Is there such a thing as objective beauty? An infuriating poser from my University days as a wide-eyed philosophy student, and one of which I was reminded, in a tangential sort of way on watching The Hangover. Is there such a thing as objectively funny comedy?
The Hangover came well recommended, and after my own absolutely mental all-action weekend away for a friend's stag-do in Benidorm, I was well set for an hour and a half of comedy gold. Perhaps it is precisely because of such a build-up that the film fell a little flat. Funny undoubtedly, but not laugh-til-you-cry funny. Ironically enough, after getting home I switched on the telly-box and ended up laughing until my stomach hurt, at The Inbetweeners on Channel 4. "Stomach-achingly funny" was definitely not a label I could honestly plaster across The Hangover.
It worked well enough, but most of the gags just seemed a little telegraphed. Again, perhaps because I'd seen the trailers a few times, I felt like I knew what was coming (SPOILER ALERT!!! AVERT YOUR EYES HERE) with the baby, the tiger and Mike Tyson. All funny in principle, but as much because of the surprise value.
There were undoubtedly some very funny moments, primarily the more spontaneous, non-situational ones (which it would therefore be rather pointless to list here). The leads were likeable, and displayed some impeccable comic timing at times, and the baby, though under-used in my opinion, made me laugh every time he was on screen. I was also rather pleased to see a gross-out style comedy with precious few gross moments, although that probably has more to do with my puritanical disdain for vulgarity as a form of humour. The Hangover was not so much gross-out as unashamedly boyish, a lads' weekend in cinematic form, and with the memory loss, unexplained injuries and mattress ending up on a roof it certainly did evoke memories of the Benidorm stag-weekend.
So, it was entertaining enough, but if you've seen the trailer the punch-lines rather lose their punch. And yet, friends of mine, and various others with me in the cinema, were killing themselves with laughter. Which does lead me to wonder – is it just my sense of humour? Was it really a better film than I'm crediting it? Is there such a thing as objectively funny comedy?
Thursday 23 July 2009
Thursday 9 July 2009
Ashes Day One - The Excitement of Moving Five-Day Chess
Was trying to explain the appeal of cricket to some good-naturedly enthusiastic lady-friends yesterday. I now admit, in hindsight, that my pitch of "five-day moving chess" probably was not the most advisable tag-line to use in trying to sell the game. My point, however, was that the ostensibly slow nature of the game is amply compensated for by the constant scope it provides for examining the current situation, and speculating as to how it might change in the blink of an eye.
At face-value, 336 for 7 is pretty even. BUT… that first hour of day two could be crucial. If the Aussies rattle through the last three wickets, in under half an hour and for 15 or so runs, they gain the upper hand. Alternatively, if we hang around for another hour and a half, and nudge over 400, we can liberally dish out back-pats, safe in the knowledge that we ought really to have removed an Australian victory from the equation.
You see? It's the examination of the situation, and what might happen that's exciting! (At this point, presumably, various non-cricket enthusiasts give up and check facebook.)
Now admittedly the first hour may fall in between these two extremes, and meander gently for an hour, with England reaching around 380 all out in thoroughly unspectacular fashion. Should that be the case, however, then the following hour will become all important, for a handful of early Australian wickets would really give England the advantage… I jest ye not, I can barely contain my excitement.
The KP Debate Continues
As mentioned, at face-value it's even, but given that England won the toss, 336 -7 is mildly disappointing. It was a placid wicket, and the Australian attack does not instil the same fear of a fairly recent yesteryear. Bopara, Strauss and Prior were dismissed by decent deliveries, but with so many batsmen having made good starts, the lack of a big hundred was disappointing, and may well cost us victory.
Having opted to bat, we should have looked for at least 450. KP's dismissal was a rather exaggerated example of how our batsmen were too charitable in giving away their wickets. Geoff Boycott described his offending shot – an attempt to sweep a ball a foot and a half outside off-stump – as "stupid".
Boycott is always outspoken, and to be honest he rather irritates me, but I think he is spot-on here. If KP were still in this morning he'd have 100 by now and we'd be cruising towards 400+.
However, in KP's defence, that is the nature of the beast. If he did not attempt those unnecessary attacking – and downright daft - shots he would neither play half the excellent-but-unorthodox shots that make him our best batsman. For every infuriating and narcissistic dismal he also hits a breath-taking bravado 50. It is a debate that will be had many a time and oft, but the All-Action opinion is that it is a trade-off worth making.
Looking forward to a crucial first hour….
At face-value, 336 for 7 is pretty even. BUT… that first hour of day two could be crucial. If the Aussies rattle through the last three wickets, in under half an hour and for 15 or so runs, they gain the upper hand. Alternatively, if we hang around for another hour and a half, and nudge over 400, we can liberally dish out back-pats, safe in the knowledge that we ought really to have removed an Australian victory from the equation.
You see? It's the examination of the situation, and what might happen that's exciting! (At this point, presumably, various non-cricket enthusiasts give up and check facebook.)
Now admittedly the first hour may fall in between these two extremes, and meander gently for an hour, with England reaching around 380 all out in thoroughly unspectacular fashion. Should that be the case, however, then the following hour will become all important, for a handful of early Australian wickets would really give England the advantage… I jest ye not, I can barely contain my excitement.
The KP Debate Continues
As mentioned, at face-value it's even, but given that England won the toss, 336 -7 is mildly disappointing. It was a placid wicket, and the Australian attack does not instil the same fear of a fairly recent yesteryear. Bopara, Strauss and Prior were dismissed by decent deliveries, but with so many batsmen having made good starts, the lack of a big hundred was disappointing, and may well cost us victory.
Having opted to bat, we should have looked for at least 450. KP's dismissal was a rather exaggerated example of how our batsmen were too charitable in giving away their wickets. Geoff Boycott described his offending shot – an attempt to sweep a ball a foot and a half outside off-stump – as "stupid".
Boycott is always outspoken, and to be honest he rather irritates me, but I think he is spot-on here. If KP were still in this morning he'd have 100 by now and we'd be cruising towards 400+.
However, in KP's defence, that is the nature of the beast. If he did not attempt those unnecessary attacking – and downright daft - shots he would neither play half the excellent-but-unorthodox shots that make him our best batsman. For every infuriating and narcissistic dismal he also hits a breath-taking bravado 50. It is a debate that will be had many a time and oft, but the All-Action opinion is that it is a trade-off worth making.
