as entertainingly scatter-shot and obscure as an Andrei Tarkovsky film and all the better for it.

DVD rental by post

One my key responses to most film related questions over the past decade as been “it’s on my list” meaning, no, because of the fragmentation of production and the fact my interests tend to run counter to whatever happens to be in the cinema at a given moment I haven’t seen that Neil Gaiman inspired animation/documentary about a faded rock band/Moon but I will do when Lovefilm decide to send it to me because I’ve asked them to. For film fans, dvd rental by post is a liberation.



Instead of having to wait for television to have one of its rate fits of taste and show some world cinema/old Hollywood noir/John Sayles drama all we do now is add it to our online list and still wait, but in the knowledge that it will come rather than not even knowing which channel has the rights to it. I began the decade working through the BFI’s century of cinema list, continued with film noir and everything Truffaut and Godard directed, worked my way around the voluminous viewing lists for my film course then off into even more obscure areas before pulling back now to try and catch up with whatever I’ve missed at the cinema. For the record, here is everything I watched in 2004.

Woody Allen

Still being a fan, I have a brighter impression of Woody’s decade than most. There’s no denying he got off to a disastrous start with The Curse of the Jade Scorpion and Hollywood Ending which looked cheap and rushed and in which his own on screen comic timing was very clearly faltering. He worked much better as the supporting role in Anything Else, the charms of which really depended upon whether you enjoyed watching Jason Biggs and Christina Ricci rerunning a less intimate version of Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park (I did). Melinda and Melinda was arguably his best film of the decade, telling the same story through comic and tragic filters with a complex performance from Radha Mitchell in both (along with Stranger Than Fiction it’s still about the only Will Ferrell film I can stand to watch all of the way through).



The British films were generally kiboshed by his unsteady hand with writing for English actors, the speech patterns and cultural references basically Dick Van Dyke’s Mary Poppins accent writ large. Cassandra’s Dream is unwatchable – poorly written, unfocused and roughly acted. But Match Point and Scoop are two of Scarlett Johansson’s best films, the little seen latter also has Ian McShane as a ghostly conman. Vicky Christina Barcelona was a proper return to form, and Whatever Works, his first New York film in ages is apparently very good (but yet to have a UK release date. Hello Amazon.fr).

[click here for part two]

The Noughties: Fractions

Web User’s recent headline, “Brits spend three days a month online”, offers a nice soundbite and though the “facts” within their article simply reveal the results of a survey given by a company with a vested interest, that wouldn’t exist unless people were sitting in front of a screen providing a predominantly textual window into the world. I’d say it was pretty accurate. Indeed I expect that if I were to keep my own diary, taking all of the hours into account, I too would be horrified by the amount of time I spend online, wondering what happened to me, and why I don’t have something better to do.

The story of my decade would be a randomly edited avant-guard production consisting mostly of shots of me sitting in front of a keyboard of some description. I first went online at home in the final embers of the nineties and it’s long enough now that I can’t really remember what it was like not to be in front of the internet somehow. I used computers a lot in the 90s so that wasn’t anything new; but to have all this information and the capacity to communicate at my finger tips from the moment I wake up to when I got to bed, that was something new.

When I was in Stratford-Upon-Avon earlier this year, I cut myself off from the web and from television. My only sources of information were a radio and newspapers and I felt liberated. By the day I came home I’d decided that I wouldn’t spend half as much time online that I’d continue with the simple pleasured I’d rediscovered, of reading, of listening to plays, of eating out. Why spend so much time online anyway? And yet months later, here I am again. It’s the itch, as the article says of one in four people, there’s the wonder if I’m missing anything, a bargain, a meetup, an arts show, not to mention the news about this that and everything else going on in the world.

