Obituary Hear'say have spilt up (abused?).

Film Jennifer Love Hewitt is one of those actress you sort of like even though you can't think of an even good film she's actually been in, just lot's of really bad ones ('I STILL know what you did last Summer', 'The Audrey Hepburn Story'). CHUD recently met her on one of their junket visits for her new film with Jackie Chan and found themselves talking about her fear of water and her breasts:

"Goddamn, Jennifer Love Hewitt is tiny. You always make the same mistake no matter how many actors you meet and assume they will be somewhere near the height they appear in movies and television (and Rolling Stone spreads), but then they turn out to be just as tiny as every other young actress you've ever met. So, when Hewitt walked into the junket room offering around M&M's, I was, again, a little surprised."

I am willing her to pick a good project but she just keeps missing the target.

Education One of the long list of reasons I gave up commuting to Manchester was that I missed the night school courses at the University. I've worked my through most of the creative ones towards a certificate, but I just wanted to go back for fun -- try some of the course a bit further off my radar. This terms course of choice 'An introduction to musics of the world' is well an explaination of world music. In other words, I'm hoping that in ten weeks I'll actually be able to listen to Late Junction and appreciate the music a bit more. The other fun part of all of these courses has been the people and the co-incidences. Tonight was no exception. I met a girl from Finland who has worked with a girl I'm training with in my new job and lives three doors down from me. And then there was the Greek girl. She came in about halfway through and at the end I had to know. I approach her sheepishly:
Me: You're Greek.
Her: Yes.
Me: I'm Stuart.
Her: Hello.
Me: I've a friend who's Greek.
Her: Have you. What's her name?
Me: Fani Polyzoi.
Her: What's she studying?
Me: Classics?
Her: (long pause) I know her ...
Me: Great. So what's your name?
Her: Athanasia.
Wasn't sure what else to say to be honest ...

Commerce Just a heads up in case anyone missed it. On the windows of the Tesco Metro in Liverpool City Centre and doubtless elsewhere, there are adverts saying that they will take money off vouchers from Sainsbury's and Safeway. This madness is a response to the offers the rival supermarkets have in store ...

Film News site for Kevin Smith's new film 'Jersey Girl'.

It has a bouquet.

Abroad IV Nothing actually prepared me for the immensity of it. I literally turned a corner and there it was looming down upon me. I stopped in my tracks and started laughing and pointing.

'It's the Eiffel Tower.' I kept saying. 'Look everyone … it's the Eiffel Tower.'

Then it struck me. No one else seemed to care the way I did. Parisians ignored it as part of the landscape. Other tourists fiddled with cameras and group shots. But I was the only one standing there just looking at it, my eyes tracing the lines of the structure trying to work out the construction, trying to imagine how something like that could ever come into being.

It was an almost religious experience. This was the first time I understood I was going to fulfill another of my ambitions in the space of twelve months. This thing I'd always been looking forward to in the back of my mind, this image which I'd been seeing for twenty-seven years was here in front of me. And I was going up it. Right to the top. Madness. I stopped again, still trying to take it in.

'It's the Eiffel Tower.' I kept saying. 'The Eiffel Tower.' (I take my monuments very seriously)

My hands shook as I handed over my first Euros to pay for my ticket.

'To the top.' I said.

The clerk printed a ticket, matter of factly and handed it over. It was a paper and printed. Like Charlie when he won a chance to go to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, I wanted my ticket to be made of gold.

The trip up the tower was everything I expected. Tiny lift filled with tourist chatter. By now my initial shock had died down and I became curious as to what I'd find up there. I stopped halfway up for a picture. Then began the wait for the list to the summit. This is a twisty windy metal queuing system. The entire time the couple in front are French kissing like mad. They don't care. I don't care either. This everything I thought Paris would be about. A group of Japanese tourists don't have tickets and fight there way backwards through the crowd. Every tuts. A man passes by wearing a sweatshirt with a New York Fire Department logo on it, reminding me the anniversary isn't too far away.

