Dream a Little Dream of Me

 

After nine episodes of slow story build-up, season three of Supernatural has finally picked up the pace as the Winchester brothers confront long standing personal demons on their quest to rid the world of actual demons.

Dean Winchester (Jensen Ackles – Smallville) sold his soul at the end of season two to save his recently murdered brother Sam (Jared Padalecki – Gilmore Girls). Given just one year to live in the exchange, season three has followed the boys tracking new legends, battling old enemy Gordon and new thorn-in-the-side Bella, and grudgingly accepting help along the way from mysterious blond demon Ruby.

So here we are at episode ten and after months of bravado Dean is finally admitting that he doesn’t want to die after all, much to the relief of Sam who has been trying to convince his older brother to find a way out of his deal with the devil. The episode Dream a Little Dream of Me saw the boys follow mentor Bobby, trapped in his dreams. In this ever-classy production the suspense was held with some jarring camera angles used to showcase the sense of disorientation in a dream world.

Fellow demon-hunter Bobby Singer (Jim Beaver – Deadwood) has made the mistake of tracking down a guy in Pittsburgh who has murdered his university professor. After a nasty blow to the head as a child Jeremy (G. Michael Gray) has been unable to dream when he slept, until his professor used him to guinea pig a wonder-herb. The rest is much needed but years of missing his REM has left him one sheep short of a herd. Jeremy, using the drug, induces his professor into a coma and kills him as he dreams – as Sam points out, it’s very Freddy Kruger-like.

When Jeremy eventually gets to Bobby, Dean and Sam in dreams with their own worst nightmares we learn some interesting things. First – Bobby has been hiding a dark secret about a wife we never knew he had. Sam as a potential anti-Christ was explored with the possibility he finished Jeremy off with something more than just brute strength. And Dean confronts that which he fears most – himself. Arguing with himself he finally reveals his anger at their dead father, his fear that Sam is all he’s living for, and his deeply repressed desire to lead a normal life with a woman from his past.

The third year of Supernatural has been slow, but there have been some sucker-punches thrown in to keep things exciting; from the ironic death of Gordon having been turned into the thing he hated most (a vampire), to the discovery that Dean will turn into a demon himself in hell if he doesn’t find a way out of his deal. The introduction of Bella as a comic foil, with sometimes serious consequences, has solved a problem the show had of how to keep a female character in a story where the protagonists travel to a different city each week.

Comedy moment – after months of building up sexual tension between Dean and Bella it’s Sam this week who has a naughty dream about our clepto British vixen. Who’d have thought?

Supernatural has the most ridiculously good-looking cast of physically perfect characters. The constant parade of identical women with long, dark hair and low-cut white dresses makes me wonder if the casting director is a man with a virgin/whore complex. Still, the script is funny and the leads are so involving after three seasons that it’s hard to find too much at fault with the way the show is developing. Let’s hope the Winchester’s find a way to save Dean, as a fourth season has been announced.

 

PS. It’s rumoured that Jared Padalecki has got engaged to his sweetheart Sandra McCoy. Congrats Jared! Now if Jensen could just come and find me all would be right with the world.

Fashion Fascism

It used to be that high fashion was something only the super-wealthy could aspire to. Yet as high street stores tailor their clothes to a more fashion-conscious market and women gain increasing economic independence, it seems the fashion industry is more dictatorial than ever.

Few women would have the guts to show up at the Oscars in a dress made to look like a swan. Since Bjork stunned fashionistas the world over in 2001 with her obscure sartorial decision it is still described as the ultimate fashion faux pas – as though it matters.

Judging fashion choices has become a sport and we can all join the bitch-fest workout by reading Grazia, Glamour (the famous do’s and don’ts of public outfits can be particularly vicious, though they at least have the courtesy of obscuring the identities of offending style criminals) and any other magazine dictating exactly how to present ourselves month-by-month.

It’s easy to buy a newspaper now and not actually have to read anything important at all – almost every paper has a celebrity gossip section, and what they are wearing is of crucial importance. Does anyone remember who actually won any Oscars in 2001? Or is Bjork’s dress all anybody can recall? The Icelandic nonconformist commented on the inanity of the fashion industry, likening the criticism of her outfit to a public execution as though she had committed an actual crime.

I confess I love fashion magazines. I think it’s healthy to take an interest in ways to improve ones appearance. It’s a courtesy to other people to be well presented (not to mention hygienically maintained). But I object to the style tyranny that’s become so rampant. Fashion should be fun, not panic-sweat inducing while planning what to wear to a party!

In days gone by ordinary women wanted to look wealthy, but now fashion is easily followed at high street prices so the zeitgeist has shifted to trend-dressing, which means following the rules laid out by style bibles Vogue, Harpers Bazaar, Elle, etc. Social fear is created with threats of whispered taunts for wearing something not approved by whoever it is that makes the decisions about what the nation should be wearing – ie. the cynical entities that make a killing off the insecurities of desperate women. Let’s not be fooled into thinking something is on-trend because of a public consensus; trends come and go when brands recycle old ideas to con women into spending money on ‘new’ products.