Do I feel the isolation sometimes? Yes, and probably more than sometimes. Do I feel like a richer person because of the web? Yes, that too. I have a far greater awareness of the world, of how it all fits together, how nothing is clear cut, how everyone in fact has a vested interest. But the result is that I also find it difficult to settle on one thing, my mind often splitting in half, even smaller fractions, as I think about how to achieve the next task whilst still accomplishing whatever’s in front of me, even in my leisure time, with the result that they something cancel each other out and I’m left broken. Perhaps Lily Allen has a point. And you won’t hear me say that often, no matter how much I like her music.

The Noughties: Credit



“No credit to anyone!” is the sign that greeted me at the newsagents on my way to work last weekend. As far as I can gather it’s a new addition to the front of the till, though knowing my approach to spatial awareness, it could have been there for years. The sign is a reaction no doubt to those customers who are forever saying “I’ll pay you next time I’m in” or “Put it on my account” not really understanding that their payment is part of a chain which ultimately leads back to a supplier or the supplier who supplies the supplier, who wants to be paid and that someone, presumably the newsagent will eventually be left out of pocket if they don’t stump up the cash. Which they obviously haven’t because otherwise there wouldn't be any need for the sign.

The Noughties: Vampires.

About Sometimes I think the whole decade in fiction has been about vampires. The decade began with the final embers of Buffy and has concluded with the Twiglet phenomena. As Bella Swan's story continues to hold us in its grip, I as a tribute thought I'd reveal the following. In the late 90s when I still thought I could make a living as a script writer, I turned out a treatment for a vampire script. I can't remember why, or what it was for, but it does have its moments, most of them written by someone else originally. Not that such things have stopped Stephanie Meyer. Just add plaid.

The Dracula Murderer

by

Stuart Ian Burns


The Characters

Helen Goodfellow is a Samantha Mathis / Helena Baxendale-type. Early-twenties. She was a normal school girl until a vampire went on the rampage in her school and killed all of her friends, and her mother, who was visiting the principal / head teacher about her grades. She didn't have much of a home life - her parents were divorced, her father had disappeared. Her way of coping is to fall into a world of her own. She began to research vampires, reading all of the books she could, watched all of the movies she could get her hands on, and documentaries, and eventually began to uncover a number of strange serial murders which fit the Vampire M.O. No one really believing that vampires exist, she now travels the world investigating these murders and more often than not uncovering a vampire responsible. The whole enterprise is slowly sapping her mentally and physically, so it is lucky that this seems to be her final hunt.

Isaac Story is a George Clooney / Hugh Laurie-type. Early-thirties. He is returning home for the first time in many years because his mother is close to death and he is hoping to make a reconciliation with her. She gave him an interesting childhood, with her unusual behavior at times. He left for University as soon as he could, and has not had much contact since. When he left, he didn't tell the girlfriend he had been with for years, even though she had stood by him through all of his mother's moods. Although he knows he was a bastard to her is hoping to see her again.

Jennifer Ryman was Isaac's girlfriend. She is a Janine Garafalo / Helena Bonham-Carter type. Early-thirties. She now works at a city bar as she attempts to work her way through University.

Elaine Story is Isaac's mother. She spends much of the story in sick bed. She is dying because she is a vampire who has abstained from drinking blood for many years, trying to see the error of her ways, after leaving her son Isaac to bring himself up much of his teenage life, because she would be out many late nights feeding her need. Abstaining has slowly debilitated her, however, and she is slowly beginning to feel new urges.

The Synopsis

Helen stands on a railway platform. She looks at her watch. There is silence.

Isaac stands on the step in the open door way of a subway train. He tells Jennifer that he is 'so sorry.' She smiles sympathetically at him. 'I know.' she says, and passionately gives him a goodbye kiss. The doors close between them. The train is empty. Isaac goes and sits down.

Jennifer looks on sadly as the train leaves the station.

The train reaches Helen's platform. The doors open and she enters. She sits opposite Isaac. They simply sit staring at each other. "Its time," Helen says. He bows his head, the scene shifts to ..

