Philip Larkin2013-05-19T06:44:40-04:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=philip-larkinCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Philip LarkinGood old fashioned elbow grease.God-Fearing: A Faker's Guidetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.24323242013-01-08T11:03:32-05:002013-03-10T05:12:01-04:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-larkin/
Oddly, having spoken to my Da at length - it seemed the only things keeping her going were her family and her faith. My Gran is the most Catholic Catholic I've ever met. Me on the other hand - I'm not. I don't believe in God and I abhor the Catholic Church.
I was born into a Catholic family (for my sins!) and raised in a Catholic area in North Armagh, Northern Ireland; yes, I was baptised and I received my Holy Communion. I was, essentially, a Catholic.
I remember the point at which I decided not to be a Catholic. At eight years old, I'd just had my appendix removed. The operation had come only a week after making my First Holy Communion and I was dead excited to go to mass and receive the sacrament (don't ask me why - I just was.) My house was only half a mile from the local Parish, so I begged my Mum to let me go, despite being newly stitched up and rather weak from the operation. She agreed, so long as I bring a friend, so I convinced a friend to come with me and the two of us walked to mass together. Thing is, I hadn't accounted for the pain I would experience during the journey, so by the time I eventually arrived, pale, feverish and weak - I was five minutes late and mass had started. Because mass had started, the pews were full and there was nowhere for me to sit. Feeling very weak, I sat on the floor at the back of the chapel.
The priest giving the sermon at the time, was Father Jordan; a cunt if I've ever met one. Having spotted me sitting on the floor, he stopped what he was doing and started walking down the aisle of the chapel. "You!" she roared, storming towards me. The wretched old fucker proceeded to grab me by the scruff and drag me towards the altar, where he made an 'example' of me in front of the whole congregation. "Good boys don't sit on the floor, good boys have respect for God and stand at the back, if the mass is full. What do you have to say for yourself?"
I was eight. I was weak. And Father Jordan forced me to apologise for my 'disorderly' conduct in front of everyone in the Parish. That was the day I stopped being a Catholic.
In the middle of September, when my Gran was at her worst, I was made redundant from my job as a copywriter at a digital marketing agency in Glasgow.
Twice that week, my family had been called. Twice, my Gran was administered Last Rites by the hospital chaplain. Being the most catholic of catholics, my Gran got a great deal of comfort out of this and each time she received the sacrament, she began to get stronger. She actually started to get better. Weird, right?
With this in mind and having lost my job, I was left with a lot of free time on my hands, so despite not believing in God or the Church - I did something that I never do. I swallowed my pride and went to mass every day. I lit candles. I prayed for my Gran and I wrote her name in the chapel's prayer book.
Now, I'm aware that I sound like a fucking hypocrite. But hear me out. I did all of those things to help save my Gran. Not because some big cunt in the sky is going to hear me praying to him and think 'Ah, right! That Larkin bastard has come crawling back, better save his Nan.' No. I went to mass and lit candles and prayed for my Gran because AFTERWARDS, I could ring my Da and say 'Alright Da. Tell Gran I went to mass for her today. Tell her I said two Our Fathers, three Hail Marys and a Glory Be for her. Tell her I lit a candle.' Tell her I wrote her name in the prayer book. My Da would tell her all these things. And she'd feel good about it. She'd feel stronger. And she'd keep fighting.
My Gran is out of hospital, now. She's still weak and she's no longer mobile - but she's alive. Now, I'm not claiming that me going to mass helped her in any way at all. But I think it did.
The whole thing really knocked me on my arse in terms of productivity and much to my disappointment, I'm still currently unemployed. Sorry, 'freelancing', I'm 'freelancing'. I hope my Gran survives 2013 and I hope I get a proper job soon.
To 2013! Here's hoping it's not as bad as last year.
We're off to a good start - after all, we did survive the Mayan apocalypse!
Thank God fuck.]]>The Newsroom: Where The F*** Is Josh Malina?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16734532012-07-16T13:54:24-04:002012-09-15T05:12:02-04:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-larkin/The Newsroom twice. Initially, I watched it in two sittings; the first taking place in Glasgow airport as my flight was delayed, the second in the air. After a long delay and a late flight, I was in a shite mood so I rushed some notes down for this post before going for a nap.