Looking at Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower just made me curious. This is a massive city, but it's also a very green city. Between the ancient architecture are tree after tree. The tower itself is surrounded by a massive park. I just kept plodding around, avoiding the people and taking photographs. I was still in a fantasy world. I used a whole camera film because in some ways I didn't know what else to do.
And then I decide there is only one thing for it.

I should interject here and say that I hadn't told anyone I was going to Paris apart from my parents. I went out with all my friends two nights before and didn't mention it at all. Only one reason. I wanted to surprise my friend Chris with a postcard and I knew what I wanted to write on the back. As I've mentioned previously, one of my top ten television moments is the time Tom Baker and Lalla Ward were up there. The scene was written by Douglas Adams and I always thought it would be fun to actually stand on the spot and imagine what had gone on between takes at Baker and Ward fell in love (they married not that long after - but time is relative). So the night before I went to Paris I transcribed the piece, so that when I sent my postcard I could include the scene on the back of the postcard. So I had the scene in my pocket.

I got it out. I started to read. Out loud.

(THE DOCTOR and his companion ROMANA stand on the top of the Eifel Tower in Paris looking down at view below.)

Doctor : Nice isn't it?
Romana : Yes, marvellous.
Doctor : Marvellous, absolutely.
Romana : Absolutely marvellous.
Doctor : Well I think it's marvellous.
Romana : So do I. Though it's not quite as you described it.
Doctor : Really? How did I describe it?
Romana : You said it was nice!
Doctor : It's the only place in the world where onecan relax entirely.
Romana : Mmm! That bouquet!
Doctor : What Paris has... It has an ethos. It has a life. A.....
Romana : A bouquet?
Doctor : A spirit all of its own. Like a white wine, it has...
Romana : A bouquet?
Doctor : It has a bouquet. Yes. Like a good wine. You'd have to choose one of vintage years of course.
Romana : What year is this?
Doctor : Ah well, yes. It's 1979 actually. More of a table wine shall we say? Hah! The randomiser’s a useful device but it lacks true discrimination. Should we sip it and see?
Romana : Ooh! I'd be delighted. Shall we take the lift or fly?
Doctor : Lets not be ostentatious.
Romana : Alright. Lets fly then.
Doctor : That would look silly. We'll take the lift. Come on.
[full script here]


My Tom Baker impression is only serviceable. Imagine John Calshaw the impressionist with a cold. My Lalla Ward is non-existent. So I didn't read it that loudly – also for embarrassments sake.
When I’d finished, an American turns to me.
‘Are you sermonizing?’
‘No.’ I say.
‘What was that?’
‘Erm …’ I say. ‘Did you ever see Doctor Who?’ And I end up telling him the whole story. About Tom and Lalla. About how it was filmed just were he was standing. He asks for a photo. I get one to. Then he totters off his wife close behind.
‘What was that about Bob?’ She’s asking.

I took in the view a bit more and then head downstairs. I have a coffee and chocolate waffle in the café and write Chris’ postcard. I write another to my parents, dabbing it in the chocolate drips on the table. There is a post office on the tower. I send it there. A Euro for the two. In all I probably spent about two and a half hours up there, but it felt like years. This felt like Christmas Afternoon. All of that build up and it's over in minutes. I might go up the tower again, but it won't be my first time.

I look over at the Arc de Triumphe.
'You're next.' I say.
I start to queue for the lift down. From behind an American voice can be heard.
‘Oooh look Mary – it’s Doctor Who….’

Blog! Michelle at Demerol signed my guest book today and said some nice things. Her sight is an emotionally charged place and obviously work a visit. Particularly love these animated gifs, 360 degree cat swings around all the rooms in her department.

Architecture London's smallest new house? Sometimes great things come in tiny packages:

"We drew a horizontal line from the top of the hill to illustrate how the structure would not be out of scale within the area," Pawson says. "We explained what we were doing and the reasons behind it. We did not have to make any substantial changes." Since its completion, the uncompromising house has become a local celebrity, evoking positive reactions from most passers-by."