... a typical rainy day in the city. Elaine Story lies at home, dying in her sickbed, her only comforts are Television, a home help / nurse who patronises her, and the view, through tinted windows, of a nearby building were a child is dancing in the rain. A medical monitor beeps her continued existence. The child runs in when he feels her staring at him, after sensing something uncomfortable. The nurse is on the phone:

'I'm so sorry to hear that. Alright. Bye.' she says. She puts the phone down and turns to Elaine, and tells her that her son will be slightly later because of traffic. Elaine does not move. She keeps staring out of the window.

Isaac Story is in his stationary car on a rain swept road. He puts the receiver down on his car phone, having just spoken to the nurse. He sighs and puts on the radio. Bill Wither's 'Lovely Day' plays. He turns the tuner on the radio to someone concerned with the drought, saying that at least its raining. Isaac clicks it off in disgust. A rare gap in the traffic appears and he begins to drive to catch up with the car in front.

Helen Goodfellow stands in the rain. She is very soggy. She carries all kinds of bags, one of which has large patches all over it demonstrating all of the places she has been. She has been trying for the past hour to hitch-hike, unsuccessfully. Although she has done this before, it is a bad day. Then, a car stops and window winds down.

Helen runs over. This is Isaac's car. He asks were she is going. She says its ..... He tells her he is going the same way, and to a chorus of honking horns, she gets her bags into the back of the car, and herself in the front seat. As they drive along, they engage it what they believe to be small talk, to pass the time, beginning with the weather and how long she had been standing there. There are many nervous pauses. As they drive, he tells her about going home to see his mother, about how sick she is. She tells him her cover story - about looking for her father to tell him that her mother has died. They find a common ground about losing their respective mother's before they can say all of the things they want to say. She tells him that she hopes he will get there in time. He asks her if she has been to all of the places on her bag. She tells him that her search seems to be process of elimination. He doesn't believe her, somehow, but doesn't think that he has any right to press the matter to a complete stranger. If she is lying, she will have her reasons.

Elaine's curtains are drawn now. The rain has stopped, and the sun has come out, so the room is still quite bright. She watches television, some soap opera. She is not interested. Rather than simply changing the channel, she simply stares at the channel changer / remote control. She does not blink. The light in the room is dimmed, slightly, as a cloud passes before the sun. Elaine smiles slightly. There is a relief in her eyes.

Isaac's car stops outside a youth hostel, is getting dark now. He helps Helen out with her many bags and they say their goodbyes. Isaac watches her go, still with a feeling that something was left unsaid by him. We follow Helen into the hostel. There is a slight spring in her step as she looks around the slightly cramped entrance hall.

The nurse opens the front door to the flat, to reveal Isaac carrying a quite bedraggled bunch of flowers. He introduces himself. It is dark outside. We next see him sitting on the edge of his mother's bed. She is sitting up now, drinking coffee. The nurse is replacing an I.V. He tells her that he is sorry he didn't come back sooner. She tells him that he couldn't be because he would have made the effort. He nods his head, in recognition of this truth. The nurse swears loudly. Isaac is concerned. She has cut herself. As he sees if she is alright, Elaine begins to sweat visibly, her eyes fixed on the wound like a puppy's eyes fixed on the hand of its owner clutching a favourite ball. They notice the sweating, and believe it to be because the I.V. isn't in place.

Helen leaves a cinema alone. She walks through town, glancing furtively from side to side. She is in the middle of the club district. Loud, beating music plays from clubs and pubs in the locale. Before her are a couple, enjoying a night out. She watches them half jealous. The beat becomes louder and louder sounding more and more like a heart-beat. The couple before her stop and begin to kiss. She halts in her tracks, reminded of something. The guy begins to kiss the girls neck. The beating becomes louder, until ... ... the landscape changes to become a scene from Helen's childhood. The heart beating is hers, as she watches a man with huge fangs bite hard into her mother's neck. She screams and runs down the street, and from a distance watches the Vampire begin to drink heavily from her mother's body. Her instinct is to look for help, but is paralysed with fear and unable to do anything ...