Looking forward to a crucial first hour….
Monday 6 July 2009
Transformers 2 - How Good Would This Be If It Were An 18...?
First things first - any film in which giant robots relentlessly beat each other up while just about everything explodes in the background can't possibly be bad.
However, no film – no film – should ever leave any self-respecting All Action No Plotter musing halfway through that it's gone on rather a long time. And this, regrettably, is why Transformers 2 will never be granted access into the pantheon of all-time All-Action-No-Plot celluloid greats.
Transformers 2 is an entertaining action film, no mistake. As mentioned, giant robot fights; lots of crash, bang and walloping, some inspired comedy moments and eye-candy a-plenty. The film begins with the likeable, if bafflingly-named, Shia LeBoeuf heading off to college to lead a normal life. This plan lasts about 30 seconds, before a robot war spanning numerous millennia and across several planets kicks off.
Thus, before you know it, LeBoeuf is being chased through forests, buildings and ancient Egyptian ruins, by humongous robots, who would be the ultimate killing machines were it not for the fact that their aim and ruthlessness mysteriously desert them whenever their target is within touching distance.
(Actually, that's a lie – they do occasionally pop a good-guy, but this is no impediment to the film's producers, who merrily resurrect them with minimal explanation whenever the plot needs them back.)
The action sequences are undeniably enjoyable, old-school carnage presented so well you rather forget that it's all CGI. The men are macho and heroic; the women suitably drop-dead gorgeous and gratuitously filmed, with Megan Fox joined by delectable blonde Isabel Lucas. Romance is kept to a level most men should be able to follow and stomach, and the plot is not particularly relevant - some gubbins about destroying the sun.
Mildlly irritating then, that for a film with such minimal plot there was so much meandering midway through. The heroes went on the run from the police, then broke into a museum, then were magically whisked away (I kid ye not) to Egypt, then traipsed through a desert and into some old building and back out into the desert and through more ruins... None of which was really necessary, and all of which contributed to that rarest of beasts, a film well over two hours in length.
Would it have been a better film had it been given a higher rating than 12A? By jiminy it would have (but then, what wouldn't?). As with the original, the attempts to make the film child-friendly rather detracted from the spectacle, and left me wanting to make small children cry. Someone somewhere ought to be sacked for the introduction of two excruciatingly annoying slapstick autobots, in the Jar-Jar Binks mould.
More bloody deaths, and general sex, drugs and rock'n'roll would have benefited Transformers 2 enormously – but I'm possibly digressing at this point into the mystical, celestial world of The Best All Action No Plot Films Ever.
It's not a must-see, and the novelty of the original is understandably lacking, but for mindless big-screen action Transformers 2 does tick that all-important box labelled All Action No Plot.
However, no film – no film – should ever leave any self-respecting All Action No Plotter musing halfway through that it's gone on rather a long time. And this, regrettably, is why Transformers 2 will never be granted access into the pantheon of all-time All-Action-No-Plot celluloid greats.
Transformers 2 is an entertaining action film, no mistake. As mentioned, giant robot fights; lots of crash, bang and walloping, some inspired comedy moments and eye-candy a-plenty. The film begins with the likeable, if bafflingly-named, Shia LeBoeuf heading off to college to lead a normal life. This plan lasts about 30 seconds, before a robot war spanning numerous millennia and across several planets kicks off.
Thus, before you know it, LeBoeuf is being chased through forests, buildings and ancient Egyptian ruins, by humongous robots, who would be the ultimate killing machines were it not for the fact that their aim and ruthlessness mysteriously desert them whenever their target is within touching distance.
(Actually, that's a lie – they do occasionally pop a good-guy, but this is no impediment to the film's producers, who merrily resurrect them with minimal explanation whenever the plot needs them back.)
The action sequences are undeniably enjoyable, old-school carnage presented so well you rather forget that it's all CGI. The men are macho and heroic; the women suitably drop-dead gorgeous and gratuitously filmed, with Megan Fox joined by delectable blonde Isabel Lucas. Romance is kept to a level most men should be able to follow and stomach, and the plot is not particularly relevant - some gubbins about destroying the sun.
Mildlly irritating then, that for a film with such minimal plot there was so much meandering midway through. The heroes went on the run from the police, then broke into a museum, then were magically whisked away (I kid ye not) to Egypt, then traipsed through a desert and into some old building and back out into the desert and through more ruins... None of which was really necessary, and all of which contributed to that rarest of beasts, a film well over two hours in length.
Would it have been a better film had it been given a higher rating than 12A? By jiminy it would have (but then, what wouldn't?). As with the original, the attempts to make the film child-friendly rather detracted from the spectacle, and left me wanting to make small children cry. Someone somewhere ought to be sacked for the introduction of two excruciatingly annoying slapstick autobots, in the Jar-Jar Binks mould.
More bloody deaths, and general sex, drugs and rock'n'roll would have benefited Transformers 2 enormously – but I'm possibly digressing at this point into the mystical, celestial world of The Best All Action No Plot Films Ever.
It's not a must-see, and the novelty of the original is understandably lacking, but for mindless big-screen action Transformers 2 does tick that all-important box labelled All Action No Plot.
Tuesday 16 June 2009
Listelss. A rap.
How the blazes it came to this no-one quite knows – but in a development which will have my former philosophy tutor at Cambridge spluttering over her Wittgenstein essays in disgust, I have penned my first rap.
Actually, the question of how the blazes this came about can be answered immediately, and with greater ease than had previously been suggested. An associate, on reading my critique of D. Rascal's Bonkers, had suggested that I did the man a disservice, in chiding him for lack of depth in his lyrics. 'Twas a social commentary, and examination of the human condition, he argued. Specifically, he claimed, Bonkers is about listlessness, disaffection and the negative preoccupations of the subject of his verse.
In my capacity as The Most Gullible Person I Know, I must admit to being a little unsure of the sincerity of these comments. I listened again to Bonkers – always a pleasure, never a chore - and while the lyrics could certainly be construed as interpretations of the themes suggested, I would hardly compare them to Wilde in terms of intelligence, variety and general exploration of the richness of language. They rhyme, and they're catchy, but I've heard better rap (from Mr Rascal himself, I might add).
