Girls on Film

This week, for the first time:

I watched 'He's Just Not That Into You'.

Rom coms, chick flicks, whatever you want to call them, I have never been massively sold on the idea in the past. There was clearly something not quite right with me, as box office figures, Academy Awards and the rest of the general female public frequently begged to differ and while 'Titanic' was selling out in cinemas all over the world, I was more than happy to sit at home munching on a bowl of Butterkist glued to the latest Korean horror picture.

After watching 'He's Just Not That Into You' on Sunday, I have somewhat changed my mind. With a star-studded cast (Jennifer Anniston, Ben Affleck, Drew Barrymore, Jennifer Connolly, that guy from Alias who's in everything at the moment), I initially switched on this film as the perfect antidote to my post-birthday party fatigue, but after just a short time, discovered that I was enjoying every second thank you very much. There was even a brief moment when a genuine guffaw took control of my body and during some of the more sentimental scenes, dare I say it, my eyes filled up.

The storyline covered a spectrum of characters and focused on how signals from the opposite sex can be misinterpreted (in particular women misreading men). Thankfully, the movie avoided taking stereotyping a degree too far and built on some interesting scenarios; Jennifer Aniston's character, desperate to marry long-term boyfriend who refuses to pop the question; Drew Barrymore's portrayal of a young woman disenchanted with the ins and outs of dating in the modern world (I am eternally thankful that I settled down with my better half before times when it's necessary to log into five different devices until it sinks in that you've been dumped); Jennifer Connolly as neurotic sour puss whose husband strays with a literally scarlet (Johansson) woman. They all lived happily ever after is a foregone conclusion with most chick flicks, but what I liked about this was, it wasn't a deliriously happy ending for all of the characters and, now and again -shock, horror - there was something I could more than vaguely relate to.

The conlusion that I have drawn is that, like any other film genres, there will be movies that are good or even great and others that are just simply awful and, maybe I am just difficult to please when it comes to chick flicks. Take 'Bridget Jones's Diary'. I have had to sit through so many conversations in the past ten years listening to intelligent women shrieking in delight about this movie and I have simply sat there nodding and smiling at the appropriate moments. Well now it's time for me to come clean; I can't stand Bridget Jones. The film; the book; the woman; the whole concept. I find the 'let's all have a jolly good laugh at a big pair of knickers' humour a little on the patronising side. Bridget Jones makes me feel pigeon-holed and stereotyped and, while the message is supposed to be 'it's ok if you don't look like a super model and you're not a size 6', it's also saying that the alternative is to be this goofy, clumsy, irritating, man-hungry horsey type. Other than dress size issues, we have little in common; a broken heart would not lead me to sit at home wringing my hands and listening to Eric Carmen power ballads. Nick Cave murder ballads maybe. On first viewing, the giant pants thing is possibly mildly amusing, but I genuinely find these 'we're all girls together, nudge nudge, wink wink' conspiratorial gags tiresome. I'm not a miserable sod, honest. But for me, as Bridget Jones masqueraded as a positive role model for the new Millennium, she actually represented three steps backwards in the evolution of my gender.

And don't get me started on 'Mamma Mia'. I had the misfortune to encounter this alleged piece of entertainment a few weeks ago when I was stuck at home, under the weather. 20 minutes was all I could stomach and that was being open-minded (and too lazy to reach for the remote control). Implied in every second of this cringeworthy tat is that, once a woman hits her 50s, her sense of dignity hits rock bottom and she is completely justified in indulging in the most vulgar, raucous and downright uncouth behaviour. Just because we maybe aren't blessed with the same youthful beauty as Jane Seymour or Honor Blackman, doesn't mean that any decorum or femininity should be straight out of the window. Meryl Streep should be obliged to return her Oscars after her ill-advised appearance in this tripe. Such a shame as I quite like Abba. Our American cousins have managed to perfect the chick flick, in a way that currently escapes us. Usually harmless enough, their leading ladies are often too-good-to-be-true, but it doesn't stop us all from aspiring to be like them anyway. Despite her somewhat questionable profession, everybody wants to be the Julia Roberts character in 'Pretty Woman'. And let's face it, when it comes to romantic hero, they get it far more on the money than the Brits do. You can give me twinkly-eyed Richard Gere over dull-as-ditchwater Colin Firth any day and even a pushing septuagenarian Clint Eastwood ('Bridges of Madison County') rates way higher in the sexy stakes than faffing buffoon Hugh Grant ('Notting Hill'). I have just finished browsing through several lists of 'Top 100 Chick Flicks' (there's even a full list of 100 written for the male audience for the purposes of wooing unsuspecting females, complete with quotes). Admittedly, there are more than a handful that I have never seen (The Joy Luck Club, The Truth About Cats and Dogs), some that I have every attention of avoiding at all costs (My Big Fat Greek Wedding, anything with Whoopi Goldberg), but there are others that I've seen countless times which will never get stale (An Officer and a Gentleman, Love Story). There are probably too many gory Asian arthouse films out there to prevent me from wading my way through these entire lists, but I'm more than happy to borrow Julia Roberts's thigh length boots from time to time. Bridget Jones can keep her big pants, though. Will I try this again?: I'm waiting for your recommendations, ladies...