... we return to the older Helen, she turns herself from the couple and puts her hand out, quickly jumping into a cab.

Isaac has left his mother for a few hours, and has decided to find a bar. The place is quite plush. As he enters, one of the bar-girls clocks him and tries to hide. Realising she has been spotted, Jennifer Ryman decides not be rude and greets him at the bar, and asks him what he would like. He tells her, that he wants his favourite, and she pours him a Vodka. He asks her how she has been - and what she is still doing working at this bar. She tells him that she is trying to pay her way through college. They are the same age, so there has obviously been some water under the bridge. He tells her about his law degree, about the partnership offer he has had. He asks her when her shift ends. At this, she releases her pent up anger and asks him what the hell he is doing here. He tells that he wants to apologise. She begins to wash the bar with a cloth. He tells her that in all these years, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She stops cleaning for a second. He tells her that he wishes he had spent the past ten years, wondering what life could have been like if he had actually told her he was leaving, instead of taking off the way he did. She looks up at him ...

... and suddenly we see the younger Jennifer. She is smiling. We here Isaac telling her that he loves her, but there is something he has to tell her. She is quizzical, there is nothing good he could possibly say in this serious voice of his. He tells there that he has had some bad news. Alison, his sister, her best friend has been found dead. That they are having problems finding out the cause of death. Her face fills with grief ...

... we return to the older Jennifer. She tells him to return at half-past eleven.

Isaac and Jenny sit in a cafe drinking coffee. They have obviously been here a while, because a waitress arrives and gives them a refill. Isaac tells her it is nice coffee. The waitress smiles, half-disbelieving him. Jenny tells him that he doesn't change - theirs was obviously not the most monogamous relationship. He smiles at her, bitter-sweetly. There is a pregnant pause. She sips her coffee, he looks out of the window. He tells her that they have to talk about it. She tells him that there is nothing to talk about. He left when she needed him most, when his mother needed him most. That his way of dealing with it, hurt all of the people he was closest to. He tells that it was the last straw, that everything took over him, that he didn't have the strength to wait another year for University, that the opportunity to leave was there and he took. That it wasn't that easy for him. She tells him how selfish his decision was. Tells him that she rebounded with some complete bastard who used and abused her, then left her with ... a child, so he shouldn't tell her about how hard it was to deal with Alison's death, and the way she died. She gets up. She is late - she expects her baby-sitter to quit when she returns. He tells her he wants to see her again. 'What's the point?' She asks.

Elaine awakens. It's morning. The nurse is already here. She tells her that the IV needs replacing. 'What's the point?' Elaine asks.

Helen is at the library. She yawns, glancing at the clock on the wall, which tells her it is only nine-thirty in the morning. This isn't the large cavernous place one would expect. It is dank, dark and doesn't look like it has been decorated since at least the seventies. She sits at a table, a huge book in front of her. It is a bound copy of the local paper. We see the headline, 'Local girl dies mysteriously'. Then, headline after headline, 'Alison Story Murder - still no clues', (the name seems familiar but she doesn't think anything of it) 'Swimmer's death linked to Alison Story murder', 'Fourth murder, Community in mourning', 'Eighth victim claimed', culminating in the headline. 'No new clues to the identity of The Dracula Murderer.' We see Helen with a hand-written list of names, looking through a phone-book, finding telephone numbers. We see her on a pay phone, 'no ... no, I understand,' she says as she puts the phone down. We see her making a different call - 'I can be there in half an hour. Thankyou.'

We see Jennifer, she sits relating her story to Helen, who has obviously found her because of a comments she made to the paper. She tells her that Alison had been such a nice girl, impossible to fault. How tragic it had all been. About the media attention. We see Helen's face as she remembers ...