However, I am inclined to think 'tis wrong to judge a man until one has walked a mile in his shoes. I therefore endeavoured to write my own rap about listlessness and disaffection.
I should point out that it works rather better if heard, rather than read, and would also certainly benefit from some sort of melodious background accompaniment. Be that as it may, do please go right ahead and knock yourself out, with Listless.
I'm so full of talent, got so many skills
Hold tight, or your legs give way at my skills
I can click with my left, do fifty-six sit-ups
These just some my skills, y'all playing catch-up
Skills, mad skills, talent, flair, gift, skills
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
Check out my skills mate, I can make pasta
Get the sauce from a jar, and believe, it's top pasta
Nutritious, delicious, and not too firm blud
Done eight minutes flat, only needs hot water
I'm so slick it's unfair, go warn your peoples
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
And yes yes mate, watch me make paper-planes
There's gold in these fingers when I make paper planes
I'm all over the folds, flaps, wings, tip, nose
Check out the creases, watch my talent you knows it
Sometimes they die – true – but sometimes they fly – yes
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless.
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
Actually, the question of how the blazes this came about can be answered immediately, and with greater ease than had previously been suggested. An associate, on reading my critique of D. Rascal's Bonkers, had suggested that I did the man a disservice, in chiding him for lack of depth in his lyrics. 'Twas a social commentary, and examination of the human condition, he argued. Specifically, he claimed, Bonkers is about listlessness, disaffection and the negative preoccupations of the subject of his verse.
In my capacity as The Most Gullible Person I Know, I must admit to being a little unsure of the sincerity of these comments. I listened again to Bonkers – always a pleasure, never a chore - and while the lyrics could certainly be construed as interpretations of the themes suggested, I would hardly compare them to Wilde in terms of intelligence, variety and general exploration of the richness of language. They rhyme, and they're catchy, but I've heard better rap (from Mr Rascal himself, I might add).
However, I am inclined to think 'tis wrong to judge a man until one has walked a mile in his shoes. I therefore endeavoured to write my own rap about listlessness and disaffection.
I should point out that it works rather better if heard, rather than read, and would also certainly benefit from some sort of melodious background accompaniment. Be that as it may, do please go right ahead and knock yourself out, with Listless.
I'm so full of talent, got so many skills
Hold tight, or your legs give way at my skills
I can click with my left, do fifty-six sit-ups
These just some my skills, y'all playing catch-up
Skills, mad skills, talent, flair, gift, skills
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
Check out my skills mate, I can make pasta
Get the sauce from a jar, and believe, it's top pasta
Nutritious, delicious, and not too firm blud
Done eight minutes flat, only needs hot water
I'm so slick it's unfair, go warn your peoples
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
And yes yes mate, watch me make paper-planes
There's gold in these fingers when I make paper planes
I'm all over the folds, flaps, wings, tip, nose
Check out the creases, watch my talent you knows it
Sometimes they die – true – but sometimes they fly – yes
Donde mate, just a shame I'm so listless.
I'm listless mate, and it's not my fault
Everything takes effort, which I don't got
It's not fair boss, no-one works to support me
Don't give money, cars, girls, won't do anything for me
I got so many talents no-one else should survive
But I'm listless mate, so y'all be deprived
Friday 12 June 2009
Warriors' Dance - Nice Video, Shame About the Track
"Nice body, shame about the face." One of my favourite phrases, and one with the flexibility to be utilised in any given situation, whereby "body" is replaced by the noun most relevant to the situation, while "shame about the face" is retained, to the pleasing bemusement of listeners. Thus, of Warrior's Dance, I declare, "Nice video; shame about the face". A private joke between me.
The video is indeed cleverly done, with that typical cheeky and riotous élan so typical of The Prodigy. The song itself however begins well and does not go anywhere else henceforth. Ironic that a song of such energy should induce such a listless reaction, but it just feels like a lazy effort. Sure, it will get people up on the dance-floor and shape-making with a manic ferocity, but as a song in its own right it's rather bland.
Please do not think I am berating it for lack of plot; far from it. Its problem is a lack of action. The furious up-tempo beat, reminiscent of a 90s rave, may sound action-packed, but is uninventively repeated.
Perhaps the sticking point at All Action No Plot Towers is that Warriors' Dance is such a curious choice of a single for general release, bearing so little similarity to the rest of the album (which is far more big-beat and angry, in a Fat of the Land vein). There was a grand old choice of singles, and selecting Warriors' Dance does not really do just to the album. A curious choice.
The video is indeed cleverly done, with that typical cheeky and riotous élan so typical of The Prodigy. The song itself however begins well and does not go anywhere else henceforth. Ironic that a song of such energy should induce such a listless reaction, but it just feels like a lazy effort. Sure, it will get people up on the dance-floor and shape-making with a manic ferocity, but as a song in its own right it's rather bland.
Please do not think I am berating it for lack of plot; far from it. Its problem is a lack of action. The furious up-tempo beat, reminiscent of a 90s rave, may sound action-packed, but is uninventively repeated.
Perhaps the sticking point at All Action No Plot Towers is that Warriors' Dance is such a curious choice of a single for general release, bearing so little similarity to the rest of the album (which is far more big-beat and angry, in a Fat of the Land vein). There was a grand old choice of singles, and selecting Warriors' Dance does not really do just to the album. A curious choice.
Sunday 7 June 2009
Making History - When 500+ Pages Is Not Enough
Making History represented my first foray into the world of Stephen Fry’s fictional witterings, and probably earned itself the slightly disappointing Sound-But-Unspectacular stamp.
Perhaps unavoidably, the novel suffers for the identification of its author, for I found it impossible to judge as a work in its own right. This was not helped by the fact that the lead character might just as well have been called Stephen Fry, as many of the asides, musings and scathing rants of the Cambridge graduate central character had more than just a tinge of the autobiographical about them.
Given this, it was disappointing that the prose itself was not really imbued with a genuine and heartfelt relish for the evocative capacity of language. While witty and intelligent, there was none of the Wodehouse-esque moulding of language that grabs one’s funny-bone and hammers at it relentlessly until it cracks under the strain of mirth. Instead, the 500+ pages glided by with a pleasing but perhaps over-simplistic ease.