Here are those notes, unedited:
Take Sports Night, throw in a little Studio 60 & wash it down with The Social Network, then dilute it all a little; hold the charm, hold the warmth & hold the personality. That's The Newsroom.
Jeff Daniels is energetic and engaging as Will McAvoy, Mortimer much the same as MacKenzie McHale (worst fucking name ever); but there's no visible history between this duo; 'visible' being the operative word.
OBVIOUSLY there's a history in that we're told that they do in fact share some sort of romantic past - one that clearly ended with MacKenzie leaving Will to spend time in the middle east as a war correspondent, turning him into a spiteful, bitter and pissy mess, backed by ACN President, Charlie Skinner's reinforcement that the last time Will saw MacKenzie was the last time he was 'a nice guy'. I'm not seeing any chemistry between these two, though.
(FUCKING LOVE CHARLIE SKINNER'S EYEBROWS, BY THE WAY.)
Questions: Why is Will an angry and resentful cunt towards MacKenzie? Because she left? Why did she leave?
The answers will come eventually, of course (pending The Newsroom doesn't meet the same fate as Studio 60, cancelled after the first season).
I'm a wee bit troubled. I'm a huge fan of Sorkin's work, but I'm left wondering: was the pilot was weak? Everything seemed to be surface without depth. I want more drama. We've not been introduced to everyone yet, but for fuck sake where's the strong, sassy CJ Cregg? Where's the dysfunctionally wonderful Matt & Danny? WHERE THE FUCK IS JOSH MALINA!?
I want Jeremy Goodwin in this show.
I don't know what to think. Maybe it'll get better. Hopefully, it'll get better.
Okay, so. I was a wee bit grouchy. After that, I watched 3 episodes of Lena Dunham's new HBO series Girls (bloody belter - I implore you to watch it), and then had a nap.
After my flight, I had to drive 200km at around 10pm, realising halfway down the A8, that my rental car had NO FUCKING BRAKES. Thanks Europcar (What's wonderful, is how they dealt with the problem that almost caused a major fucking accident - telling me to drive 50km to their nearest branch for a replacement, then insisting that I drive another 5km to fill the fucking tank. Know what my compensation was? A free upgrade. Don't use Europcar).
So, I'd a bit of a bad day. When I'd FINALLY calmed down, I watched The Newsroom again; this time in one sitting and in a much better mood.
My thoughts hadn't changed much. I'd warmed ever so slightly, but there is something missing. The Newsroom (which by the way, should just be "Newsroom" because The Newsroom is fucking irritating to say, right) is definitely lacking in charm; I may have been in a shiter of a mood, but I stand by my original opinion.
Whether that charm is lacking due to the absence of Tommy Schlamme's direction or the bumbling, idiot/genius wizardry provided by Joshua Malina (above) - I don't know. I've not seen episode two. Yet.
Before I move on, please take a moment and have a good look at that picture of Joshua Malina taken on the set of The West Wing. Isn't he fucking brilliant?
Aaron Sorkin is a writer often revered, often criticised. The West Wing, Sports Night and Studio 60 all reside on my bookcase. I say 'bookcase' because this is a big deal: I don't have a 'DVD shelf'. Only a bookcase. Only a handful of DVDs are on display on this bookcase; so along with The Muppet Show, Breaking Bad, Ghost and a copy of When Harry Met Sally - these three shows have a place. A permanent place.
I liked The Newsroom, I suppose; but I don't think it'll ever sit on my bookcase. I wasn't wowed as much as I have been by old Sorkin favourites, but you know what?
I'll keep watching it. Because I like telly.
The Newsroom airs on Tuesdays at 10pm, on Sky Atlantic.]]>The Muppets Sequel: Let's Not Rush to Play the Music or Light the Lights Again Just Yet...tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13234042012-03-06T08:25:56-05:002013-02-18T06:57:23-05:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-larkin/
Disney announced earlier in the week that a sequel for The Muppets has been green lit, although Jason Segel will not be involved. Two words in that sentence bother me. Those two words are 'Disney' and 'sequel'. The Muppets was first announced in March 2008 and as a big Muppet fan I was both excited and apprehensive. After all, Disney's 2005 Muppet debut The Muppets' Wizard of Oz feat. Queen Latifah was an embarrassment and certainly verified the fears of the hardcore Jim Henson fans who thought Disney were sure to ruin the franchise. Of course people were going to be worried.