The structure of the building is only fifteen feet across. I hope the new owners aren't think of keeping cats. [Mefi]

News Oddly enough, Edwina Currie didn't turn up for her usual gig on Radio Five Live tonight, perhaps because under normal circumstances, her's would be the topic of conversation. Just in case you haven't heard, she and John Major had an affair during the late Eighties. If that image isn't messy enough, the funny thing is no one knew. James Ingram the Number Ten press secretary of the time has only just found out himself. Norma Major knew and has forgiven him but suddenly a whole era of British politics is in a new light.

Competition Still no takers. The questions are here. The prize is a CD. The questions aren't that hard. The CD is shiny. The address to send the answers to is feelinglistless@btopenworld.com.

Abroad III I’ve always found the prospect of a hotel room a disappointing experience, especially in hotel chains. For me a place has to have a sense of presence, an impression of all that has gone before. To truly be a place to feel comfortable it has to be familiar. The only similarity I found at the Comfort Hotel in Paris was that it looked like every other room I’ve ever stayed in. This was probably the worst place I’ve stayed in. Some questions:

Why is the bathroom filled out completely with tiles including the floor, so that any water which flies there stays there. Why isn’t there a shower curtain, so that when I do want to have a shower I spend the entire time against the wall trying not to flood the rest of the bathroom. Why is the holder for the showerhead vertical to the wall so that I can’t actually stand underneath like I can at home? Why does the bath itself look like it was designed to accommodate dwarfs only?

Whose big idea was it to make the bed that way? So you fold the sheet so it covers the full length of the bed, under the pillows, and trap it under a woolen throw, covered again by another sheet. How am I supposed to get into this without wrecking the equilibrium of my sleep patterns? And when I do get in, why should I then spend the whole night trying to keep all but the bottom sheet on the bed? Further, does the maid have a really small head? I can assume this is the only reason there are two wafer thin pillows, which together only amount to half a real pillow, and require that I use all of my possessions to support my cranium for two nights?

Why is the restaurant located in a room which resembles a doctor’s surgery? Why are the hotel’s cleaning staff in here out numbering the guests, shouting a smoking? Why is that cigarette butt lying in an empty jam sachet? Why does the coffee actually taste alright? Why does the cornflakes have the consistency of old rice paper and with the skimmed milk taste like real cornflakes do with water after many pints of cider? Why are people eating them? How old are these croissants and pan du chocolate? Why did make me want to leave as quickly as possible? Why did I have breakfast in the Louvre the following day?

Why did I pay £48 per night for this?

History And finally, just because, 'Reader's Digest' interviews Rudy Giuliani.

Toy That will get you everywhere ...

TV Finally a positive review for Joss Weidon's non-Buffy show 'Firefly'. The original filmed pilot got a right drubbing in SFX magazine this month, but like the afformentioned vmpire sayer show, Joss got another crack at it and has apparently turning out another classic. 'Farscape' fans take heart, methadone is on the way.

Film Along the same lines, Sidekick magazine lists directors who should be more famous than they are (and the writer seems to be on first name terms with all of them ...) There isn't anyone here whose work I don't cherish, but I think to say that Soderbergh isn’t well known is stretching it – and the Coen brothers? Good, clean writing all the same and I would like to add Wes Anderson, Ang Lee, Stephen Friers and Lawrence Kasden to the list …

Film The original screenplay for 'Apocalypse Now' was the work of Conan director John Milius. A much more overtly gung-ho effort, it was closer to the vision of Joseph Conran's 'Hearts of Darkness'. But as this fascinating article from Creative Screenwriting points out, although he is hardly mentioned in conjunction with the film, and the making of film implies that Copolla wrote the thing on location, many of the classic scenes originated in Milius' first draft:

"(He) extends the introduction of the boat crew, but once Willard joins the boat, Milius's script resembles the film. The film's most famous sequence, the Air Cavalry invasion of the river head village, remains faithful to Milius's screenplay. This scene is Milius's best, violent, dark, absurd, and impossible to not watch. Surfing, Wagner, and a cavalry leader in a plumed hat constitute elements of the Milius pastiche. There is no other scene like it in Coppola films. Milius's most memorable dialogue makes it to the film—"Charlie don't surf!" and the "I love the smell of napalm in the morning" speech—but one line, which deserves attention, did not. As Lance and Colonel Kharnage watch two surfers attempt a ride during the attack, Lance says to himself, "The tragedy of this war is a dead surfer."

Watching Milius in the documentary 'Hearts of Darkness' I can always see a slight disappointment that he wasn't the general out in the reeds directing the action.

Commerce play.com are having a DVD sale. Two for 12.99. 'nuff said.

Education Looking at The Dossier in pdf format why do I discover someone's degree dissertation? I was actually waiting for compelling evidence, and whilst this makes sober reading, I'm still on the fence. The reason being that unlike a dissertation there isn't a section detailing sources (a good 30% of the final mark). Listening to commentators on the day was published we found plenty of supposition but nothing to pin point how all of this was gathered. Also, the word 'conclusion' occurs only once. There are plenty of statements like:

"Subsequently, intelligence has become available from reliable sources which complements and adds to previous intelligence and confirms the JIC assessment that Iraq has chemical and biological weapons. The intelligence also shows that the Iraqi leadership has been discussing a number of issues related to these weapons. This intelligence covers:

Confirmation that chemical and biological weapons play an important role in Iraqi military thinking: intelligence shows that Saddam attaches great importance to the possession of chemical and biological weapons which he regards as being the basis for Iraqi regional power. He believes that respect for Iraq rests on its possession of these weapons and the missiles capable of delivering them.

It would be nice to know who the reliable sources are and what makes them reliable. We are told what the intelligence covers, but we aren't given specific instances. Let me put it this way. In film going terms what we have here is the equivalent of a friend telling you that the new Vin Diesel movie is a classic and you should go and see it but not actually telling you why. That's OK because it's just a film. It's £3.50 (or £7.50 in Paris). Here we are talking about going into war. Lives and governments are at stake. For that kind of thing there has to be some accountability and trust that when given the full truth the general public will be able to make a constructive choice. If we’re going to de-stabalise a whole area of the world I want to really know we're doing the right thing. I want to know that whoever's telling us to do this knows what they're talking about ... [Abode pdf reader here]

Abroad II Anyone who’s been reading for sometime will know that in most things I’m quite confident. I’ll head at it like a bull and usually work my way through somehow. So there I was standing a in Charles de Gaulle airport (not pretty) and realizing I have absolutely no idea what to do. I know I have to ring home to tell everyone I’ve arrived, but when I approach the phone it doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen before, with it’s slot and nothing else. Nowhere to put money. Nowhere to do anything. I put in my credit card. Nothing happens. Then the plane announcer says something I don’t understand and for the first time it dawned on me that I was in a different country.

A sign with a logo on it in the shape of a train was pointing in no particular direction so I decided to follow it. A crowd was heading that direction so I was more following them (hoping that they had the same idea as I did). I had instructions on how to get to the hotel so I decided that rather than deliberately getting lost I’d head there. The walk to the station was about ten minutes through some deep uninspiring concrete. Liverpool ‘John Lennon’ Airport (‘Above us only sky …’) at least has Speke Hall to look at. Here there’s a Prince Charles nightmare of a hotel and a motorway.

Somehow I manage to find myself to the information desk at the railway station. I look at the clerk. She looks back at me. Up until this point I’d been telling myself I would get by. I knew a little bit of French. I’d studied at school for three years afterall. As I stood here, the rest of the story fell into place. I’d been set four French. We’d studied almost nothing useful for two years and I hadn’t paid any attention because I had a crush on the teacher. Anything I might say in French would be just embarrassing.