Neither, curiously, were there any real sub-plots to speak of, but this did not matter greatly, for the subject itself was hugely entertaining and thought-provoking. The question of how history would have panned out had Hitler’s birth been prevented is explored in intelligent and enjoyable style. The theme is worthy of exploration, and is duly done justice. Fry does a grand old job of detailing the alternate history of mankind as a whole, amusingly juxtaposing it with the bewildering personal perplexities one would presumably encounter when suddenly dumped into a parallel reality. It’s an impressive feat, and one achieved with cheerful aplomb.
Some of the literary devices used seem a little contrived and unnecessary – the occasional mozey into the world of screenplays does not add a huge amount to the novel, and if anything is a rather lazy means of injecting pace. One would have thought that the author possessed greater literary tools and invention within his intellectual arsenal.
Nevertheless, this remains an enjoyable piece of mindless fluff. It’s a worthy exploration of an intriguing notion, and for that, thumbs are enthusiastically upturned at All Action No Plot Towers. It is just a nagging shame, that given the author’s ill-disguised identity, the narrative style was nowhere near as luscious as it might have been.
Perhaps unavoidably, the novel suffers for the identification of its author, for I found it impossible to judge as a work in its own right. This was not helped by the fact that the lead character might just as well have been called Stephen Fry, as many of the asides, musings and scathing rants of the Cambridge graduate central character had more than just a tinge of the autobiographical about them.
Given this, it was disappointing that the prose itself was not really imbued with a genuine and heartfelt relish for the evocative capacity of language. While witty and intelligent, there was none of the Wodehouse-esque moulding of language that grabs one’s funny-bone and hammers at it relentlessly until it cracks under the strain of mirth. Instead, the 500+ pages glided by with a pleasing but perhaps over-simplistic ease.
Neither, curiously, were there any real sub-plots to speak of, but this did not matter greatly, for the subject itself was hugely entertaining and thought-provoking. The question of how history would have panned out had Hitler’s birth been prevented is explored in intelligent and enjoyable style. The theme is worthy of exploration, and is duly done justice. Fry does a grand old job of detailing the alternate history of mankind as a whole, amusingly juxtaposing it with the bewildering personal perplexities one would presumably encounter when suddenly dumped into a parallel reality. It’s an impressive feat, and one achieved with cheerful aplomb.
Some of the literary devices used seem a little contrived and unnecessary – the occasional mozey into the world of screenplays does not add a huge amount to the novel, and if anything is a rather lazy means of injecting pace. One would have thought that the author possessed greater literary tools and invention within his intellectual arsenal.
Nevertheless, this remains an enjoyable piece of mindless fluff. It’s a worthy exploration of an intriguing notion, and for that, thumbs are enthusiastically upturned at All Action No Plot Towers. It is just a nagging shame, that given the author’s ill-disguised identity, the narrative style was nowhere near as luscious as it might have been.
Tuesday 2 June 2009
Prodigy - Invaders Must Die: Keeps This Crowd Happy
How does one faithfully recreate the lustier elements of an all-action-no-plot masterpiece, without eschewing the need for originality? Simply to replicate the original is one, rather unimaginative option; but to wander off in directions anew is an approach fraught with risk, which could undo all the good work of the original.
(Pose not this problem to the producers of Terminator 3, for they will throw money at the idea, rearrange the deckchairs and ultimately leave punters shaking their fists and seething with outrage. I shudder to recall, but Terminator 3 was neither an improved re-working of its predecessor, nor a work of sufficient originality to win plaudits for all sorts of new reasons - as Terminator 2 had itself been, ironically.)
However, if anyone knows how to re-imagine themselves with more verve and bravura than previously, it is The Prodigy. Following the success of their debut album Experience, they wandered off in a completely different direction with their follow-up, Jilted Generation, yet still produced an improvement. This was itself then trumped by another re-invention, in The Fat of the Land.
Unfortunately, this was the zenith. Their fourth album, Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned, was fairly forgettable, and the greatest hits compilation of a couple of years ago seemed the sensible, if rather shameless escape route.
The news of another studio album was therefore greeted with a raised, and rather dubious eyebrow, here at All Action No Plot Towers – for what new route could they tread? Surely Outnumbered, Outgunned was sufficient illustration that there were no more worlds for The Prodigy to conquer?
Well – yes, it was. So the band (or, more specifically, Liam Howlett, The Prodigy’s prodigy) have basically rehashed Fat of the Land, and called it Invaders Must Die. Nothing particularly original in terms of genre and sound, but it produces enough in the vein of Fat of the Land to keep this particular crowd quite happy, thank you very much.
The guitars’n’drums’n’bass’n’guttural lyrics combo does not deviate too much from the winning formula of Fat of the Land, but more than ten years since the success of that album, another hour worth of similar stuff is quite welcome. It’s up-tempo and aggressive, very much cut from the all-action-no-plot cloth. Interestingly, the spikiest tracks are those which do not rely upon samplings, and which are therefore are all the band’s own work – namely Invaders Must Die, Omen and Colours.
The album just about, by the skin of its teeth, avoids over-use of Keith Flint’s vocal – ahem – talents. Flint was perfectly used in Firestarter, back in the day, and the more understated contribution on Breathe was well-judged. A similarly limited input in Omen works jolly well on this album. However, his delivery of lyrics which, frankly, sound laughably like a nursery rhyme, in Piranha and Take Me To The Hospital, would be rather problematic, if the music were not so adrenaline-pumpingly manic.
The sound occasionally varies, but never for long. Warrior’s Dance almost harks back to the rave-happy nature of their first album, while closing track Stand Up is as close as they will ever get to a big orchestral finale, but for the most part the band sticks to a tried-and-trusted formula.
It’s neither particularly original nor clever, but if you reconcile yourself to an absence of originality, and accept this as an extension of Fat of the Land, it ticks the boxes.
(Pose not this problem to the producers of Terminator 3, for they will throw money at the idea, rearrange the deckchairs and ultimately leave punters shaking their fists and seething with outrage. I shudder to recall, but Terminator 3 was neither an improved re-working of its predecessor, nor a work of sufficient originality to win plaudits for all sorts of new reasons - as Terminator 2 had itself been, ironically.)
However, if anyone knows how to re-imagine themselves with more verve and bravura than previously, it is The Prodigy. Following the success of their debut album Experience, they wandered off in a completely different direction with their follow-up, Jilted Generation, yet still produced an improvement. This was itself then trumped by another re-invention, in The Fat of the Land.