Waiting for the film to come out was like waiting for your best pals to come visit, but in order for them to get to your house they have to cross a minefield, battle Minotaurs and scale an erupting volcano before you can even whip out the scrabble board. Unnerving.
The only thing that stirred hope for me was Jason Segel's attachment to the film. A reputed hardcore Muppet fan, I knew he'd write something great - but being a realist, I also knew that Disney executives have to power to say 'No, I think we should have...' and my greatest fear lay not in the writing of the project, but the negotiation faced by Segel & Stoller when they delivered the script to the studio. Now, changes were made and scenes were cut and plotlines rewritten - Segel and Stoller reveal several huge changes in various interviews and podcasts; but the integrity and the heart of the script they wrote certainly did survive and I think that's a fucking miracle in itself. A colleague of mine visited Disney very recently and was told that Disney considered Animal to be their 'big star'. Fuck sake.
Nothing against Animal, but true Muppets fans know that Kermit the Frog is Jim Henson and true Muppets fans will know that Jim Henson is Kermit the Frog and true Muppets fans will know that Kermit the Frog IS the Muppets because he embodies everything Jim Henson stood for. Kermit is their big star, for that very reason. Disney only likes Animal, because he looks the funniest as a fucking plush doll.
Now, I'm not naive. I'm aware that Jim Henson and Company were a bunch of hippies that made their pals out of fabric and ping pong balls and spent their time singing about rainbows and love and acceptance and hope. I'm aware of that and I'm cool with it; in fact that's why I love The Muppets so much.
When The Muppets marketing campaign kicked off, I was mega excited - all of my pals were negotiating the minefield. They'd beaten the Minotaurs and I could see them peering down from the top of that volcano. Homestretch.
The film came out and I went to see it on the opening night with my pal Michael. We laughed, we cried like children and we came out smiling like two big stupid smiling things.
They'd done it. They made a Muppets film that would ignite a love of the Muppets in new fans, but also nurtured their old fans and gave them lots of little treats and homages along the way. An absolute joy. I saw it twice after that.
The Muppets were back and my friends' babies were watching The Muppets; which was very nice indeed. This triumphant return is somewhat soured for me though, by the news of the sequel; although not because Segel isn't attached. He's done his bit and he's launched the Muppets back into the limelight at full force - fair play to him. And fair play to Flight of the Conchords' Brett McKenzie on his Oscar win for Best Song for The Muppets at The Oscars.
It's not that at all, although I would be thrilled to see another Segel/Muppet outing any day of the week/month/year. No, my fear and my unease lies far beyond Pride Rock, past even the elephant graveyard and is buried much deeper than the caverns beneath the sands of Agrabah (total fucking Disney geek, by the way).
My fear? Cars 2.
I don't think I need to explain myself further than that. Disney do love a money-maker and as box office records show - but sadly the Muppets are exactly that. I hope this film is cared for and nurtured as much as the last; do it right, eh?
I love you Disney, but do not fuck with my Muppets. Do not fuck with our Muppets. Don't you dare take advantage of my pals.
(P.S - I am available if you need someone to fill Jason's shoes. 'Kay? Thanks.)]]>Social Media Holding a 'Black Mirror' Up to Naturetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.11437002011-12-12T12:31:57-05:002012-02-11T05:12:01-05:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-larkin/
Social media is wonderfully overwhelming at times. One thing I adore most about this lovely thing is the growing relationship between social media and the visual arts. Any Twitter user reading this will be more than aware of the huge impact of such event television as BBC's Frozen Planet, The X Factor or Charlie Brooker's Black Mirror on our online social streams. Twitter and Facebook come alive with satirical comments, empathetic offerings and hashtagged titbits of information that are alien to anyone NOT watching the shows.
For those who don't tweet with the rest of us, here's an example of how engaging this phenomenon can become! I don't watch X Factor. I never have and probably never will. It doesn't really interest me in the slightest (same goes for football, documentaries about travellers getting married and anything featuring Kirstie fucking Allsopp); but I could easily tell you who won X Factor final, the names of last 10 contestants, who sparked which controversy, what Gary said about Louis - the lot.