I'm Forever Shooting Bubbles

A couple of weeks ago, for the first time ever:

I played Bubble Shoot.

I've never possessed a Playstation. I've never been the proud owner of any form of Nintendo device whatsoever. I just this minute had to consult Google on how to spell 'Wii' (not French for 'Yes' apparently) for the purpose of writing this blog. I am a far cry away from what I would consider a computer game geek. With a superior air, I often consider myself way higher up on the intellectual ladder than the spotty oiks that while away hours behind drawn curtains, complexion slowly fading, as they strive for the ultimate utopia that can only be experienced on completion of level 23 of Mortal Kombat 57. I am one of life's great thinkers; thirsty for knowledge; a proper little culture vulture.

Pull the other one.

I have just dusted off the calculator and, if my reckoning is correct, over the past month, I have spent a grand total of 2040 minutes of my time blasting coloured balls into simthereens. Almost a day and a half; a day and a half out of the life that I frequently complain is disappearing before my eyes playing 'Bubble Shoot'. Most people try to count sheep jumping over a fence if they can't sleep. At the moment, I am prevented from sleeping by the constant stream of coloured bubbles falling from my ceiling.

I've had an iPod for years now. A necessary evil for any music aficionado forced by life style choices to cram their entire music collection onto a digital postage stamp. But when exactly this handy device mutated into my portable games console, I can't quite put my finger on. I think it may have begun with an innocent game of Sudoku which I discovered was available as a free iPod Touch application, representing a substantial saving for me, a sorry individual who had previously waded through at least two Sudoku magazines per month (yes, there are people who actually buy those - 'nerds' I think they call us). Still keeping things intellectual, I then progressed to playing the odd round of Scrabble with train buddies to kill that painfully slow 20 minutes when our beloved SNCB locomotives chug along at snail's pace between Leuven and Brussels. But when I discovered that half of my family and friends were secretly playing Pro Basketball or throwing a virtual screwed up sheet of A4 into a wire basket - Paper Toss - I felt like I must be missing out on something.

In no time at all, paperback books and music magazines were abandonded and I now find myself daydreaming that I have smaller thumbs and wondering if I can discreetly cram in a round of Bejewelled Blitz during the working day without being spotted by colleagues.

It's a bit of a shame for me really - while others delight over intricate 3D platform games, I am far more content with a classic spaceship 'let's blitz those aliens' scenario or a gentlemanly round of solitaire. The simpler the better. It could be because I grew up in the 80s or maybe due to the fact that I was an only child until the age of 10 and, before my brother came along and I had somebody to torment, I made my own fun and have thus, always been easily entertained. Bubble Shoot is perfect for me; the aim is to match similar coloured bubbles of at least 3 in a row and shoot them into oblivion before they reach the bottom of the screen and you suffocate under a sea of mean and angry bubbles. My only gripe about this game is that I'm not too keen on the version that flashes up 'Loser!' whenever your game comes to a sticky end.

Will I try it again?:
Currently trapped in the nightmare that is Level 12 (bubbles falling faster than the speed of light), I haven't slept for 48 hours.

Might as well face it I'm addicted to...
The computer games that have made me who I am today.

Tetris
Such a great theme tune that it was hardly worth playing in circumstances that required sound off. My favourite version is this one by the Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra. I never knew it had lyrics. And is that Mark Lamarr wearing shades on tenor sax?