Unfortunately, this was the zenith. Their fourth album, Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned, was fairly forgettable, and the greatest hits compilation of a couple of years ago seemed the sensible, if rather shameless escape route.
The news of another studio album was therefore greeted with a raised, and rather dubious eyebrow, here at All Action No Plot Towers – for what new route could they tread? Surely Outnumbered, Outgunned was sufficient illustration that there were no more worlds for The Prodigy to conquer?
Well – yes, it was. So the band (or, more specifically, Liam Howlett, The Prodigy’s prodigy) have basically rehashed Fat of the Land, and called it Invaders Must Die. Nothing particularly original in terms of genre and sound, but it produces enough in the vein of Fat of the Land to keep this particular crowd quite happy, thank you very much.
The guitars’n’drums’n’bass’n’guttural lyrics combo does not deviate too much from the winning formula of Fat of the Land, but more than ten years since the success of that album, another hour worth of similar stuff is quite welcome. It’s up-tempo and aggressive, very much cut from the all-action-no-plot cloth. Interestingly, the spikiest tracks are those which do not rely upon samplings, and which are therefore are all the band’s own work – namely Invaders Must Die, Omen and Colours.
The album just about, by the skin of its teeth, avoids over-use of Keith Flint’s vocal – ahem – talents. Flint was perfectly used in Firestarter, back in the day, and the more understated contribution on Breathe was well-judged. A similarly limited input in Omen works jolly well on this album. However, his delivery of lyrics which, frankly, sound laughably like a nursery rhyme, in Piranha and Take Me To The Hospital, would be rather problematic, if the music were not so adrenaline-pumpingly manic.
The sound occasionally varies, but never for long. Warrior’s Dance almost harks back to the rave-happy nature of their first album, while closing track Stand Up is as close as they will ever get to a big orchestral finale, but for the most part the band sticks to a tried-and-trusted formula.
It’s neither particularly original nor clever, but if you reconcile yourself to an absence of originality, and accept this as an extension of Fat of the Land, it ticks the boxes.
Monday 1 June 2009
Bonkers - Best Served on a Dancefloor
On first listening this didn’t amount to much at All Action No Plot Towers. Puzzled looks were exchanged, as music scribes silently urged Bonkers to edge back onto the well-trod dance path from which it was wildly veering. In fact, such sentiments remained in place after the second, third and fourth listenings. I suspect that if the patrons of AANP Towers had not recently set foot in London nightspots, Bonkers would still be greeted with a weary shake of the head.
However, come a JD-and-coke fuelled midnight hour, on a heaving London dance floor, and the relentless bass of Bonkers slips seamlessly into the pantheon of cracking dance-floor winners. This may not be at the cutting-edge of MC mastery, but it’s a ruddy good adventure in the land of foot-tapping pop, and for that Mr Rascal should take a bow.
Actually, it’s probably Armand van Helden who deserves the plaudits. The lyrics are typically inane, and delivered with what one assumes is self-deprecating irony, but ‘tis the music that makes this tick – and as this is a collaboration between both D. Rascal and A. van Helden Esquire, one imagines that the former took charge of lyrics, while the latter oversaw melodies and beat combos. Bonkers - definitely one at which funky shapes can be made – nay, hurled – with gay abandon. Cracking stuff on a dancefloor; less so, perhaps, on an iPod in a tube carriage.
However, come a JD-and-coke fuelled midnight hour, on a heaving London dance floor, and the relentless bass of Bonkers slips seamlessly into the pantheon of cracking dance-floor winners. This may not be at the cutting-edge of MC mastery, but it’s a ruddy good adventure in the land of foot-tapping pop, and for that Mr Rascal should take a bow.
Actually, it’s probably Armand van Helden who deserves the plaudits. The lyrics are typically inane, and delivered with what one assumes is self-deprecating irony, but ‘tis the music that makes this tick – and as this is a collaboration between both D. Rascal and A. van Helden Esquire, one imagines that the former took charge of lyrics, while the latter oversaw melodies and beat combos. Bonkers - definitely one at which funky shapes can be made – nay, hurled – with gay abandon. Cracking stuff on a dancefloor; less so, perhaps, on an iPod in a tube carriage.
Wednesday 20 May 2009
Star Trek - A Two-Hour Action Sequence
A two-hour action sequence in space? Naturally, we at All Action No Plot Towers were all over that, and Star Trek accordingly gets a thigh-slapping endorsement.
Not having ever paid much attention to the series, I was not too sure what to expect, and if anything was a little dubious at the prospect of being treated to two hours of bespectacled nerds nasally whining away about the frequency at which light bends. Merrily, ‘tis the nerds who shall weep in despair, because this film kept the plot minimal and the action ubiquitous.
As the first film in a franchise already boasting a good half-dozen well-established characters – Sulu, Scotty and the like - the film was obliged to give each of them their five minutes of fame, rather than just shove firmly in the background while Kirk and Spock dashed around looking serious. This task was admirably met, particularly as it was achieved without becoming bogged down in characters. Entertainingly, rather than have a character amble into shot and be hailed, by name, in the commonly-adopted introductory format of civilisation in general, this being the action-packed world of Star Trek, characters were instead introduced by being flung across the screen in the middle of a carnage-heavy fight to the death complete with background explosions, tumbling buildings and flaming spaceships. The use of action as a narrative tool - genius.
Let the records also show that there were also several well-timed and dry moments of wit, as well as a few gratuitous undressing-lady shots, but nevertheless I suspect that this is probably a film that would be well-received by the ladies. Not least because most of the crew of the Enterprise looked as if they were about to burst into song as the support act to Take That. The Starfleet may run fairly stringent aptitude tests, but the clean-cut look of an underwear model also seemed to be a prerequisite. Even for the one with pointy ears.
Pedantically speaking, it should be pointed out that this was by no means a flawless cinematic event. For a start, if Hollywood physics has taught me anything, it’s that meeting yourself from a different space-time continuum ought really to cause the whole space-time fabric to explode, or implode, or just generally do something really big, noisy and dangerous.