The only part of me that I’m at all confident with – speaking – is suddenly gone. I hadn’t quite comprehended how alien everything would actually be. For thirty seconds, I’m a mute. I tap my forefinger on the counter. By now the clerk obviously thinks I’m a loony. Then I apologise for not being French.

‘I’m sorry, I’m English.’ No shit, she thinks. I don’t know that for sure but somethings you can tell in the eyes. ‘I just got here.’
‘Yes.’ She says.
'You speak English.’
'Non.’
To this moment I’m not sure if she was lying just so she could have some fun. But whatever’s happening I’m sinking. At the back of my mind I’m thinking ‘Three days like this?’
‘I’m here for three days. Do you have a travel pass or something?’ And so I entered the Roast Beef approach to foreign languages SHOUT LOUDER. I was everything I promised myself I wouldn’t be if I ever left my small island.
Without another word the clerk starts to madly rushing about her cubicle. I hear her mumble something about a leaflet. Eventually she actually growls and returns to her chair. She points.
I follow her pointing. The ticket office is right behind me. There are queues.
'Thank you.’ I mumble and draw away. As a turn, the person behind me in is boggling their eyes. I don’t blame them.

At the ticket counter it starts again. I don’t apologise for my nationality this time (I conclude that they’d all be speaking German if it was for us … just one of the irrational rationalities I’d make over the coming hours). I say I’ll be there for three days and before I can say anything else a travel pass is thrown over the counter. I throw back my credit card and thirtysomething Euros are charged. I didn’t care how much cost I just wanted to get away from the station. As I take the escalator to the platform I keep saying saying to myself, out loud, ‘oh hell what do I do now’ … ‘oh hell what do I do now’ …

Paris I had actually gone abroad before. To Germany when I was about eight. I was there for three days and I maintain this was the first time I saw ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ on a video from the local emporium. When I say this to people, they gasp, not actually recognizing that not everyone can afford to go abroad sometimes. I hadn’t even actually been on holiday alone for any kind of extended period. That overnighter to Southend, and three years at University, but I’m sure neither of those count. I’m talking about a-lone. Without a support network. In a completely alien environment. So I thought it was about time.

Two hours after I’d found about my new job (more later) I was in the travel shop booking a three day trip to Paris. I always said that this would be the first place I went to and it seemed logical. As usual it was related to something. I wanted to stand on the Eiffel Tower in the spot were Tom Baker and Lalla Ward recorded that iconic scene in the Doctor Who episode ‘City of Death’ (‘the thing about Paris is … it has a bouquet …’) and to see the Mona Lisa. Once I’d covered those, everything else would be a bonus. There is something liberating about going into a travel agent and saying that I want to go away in three days and just picking a hotel out of a hat. Everyone should try last minute once in a while. Yes it’s bound to be more expensive than if you’d planned ahead, but the look smile on the travel agent’s face when you simply sit there and say yes to everything was a picture.

I’d never flown before. Not because I was actually scared. I didn’t have any fear of it. It’s just another one of those things I’d never gotten around to. And another one I’m happy to say I can cross off the list. I liked the simplicity of ‘EasyJet’. Yes, it was just like traveling by train, but this was an even more pleasant experience. I wasn’t prepared for that rush as the plane roars up the runway and into the air. I we left the ground the only thing I could do was laugh. For moments I felt superhuman. I WAS FLYING! Looking down at the landscape I understood how the first balloonist must have felt when the land spread out before him. Patterns of colour and lines. So familiar, from the ground suddenly made no sense. And before I could and my bearings, the plane burst through another barrier and within moments the phrase ‘blanket of clouds’ finally resonated. I hadn’t realized that in the sky although the place must have been proceeding at some speed to stay in the air, the view of the window would be at almost a standstill. Only the usual baby crying broke the silence. And then quicker than it had begun, the plane voluntarily landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport and …. <>