Parapper the Rapper
The only highlight of my early twenties' post-pub evenings (I never really cared for getting stoned). Not unlike my favourite 80s toy Simon, this game involved copying a rhythm sequence. But Simon didn't involve a rappin' dog nor an animated singing onion. Don't get cocky, it's gonna get rocky...

Treasure Island
Commodore 64
Stone Age Man's computer game. Long John Silver consisted of one giant single yellow pixel with a tiny jaunty green one perched on his shoulder (parrot) and a thin brown one sticking out at the bottom (peg leg). Joystick to the right...away we go...joystick to the left...no more lives left. Frustrating beyond description, with a catchy theme tune that will live with me to the grave.

Fruit Ninja
Nothing beats the sound of the satisfying squelch of a samurai sword slicing through a watermelon.

Virtua Tennis
Dreamcast
More hours of my precious time were wasted in Virgin Megastore staff room wiping the floor with the macho security guards who had designs on The Davis Cup. With the realistic top spin mechanism, I became convinced that should the opportunity arise, I could effortlessly make mince meat out of Pete Sampras in real life and make Andre Agassi cry like a baby.

Born to Hand Chime, Baby

Last week for the first time:

Guest blogger Pauline played hand chimes

Being a lady of a certain age I decided to join the U3A.  Which for the uninitiated is University of the Third Age?  No, it is not a hippy or happy clappy organization before you ask. Various volunteers lead groups of over fifties to teach them new skills in the prime of their lives.  The scope of subjects is amazing. One can learn anything from Latin to Hand Chimes. 

Which joining the latter, brings me to being the guest blogger for Claire.

I decided as I have never played a musical instrument it would be very nice, as my family are all very musically talented, to learn something new and meet new friends.  Little did I know what I was letting myself in for.

On arrival at the local parish hall I was met with an array of expectant faces with quite a buzz about the place. Eventually, Patricia stepped forward and introduced herself as the leader of, hopefully, her second group of hand chimers which consisted of about 16 budding musicians of different levels.

We were all handed a sticker with our names on which we had to wear proudly on our bosom. Then it started.

A catalogue of do’s and don’ts, which left the majority of us wondering whether we had had a time shift back to school.  Nevertheless, we all smiled and carried on listening. We had to have special black gloves, ordered from the website of Hand Bell Ringers of Great Britain, so our hands wouldn’t slip and could we please have them for next time. 

Eventually we were all allocated a chime, but as I don’t read music it meant nothing to me.

Now a hand chime is a metal tube (even though it is square, I know, I know I’m getting pernickety) with a beater attached to it.  Each one has a different note and varies in size.

Patricia handed the three men in the group the larger ones and then sized up all the ladies allocating the size of the chime to the size of the lady.  I was very pleased as I had quite a small one, which boosted the ego tremendously!

We then stood round in a circle with a sheet of music between two people.  The problem was there were too many people and not enough chimes, so four of us had to share.  Which was ok, as one could look around and see chimers' faces as they struggled through the music.

After a very shaky start, we managed to perform quite a good rendition of Bobby Shafto – so I’m told!  I have to say it didn’t sound like it to me but having to concentrate on finding my notes, it could have been the Hallelujah Chorus.

I am by nature a giggler and watching everyone’s faces was very amusing. They ranged from the smug – obviously the music readers – to the absolutely petrified.  I was somewhere in between. 

The technique was explained in graphic detail from Patricia as though we were about to perform open heart surgery: 

• STAND UPRIGHT
• FEET APART
• CHIME IN AN UPRIGHT POSITION
• FLICK OF THE WRIST WHEN IT’S YOUR NOTE
• DAMPEN THE NOTE ON THE OPPOSITE SHOULDER BEATER SIDE UPPERMOST

All went according to plan until one of the ladies in my foursome came to play her note. Either in her enthusiasm or fear,  instead of the flick and dampen on the shoulder technique she completely missed out the flick of the chime and whacked herself on her left shoulder with such gusto it made the windows in the church hall rattle.

Everyone was stunned, Patricia looked over openmouthed and me and the other three ladies dissolved into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

“Time to call it a day”, lamented Patricia.

We all heaved a sigh of relief.  Packed up our music stands and gave ourselves a big pat on the back.  Well let’s face it, Bobby Shafto after one session is no mean achievement.

Will I try this again?  Well I have ordered the gloves and they won’t be suitable for gardening.