Additionally, in retrospect it dawned on me that the entire plot hinged on a moment of quite ludicrous coincidence, as Kirk, stranded on a planet of ice, finds that the only other soul on said planet had not only ambled into the same cave as him, thereby saving his bacon at the opportune moment, but also happened to be the one man in the universe who could help him save his spaceship, crew and the entire earth.
A propos the ice planet, that seemed to be one of several moments unsubtly yanked straight out of Star Wars, without so much as a dusting down. There was also the most perplexing, sudden and unexplained romance in cinematic history, but mercifully this was neither here nor there. As I said at the top, this was a two-hour action sequence, set in space, and frankly it almost seems morally wrong to quibble about that.
Not having ever paid much attention to the series, I was not too sure what to expect, and if anything was a little dubious at the prospect of being treated to two hours of bespectacled nerds nasally whining away about the frequency at which light bends. Merrily, ‘tis the nerds who shall weep in despair, because this film kept the plot minimal and the action ubiquitous.
As the first film in a franchise already boasting a good half-dozen well-established characters – Sulu, Scotty and the like - the film was obliged to give each of them their five minutes of fame, rather than just shove firmly in the background while Kirk and Spock dashed around looking serious. This task was admirably met, particularly as it was achieved without becoming bogged down in characters. Entertainingly, rather than have a character amble into shot and be hailed, by name, in the commonly-adopted introductory format of civilisation in general, this being the action-packed world of Star Trek, characters were instead introduced by being flung across the screen in the middle of a carnage-heavy fight to the death complete with background explosions, tumbling buildings and flaming spaceships. The use of action as a narrative tool - genius.
Let the records also show that there were also several well-timed and dry moments of wit, as well as a few gratuitous undressing-lady shots, but nevertheless I suspect that this is probably a film that would be well-received by the ladies. Not least because most of the crew of the Enterprise looked as if they were about to burst into song as the support act to Take That. The Starfleet may run fairly stringent aptitude tests, but the clean-cut look of an underwear model also seemed to be a prerequisite. Even for the one with pointy ears.
Pedantically speaking, it should be pointed out that this was by no means a flawless cinematic event. For a start, if Hollywood physics has taught me anything, it’s that meeting yourself from a different space-time continuum ought really to cause the whole space-time fabric to explode, or implode, or just generally do something really big, noisy and dangerous.
Additionally, in retrospect it dawned on me that the entire plot hinged on a moment of quite ludicrous coincidence, as Kirk, stranded on a planet of ice, finds that the only other soul on said planet had not only ambled into the same cave as him, thereby saving his bacon at the opportune moment, but also happened to be the one man in the universe who could help him save his spaceship, crew and the entire earth.
A propos the ice planet, that seemed to be one of several moments unsubtly yanked straight out of Star Wars, without so much as a dusting down. There was also the most perplexing, sudden and unexplained romance in cinematic history, but mercifully this was neither here nor there. As I said at the top, this was a two-hour action sequence, set in space, and frankly it almost seems morally wrong to quibble about that.
England Cricket Team in "Ruthless" Shocker (But Ideal Preparation It Ain't)
Before the start of the 2008-09 football season Spurs went absolutely mental, destroying everyone who ambled into their path. The might of Tavenes and Leyton Orient were amongst those scythed down, but also, more encouragingly, so were Celtic and Roma, with goals scored as if going out of fashion.
As a Spurs fan it’s in my DNA to become ridiculously over-excited prior to the start of a season, and such sterling form naturally sent me into overdrive. ”We’ll storm the top four; we’ll win the Uefa Cup; we’ll win the Six Nations, Wimbledon, the Superbowl; we’ll ruddy well take over the world!” was the gist of the giddily excited expostulations ringing forth from All Action No Plot Towers around August 2008.
Cue no wins and only two points from our first eight games.Moral of the story. Well there are several – everyone laughs at deluded Spurs fans; you can set your watch by the August delusion of Spurs fans; Jermaine Jenas makes me want to rip out my own eyeballs with rusty pliers; and so on. Most pertinently however, was the conclusion that attempting to warm up for crunch games by playing rubbish opponents who meekly lie down and wait to be slaughtered will not stand a team in good stead come the start of the tricky business.
England cricket team take note. We’re playing the Aussies next. A straightforward destruction of a completely disinterested West Indies team was pleasant enough, but preparation for a five-Test series against the world’s best it most certainly ain’t. We could have done with a couple of five-day tests (lower-case “t”) against more challenging teams. Our players will need to be ready to fight and scrap for a draw in this series. Not the best preparation.
"Ruthless”. Blimey
That said, it was at least pleasing to note that the team did the job with minimal fuss. England teams of the very recent past have made heavy weather of taking 20 wickets or capitalising upon advantages. “Ruthless” seems to be the most apt adjective right now, and that’s not one we’ve bandied around too often in recent years.
Strength in Depth in The Batting Order
In terms of team selection, things are starting to take shape. Bopara has done all that can be expected at number three, and it’s good to note that we’ve scored runs by the bucketload despite the absence of any seismic contribution from our most talented batsman.
There has also been a pleasing development of the lower middle order, with Prior, Broad and Swann all chipping in at 6, 7 and 8. If Flintoff were picked as a specialist bowler (there seems to be room for one more, after a sound but unspectacular couple of games from Bresnan), batting at 8 or 9, we’d have a pretty darned intimidating batting line-up.
A Scathing Few Words On The Windies. Grrr.
The Windies may not have wanted to be there, and may have only been drafted in as late replacements, but their performances were abject to the verge of disgraceful. Where on earth was their professional pride? Good grief I would have shaken an enraged fist at the England players as they left the field if they had produced such a capitulation in similar circumstances.
As a Spurs fan it’s in my DNA to become ridiculously over-excited prior to the start of a season, and such sterling form naturally sent me into overdrive. ”We’ll storm the top four; we’ll win the Uefa Cup; we’ll win the Six Nations, Wimbledon, the Superbowl; we’ll ruddy well take over the world!” was the gist of the giddily excited expostulations ringing forth from All Action No Plot Towers around August 2008.
Cue no wins and only two points from our first eight games.Moral of the story. Well there are several – everyone laughs at deluded Spurs fans; you can set your watch by the August delusion of Spurs fans; Jermaine Jenas makes me want to rip out my own eyeballs with rusty pliers; and so on. Most pertinently however, was the conclusion that attempting to warm up for crunch games by playing rubbish opponents who meekly lie down and wait to be slaughtered will not stand a team in good stead come the start of the tricky business.