... she is being interviewed by some reporter, who is milking what happened for all it is worth. It must have been very hard for you, he says. How did you cope? He asks her many pointed questions - type which shouldn't be asked to someone who has just lost her mother and friends in a horrific way. He asks her what happened to her father. Helen tells him that she hasn't seen or heard from him, and that she would like to get in touch ... ... we shift back to Jennifer, who describes what happened when the media disappeared. Helen asks her if she had any support from her boyfriend, Alison's brother. No, Jenny says pointedly. Helen asks her if she can get in touch with him. Jenny tells her that he can be found at his mother's place, she supposes ...

... we are back in the carriage with Isaac and Helen. She asks him if Jennifer understood. He says that he told her as much as he could, but that it was hard for her, but she agreed to what they had asked for. He says that she said that she has forgiven him, although he isn't so sure. He asks her how she knew. She tells him she had done this long enough to have seen the signs....

... it is late afternoon. The doorbell of Elaine's flat rings and Isaac answers it. He opens the door and we see Helen standing there. 'It's you ...' she says. 'Hello,' he smiles.

Isaac sits with Jennifer in the Kitchen. Isaac is describing that he took it very badly. 'That's why you left.' Helen deduces. She asks she can meet his mother.

They enter Elaine' bedroom. She is sleeping. Isaac tells her that the doctors could not find out what was wrong with her. Helen looks at her closely then swears loudly. 'Get out,' she screams. 'What?' Isaac does not understand what is happening. Helen begins to chant loudly in some European-language. Elaine awakens suddenly, her eyes opening wide. As she chants, Helen reaches into her bag and produces a cross. Elaine convulses. Not really knowing what has gone on, Isaac tries to fight Helen. She fights him off. Elaine begins to transform, fangs appearing in her teeth, her ears elongating, her hair growing longer. The room suddenly fills with rushing wind, the fabric of clothes and bed linen waving heavily. Helen shrills her chanting louder. There is chaos. She pulls out the a stake. There is shadow across her face ...

... We return to the frightened teenager watching a Vampire devouring her mother. We watch her glance around, looking for something. She pulls a rung from a wooden fence, and approaches the vampire. With all of the courage she can find, she hits it around the head. The vampire falls backwards to the floor. Helen raises the rung ready to plunge it into the vampire, and for a brief moment ...

... we flash forward to older Helen, in the same position, as she plunges the steak into Elaine ...

... then we return to the younger Helen, as that Vampire reels with pain, then falls limp. Helen watches its features change into that of a human. 'Daddy?' she screams in utter disbelief, as his body begins to disappear ...

... and Elaine's body does the same. There is calm is calm in her bedroom. No sound, except for the slow, dark beep of the medical scanner signalling her death. Helen and Isaac stand there, looking at the stained, empty bed. Isaac is stunned. Helen boughs her head in prayer, as the scene shifts ...

... back to the subway carriage. Isaac asks Helen if this is the only option. There is another option, she says. They wait till a certain age, and without warning, they transform and the hunger begins, and they would kill someone they are close to. And when all of the death has ended, someone like her will arrive and they will die anyway. At least this way he might go to wherever with a clean slate, and she could not think of the idea that she would become what her father was. He sighs. He asks her if she brought it. She tells him she did and reaching into her bag produces the steak she used to kill his mother. He breathes deeply and begins to chant. The scene shifts between the two of them chanting loudly, then the chanting continuing as they hold crosses, and finally as they stand opposite each other in the isle of the train as each lift their steaks and begin to plunge them into their opposite hearts. The scene cuts to black.

We see quite a handsome guy sitting in the living room of quite a comfortable looking apartment, reading quite a think hardback book. He turns a page. A child appears and tells him that mummy said that if he doesn't come now they will go without him. Alright, he says. Then Jennifer puts her head around the door and re-iterates. Alright, he repeats and stands up, throwing the book back onto the couch. For the first time, we see the title - 'The Dracula Murderer' by Jennifer Ryman.