I know all of this information, only because my stream is full of tweets about X Factor both during and after broadcast, as most of those whom I follow are engaging with other viewers and creating a uniquely enriched viewing experience which quite frankly, blows my mind.
What I have been watching religiously, is Frozen Planet. Such a wonderful show, recently criticised for faking a scene where a Polar Bear nurses her cubs.
What's that, you ask!? Faking? So they used fake polar bears? No. Real polar bears? Yes. Wait, so they weren't fake animals? No. So, what - they faked an entire segment? Yes. Shit, how long did it last? 15 seconds. But the other 59 minutes and 45 seconds was filmed on location? Aye. So what's the problem? Nothing really; but the newspapers said we should be cross, so we're being cross! Ah, I see - the newspapers also told you to be interested in Wayne Rooney's hair transplant didn't they? Yes. Yes they did.
Moving on. Frozen Planet was an excellent example of 'event television' and social media really opened up the experience to something which years ago, wouldn't have really made sense to anyone. The social stream surrounding the show invoked so much interest that it undoubtedly opened up the nature documentary to a whole new audience - those who spend their days on the computer. I am one of those people and we as a community are evolving.
There's a great sense of togetherness that comes from this magical shared experience of joining in the chat by tweeting and interacting with others during a show.
In the wake of social media playing a large part in worldwide coverage of disasters, newspaper hacking scandals and more - we are evolving and we're beginning to get used to joining in the conversation on a massive scale.
Black Mirror has caused quite an interesting stir on Twitter. Brooker's show has engaged with audiences so well, that you can actually watch the hype building before the show. Throughout which, you get the occasional 'OMG' or 'WTF', all hashtagged with #BlackMirror for searchability - and once the show ends, Brooker (whose Twitter username is @CharltonBrooker) is applauded. 'Well done @CharltonBrooker - great show!'
This is mental. Look at us, growing up and becoming an engaged audience (again). It's like the good old days! The theatre! We're actually talking to one another about the spectacle, instead of sitting on the couch like a massive lump in front of the television. I'm not even fucking sure what a television is anymore, because it's easier to stream EVERYTHING on your laptop as and when you please.
In fact, I'm not even sure if I still have a couch anymore; between smaller, thinner laptops and streaming on smartphones, it's easy for me to join the conversation from my bed and my favourite viewing spot - the bath (and toilet (shush)).
Viewing experiences are changing and actually - the way we create stuff is changing too. Twitter throws everyone into the big mix (that's BIG, not little - this is certainly not an endorsement of popular drivel) and more and more we're seeing transparency when it comes to upcoming film, television and arts projects. It was through Twitter that I sourced a director, cast and crew for my upcoming project, Pat & Joe Take a Bath; I even managed to snare Kevin Pollak (Usual Suspects, A Few Good Men) for one of the lead roles.
The film goes into production in 2012; all because social media made a wealth of resources readily available to me. Social media is changing the way we see art and it's changing the way we make art. Social media: It's #bloodybrilliant.
]]>A 'Sort-Of' Review of David Shrigley's "Pass the Spoon"tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.11040202011-11-20T15:36:25-05:002012-01-20T05:12:01-05:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-larkin/
When I heard that David Shrigley had written an opera, I was slightly worried. "Worried" is perhaps a strong word. I was concerned! Yes, that'll do. I was concerned that Shrigley was moving into wanky territory.
Now, if you're familiar with Shrigley's work you'll know that he is one of the least pretentious artists on the scene. His drawings and short animations are charmingly rough, almost cave-painting-like depictions of his subjects. I've always thought that Shrigley was a bit of a cheeky fellow, amusing his audience with inconsequential little sketches which reminded us all (well, me at least) of how we looked at the world when we were little.
That's what draws me to his work. It's a bit wholesome and just plain nice. Where was I? Oh aye; concern! I didn't want to see his stuff lose it's charm in a new medium; the stage.
It didn't (lose it's charm, that is).