England cricket team take note. We’re playing the Aussies next. A straightforward destruction of a completely disinterested West Indies team was pleasant enough, but preparation for a five-Test series against the world’s best it most certainly ain’t. We could have done with a couple of five-day tests (lower-case “t”) against more challenging teams. Our players will need to be ready to fight and scrap for a draw in this series. Not the best preparation.
"Ruthless”. Blimey
That said, it was at least pleasing to note that the team did the job with minimal fuss. England teams of the very recent past have made heavy weather of taking 20 wickets or capitalising upon advantages. “Ruthless” seems to be the most apt adjective right now, and that’s not one we’ve bandied around too often in recent years.
Strength in Depth in The Batting Order
In terms of team selection, things are starting to take shape. Bopara has done all that can be expected at number three, and it’s good to note that we’ve scored runs by the bucketload despite the absence of any seismic contribution from our most talented batsman.
There has also been a pleasing development of the lower middle order, with Prior, Broad and Swann all chipping in at 6, 7 and 8. If Flintoff were picked as a specialist bowler (there seems to be room for one more, after a sound but unspectacular couple of games from Bresnan), batting at 8 or 9, we’d have a pretty darned intimidating batting line-up.
A Scathing Few Words On The Windies. Grrr.
The Windies may not have wanted to be there, and may have only been drafted in as late replacements, but their performances were abject to the verge of disgraceful. Where on earth was their professional pride? Good grief I would have shaken an enraged fist at the England players as they left the field if they had produced such a capitulation in similar circumstances.
Thursday 7 May 2009
Windies First Test, Day One – Bopara's Eternal Reputation Remains In The Balance
"Bopara has done everything right although I still have an irrational mistrust of him." So noted a mate of mine yesterday, as Bopara went about rebuilding after that most English of summer phenomena, the middle-order collapse.
Irrational judgements seem to be the way with cricketers - I can make up my mind within about three innings whether or not I'll like a player for the rest of his career. Butcher, Thorpe, Strauss, Vaughan - will always like them, no matter what they ever do. Bell, Collingwood, Giles, Anderson - eternal mistrust, no matter how well they play. In a sport which is entertaining without ever inciting the same demonic passion as football (Exhibits A, B and C – Messrs Drogba, Ballack and Terry last night) irrational judgements seem strangely acceptable. Cricket after all is a sport more for earnest discussion and polite applause, than vitriolic abuse and foul-mouthed invective.
Back to Bopara. My mate's mind is made up; the jury at More Action, No Plot Towers is, however, temporarily still out. He's started in the right way, but a hundred against an undercooked, ill-prepared Windies team with the looks of chaps who would rather be sipping Malibu on a beach (wouldn't we all?), on an English ground in English conditions, has a bit too much of Ian Bell about it.
Ah, Ian Bell. The sort of blighter who will make hay with a double-century against Bangladesh, then dine off that for two years, keeping his place in the Ashes squad while struggling to make double figures. Is young Bopara the new Bell, or something far more promising? I'm a tad worried that Bopara might not be up to the challenge of Australia, but will be rendered undroppable on the back of some good innings vs the Windies. Still, he has done all that can be expected of him at number three so far (which isn't very far, being only one day) – more than could be said of poor old Owais Shah last winter. Time shall tell. Hindsight shall be 20-20.
Irrational judgements seem to be the way with cricketers - I can make up my mind within about three innings whether or not I'll like a player for the rest of his career. Butcher, Thorpe, Strauss, Vaughan - will always like them, no matter what they ever do. Bell, Collingwood, Giles, Anderson - eternal mistrust, no matter how well they play. In a sport which is entertaining without ever inciting the same demonic passion as football (Exhibits A, B and C – Messrs Drogba, Ballack and Terry last night) irrational judgements seem strangely acceptable. Cricket after all is a sport more for earnest discussion and polite applause, than vitriolic abuse and foul-mouthed invective.
Back to Bopara. My mate's mind is made up; the jury at More Action, No Plot Towers is, however, temporarily still out. He's started in the right way, but a hundred against an undercooked, ill-prepared Windies team with the looks of chaps who would rather be sipping Malibu on a beach (wouldn't we all?), on an English ground in English conditions, has a bit too much of Ian Bell about it.
Ah, Ian Bell. The sort of blighter who will make hay with a double-century against Bangladesh, then dine off that for two years, keeping his place in the Ashes squad while struggling to make double figures. Is young Bopara the new Bell, or something far more promising? I'm a tad worried that Bopara might not be up to the challenge of Australia, but will be rendered undroppable on the back of some good innings vs the Windies. Still, he has done all that can be expected of him at number three so far (which isn't very far, being only one day) – more than could be said of poor old Owais Shah last winter. Time shall tell. Hindsight shall be 20-20.
Saturday 10 January 2009
Shoot 'Em Up: All-action-no-plot in Cinematic Form
This film is fricking awesome!
If all-action-no-plot were a movie, it would be Shoot ‘Em Up. A non-stop sequence of gun battles, with a super-cool hero, suitably charismatic villain and gorgeous piece of token eye-candy - it’s perfect if you like that sort of thing.
Any film that begins to the soundtrack of Nirvana’s Breed is going to have adrenaline seeping from its every pore, and this has more testosterone than a tag-team of wrestlers killing deer with their bare hands while swigging diesel and chanting football songs. Like watching Spurs 6-4 Reading, this requires minimal cerebral activity and is just to be enjoyed, so crack open a beer and dig in.
Clive Owen is the mysterious “Smith”, introduced sitting at a bus stop chewing a carrot, when he sees a pregnant woman being followed by a man with a gun. Smith swears, follows them and uses his carrot to kill the man in gloriously graphic fashion, whilst delivering the obligatory one-liner. Credibility duly rolls its eyes, packs its bags and leaves the screen never to return, and the film does not let up thereafter.
Owen presumably starred in this soon after having been overlooked for the role of 007, and clearly enjoys himself immensely, playing a character patently bereft of the slightest glimmer of emotional depth. His droll wit is flicked out with insouciance, his hardened features making him surprisingly well-suited to playing a tough guy, and he attacks the role with the lazy pleasure one would derive from taking out all-comers in a game of paintball. Keanue Reeves take note – this is how to make a sullen hero likeable. Paul Giamatti just about cuts it as a pantomime villain in the Alan-Rickman-Die-Hard vein, and aside from Monica Bellucci - as the sassy, drop-dead gorgeous female interest - there aren’t many other characters on the screen for any length of time prior to a good old-fashioned bullet-riddling.
Plot? Are you kidding? It’s all action, no plot, so the side-issue of harvesting babies or some such nonsense is neither here nor there. This is all about lazily watching numerous novel ways to shoot 20 people whilst avoiding getting shot yourself.
If you liked Crank, you’ll like Shoot ‘Em Up. And if you didn’t like Crank, you’ve probably not read this far down the page…
If all-action-no-plot were a movie, it would be Shoot ‘Em Up. A non-stop sequence of gun battles, with a super-cool hero, suitably charismatic villain and gorgeous piece of token eye-candy - it’s perfect if you like that sort of thing.
Any film that begins to the soundtrack of Nirvana’s Breed is going to have adrenaline seeping from its every pore, and this has more testosterone than a tag-team of wrestlers killing deer with their bare hands while swigging diesel and chanting football songs. Like watching Spurs 6-4 Reading, this requires minimal cerebral activity and is just to be enjoyed, so crack open a beer and dig in.
Clive Owen is the mysterious “Smith”, introduced sitting at a bus stop chewing a carrot, when he sees a pregnant woman being followed by a man with a gun. Smith swears, follows them and uses his carrot to kill the man in gloriously graphic fashion, whilst delivering the obligatory one-liner. Credibility duly rolls its eyes, packs its bags and leaves the screen never to return, and the film does not let up thereafter.
Owen presumably starred in this soon after having been overlooked for the role of 007, and clearly enjoys himself immensely, playing a character patently bereft of the slightest glimmer of emotional depth. His droll wit is flicked out with insouciance, his hardened features making him surprisingly well-suited to playing a tough guy, and he attacks the role with the lazy pleasure one would derive from taking out all-comers in a game of paintball. Keanue Reeves take note – this is how to make a sullen hero likeable. Paul Giamatti just about cuts it as a pantomime villain in the Alan-Rickman-Die-Hard vein, and aside from Monica Bellucci - as the sassy, drop-dead gorgeous female interest - there aren’t many other characters on the screen for any length of time prior to a good old-fashioned bullet-riddling.
Plot? Are you kidding? It’s all action, no plot, so the side-issue of harvesting babies or some such nonsense is neither here nor there. This is all about lazily watching numerous novel ways to shoot 20 people whilst avoiding getting shot yourself.
If you liked Crank, you’ll like Shoot ‘Em Up. And if you didn’t like Crank, you’ve probably not read this far down the page…
Thursday 8 January 2009
Pietersen's Resignation A Blessing In Disguise
Nice to see England doing their utmost to throw away the Ashes some six months before it begins. It’s been a headline-writers dream, with the tabloids tripping over themselves at his priceless opportunity to trot out cricketing puns of every kind. England are stumped! KP has been caught out! The coach has been yorked! And so on, ad infinitum.Meanwhile, tea-sipping gentlefolk of the ilk of Jonathan Agnew have been positively tutting with incandescence at the manner in which the whole affair has been conducted. Some of the MCC members are even planning to vent their fury with letters to The Times, before settling back down for forty winks in the afternoon.
To be honest, I think this whole shambles may be a blessing in disguise. Pietersen’s talent is beyond doubt, and quite extraordinary, but cannot be separated from his ego and frankly annoying personality. The man’s craving for the limelight, frequent displays of petulance and mind-numbing, cliché-riddled interviews and press conferences suggest that he might not necessarily have the maturity to lead the team. In cricket particularly, the ability to keep your head while all about you are losing theirs is priceless. The sight of Aussie skipper Ricky Ponting losing his rag after being run out back in 2005 was most gratifying, but would also made it clear that the team was showing some signs of vulnerability. KP seems the sort to lose the plot in similar fashion when rattled - or indeed the sort to chase personal glory rather than the good of the team.
Within six months of Pitersen taking over it has emerged that there is a personality clash with the coach so large as to be insurmountable. I suspect that not all the players were necessarily enamoured of him either.
By contrast, his replacement Andrew Strauss comes across as a more intelligent, thoughtful and likeable chap, blessed with the capacity to think before speaking and acting. He seems less likely to rub team-mates the wrong way, and has captaincy experience at county and international level.
Another happy side-effect is that KP’s fit of pique has not extended to him picking up his ball and going home. No self-enforced sabbatical here, KP is keen to continue playing, and this will give England a chance to settle upon a batting order in the West Indies, before the serious stuff begins against the Aussies in the summer. All we need now is for Ian Bell to retire from Test cricket in an act of support/protest, and we’ll be ready to reclaim the Ashes.
To be honest, I think this whole shambles may be a blessing in disguise. Pietersen’s talent is beyond doubt, and quite extraordinary, but cannot be separated from his ego and frankly annoying personality. The man’s craving for the limelight, frequent displays of petulance and mind-numbing, cliché-riddled interviews and press conferences suggest that he might not necessarily have the maturity to lead the team. In cricket particularly, the ability to keep your head while all about you are losing theirs is priceless. The sight of Aussie skipper Ricky Ponting losing his rag after being run out back in 2005 was most gratifying, but would also made it clear that the team was showing some signs of vulnerability. KP seems the sort to lose the plot in similar fashion when rattled - or indeed the sort to chase personal glory rather than the good of the team.
Within six months of Pitersen taking over it has emerged that there is a personality clash with the coach so large as to be insurmountable. I suspect that not all the players were necessarily enamoured of him either.
By contrast, his replacement Andrew Strauss comes across as a more intelligent, thoughtful and likeable chap, blessed with the capacity to think before speaking and acting. He seems less likely to rub team-mates the wrong way, and has captaincy experience at county and international level.
Another happy side-effect is that KP’s fit of pique has not extended to him picking up his ball and going home. No self-enforced sabbatical here, KP is keen to continue playing, and this will give England a chance to settle upon a batting order in the West Indies, before the serious stuff begins against the Aussies in the summer. All we need now is for Ian Bell to retire from Test cricket in an act of support/protest, and we’ll be ready to reclaim the Ashes.
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