This 'sort-of opera' was perfectly formed and wholly Shrigleyesque. It was smart yet silly; funny whilst moving and at times, displayed certain elements of genius. In short, the show follows a bizarre television cookery show, at times directly engaging with the audience. It teased with elements of pantomime, but didn't quite go there (thankfully). June Spoon (Pauline Knowles) and Philip Fork (Stewart Cairns), the hosts of the show are setting about to prepare a meal for the terrifying antagonist Mr Granules (puppeteered by Tobias Wilson), who's rumoured to have devoured BABIES!
It all goes wrong of course and the meal goes to shit. Spoon and Fork join forces with their dessert (Banana Custard, pre-custard) to salvage the evening and after several visits to an ecclesiastical butcher with an impressive falsetto voice (Peter Van Hulle), a ridiculously moving lament from a depressed, alcoholic egg (Gavin Mitchell) and attempts to save the day by a cocksure Latino banana (Martin McCormick) - everything gets a bit... well, I was going to say 'more bizarre' but that's a massive understatement. Let's just say, my favorite scene followed shortly thereafter and the audience were treated to a duet and dance by June Spoon and Shit. An actual shit, played by the always wonderful Gavin Mitchell.
Credit where it's due, Shrigley did a great job - as did composer David Fennessy who created a beautifully eerie tone reminiscent of Bernard Herrmann's score for Hitchcock's Psycho and not to forget director Nicolas Bone's overall surrealist approach as director of the piece. Well done, lads.
I emerged with a sore face from laughing/smiling.
I'd tell you to go and see it; but sadly Pass the Spoon ran for only three nights, from 17-19 November, 2011 at Glasgow's Tramway Theatre. I have it on good authority, that this won't be the last you'll hear of this 'sort-of opera'. Perhaps it'll come back. Perhaps it'll pop up somewhere down south, soon. Perhaps it might grace the stages of the South Bank. You've been warned.
If Ready Steady Cook shagged Come Dine With Me after smoking the pubic hairs of David Lynch, rolled up in the pages of Friedrich Nietzsche's The Birth of Tragedy - Pass the Spoon would be the love child from that wildly wonderful evening. A triumph.
Read more about Pass the Spoon here, or follow David Shrigley on twitter.]]>Shelving Old Playstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10879042011-11-11T19:00:00-05:002012-01-11T05:12:01-05:00Philip Larkinhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-larkin/fuck you up, your Mum and Dad (mine certainly did by "accidentally" giving me this name.) I am not a poet - well, not beyond winning poetry competitions at school. I write theatre, television and film. If you're looking for the dead poet laureate, I'm sorry to disappoint you. You're free to leave, if you wish; but you may enjoy my rants and stories about giddy librarians, amongst the many other things I rant about. So, aye. Hello.
As a writer (NB: not poetry - okay, settled), I find there are a number of things that you should try and avoid as much as possible. One of those is actually referring to yourself as a writer; but I'll go into more detail about that in a later post. What I'm talking about at present is revisiting one's completed works. In the past few months I've found myself looking over old work - work that has been finished and plays that have been written, bound and bloody performed. Let me assure you; these have been a very unproductive few months.
What happens (to me, anyway) is that I dig myself into a trench. I sit down and begin to read over my work at my leisure, but soon I'm obsessed; questioning choices, changing my mind and I am unstoppable. You see, it's very important to learn when the time has come to shelf your work. This doesn't solely apply to writing; it's true of many art forms. Returning to a finished product only entices me to go back on what I've written, whether good or bad. For some stupid reason, I end up battling it out with my younger, spottier past self (and I tend to win, unfortunately).
Around two years ago, I met a radio producer who was interested in adapting an old play of mine to suit a radio production for BBC Scotland. I'd already pitched it to him and all he needed was a copy of the script to start moving forward. As of yet, I still haven't forwarded the script. For this, I'm an idiot (apologies Mr David Neville).
The script in question was a play entitled 'Æ', and was written over five years ago. Every time I look at the damn thing, I start re-writing it. Tending to be very critical of my own work, I can't just read - I have to edit and I end up tweaking almost every element of the play - from the characters to the story itself. I'm a nightmare.
You know what though? I'm making a resolution. I've decided that if I ever pick up an old script, I'm going to read it as an outsider. Yes, that's what I'll do; I'll try and alienate myself from the idea that I ever wrote that piece of utter shite in the first place.
Unless of course, it's good. If it's good, give me the fucking credit.]]>