The fashion industry is laughing all the way to the bank, while continuing to dictate the terms of the consumer agreement. We agree to develop a body complex about fitting into the designs, we agree to spend money on magazines that each month promise brand new methods to slim down in order to fit into the featured designs, and they agree to provide status when we wear their designs.

It starts early, of course. As children we played with our Barbie dolls, dressing up the impossibly-figured toy in an array of outfits to win over Ken and live in happy, plastic bliss. Each week in magazines we obsess over Britain’s very own Barbie and Ken couple, the Beckham’s, as we see Victoria parade around LA and London in her ‘outfit of the hour’ and perma-pout (smiling is so last season – fashion is serious business, don’t you know). Careers and independence are cast aside in favour of life as an uber-Barbie; Katie Holmes has been called both the ultimate feminist style icon who ‘has it all’ – a successful career, a baby and, importantly, an enviable wardrobe – or the ultimate mannequin who has swapped her own identity to become a coat hanger for the latest designs while hanging off the arm of husband Tom Cruise.

Fashion is aspiration. It’s about having people believe certain things about you because of the way you dress: that you know what’s in, that you can afford to keep up, and that you are every bit as stylish as any celebrity. Though, it’s less about style and more about an agreed conformity. Even current maverick Agyness Deyn is only judged fashionable because she follows an agreed androgyny – a reaction by an industry keen to move on from popular feminine style by dictating a changing trend towards masculine style in order to make more money.

Fashion magazines can be great fun, and Harper’s Bazaar particularly features some very good writing. Likewise, I admire some print advertisements as works of art; current favourites are the Eva Green Dior Poison perfume ad, and the Diesel ‘Live Fast’ ad of a woman running while throwing talc powder over the baby she is holding in the crook of one arm.

 

But seriously, fashion is a business not a lifestyle, and shouldn’t be taken too, well, seriously. We might need more Bjork’s in this world to remind us of that.

Incredible

Yes, to all those who have seen the post I added earlier today and the earlier posts I have edited – I finally learned how to include pictures! I hadn’t exactly stretched my brain trying to figure this out earlier but I decided that a discussion on the virtues of television versus the movies needed a little illustration. Anticipate many exciting pictures to come, illustrating future debates of chest hair versus back hair, slugs versus leeches, and my personal favourite topic of dinner conversation cholera versus the black death.

(In all seriousness the black death of 1348 is something I will be writing about shortly due to a book I’m reviewing, but I’ll try not to be too drunk with power and avoid posting delightful portraits of the dying, boil-covered masses.)

And just because I can, here follows a photo of my jack russell as a puppy – enjoy!:

I also heart US television

The sunrise peeks out over the morning clouds, a young woman turns to contemplate what she must do to save her sister and the world, and after five years of kicking monster ass Buffy runs to the end of the tower and jumps off. I’m not above admitting I cried like a little girl when Buffy died in Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s season five climax. I also cried when Rory made her valedictorian speech thanking her mother Lorelai in Gilmore Girls, and when a particularly tragic murder involving a bullied girl was solved in Cold Case, and when the door to apartment 20 shut for the last time at the end of Friends.

There have been some truly fantastic American television dramas and comedies in the past decade and now more than ever TV has the power to grab audiences and hold on to them in ways that Hollywood is struggling to follow.

Compare what’s on TV with films released this week in the UK. Katharine Heigl’s 27 Dresses will be a huge hit this weekend for desperate movie-goers, a romantic comedy in which woman pines for wrong man, meets right man, writes off right man, gets to know right man through a series of amusing medley moments, falls in love with right man when she realises he is the imperfect person who’s perfect for her. Yawn. The Hottie and the Nottie is also out, a Paris Hilton vehicle in which a gorgeous actress, covered in superficially ugly clothes/ make up/ braces, gets a make over and discovers that she is – shock! – stunning underneath. And in Drillbit Taylor Owen Wilson is the loveable slacker rogue that he is in every other Owen Wilson film (though I confess I adore him and would see this just for 90 minutes of the Texas stallion).

This seems to be a particularly bad weekend. So far this year we’ve at least been blessed with There Will Be Blood, Juno and Lars and the Real Girl. But here’s the truth as I see it: mainstream Hollywood isn’t producing many quality films anymore – unlike Hollywood television. The Oscars this year was the least-watched ceremony in years, not surprising considering the main winners were from some of the least-watched films of the year. Considering the biggest hits as serious Oscar contenders the Academy Awards would be a joke: the highest grossing films of 2007 were Spider-Man 3 and Shrek the Third.

Compare with some of the current showier shows. As a film Heroes would be X-Men without the costumes. Supernatural could be condensed into the story of one young man as a doomed, reluctant psychic with demonic connections and his brother on a mission to protect him – but it would be far less compelling as a two hour film, and quickly forgotten.

In television the drama unfolds quietly and slowly, allowing the audience to really get to know the characters – a luxury films don’t have. A film has to work harder make its point quickly. It’s challenging, but ultimately less of a commitment for those involved than a 22 episode drama.

While still regarded by some as the retarded little cousin of film, quality television is finally starting to get the respect it deserves. Many actors are turning their backs on the life of the jobbing film actor. A starring role on a TV show can even turn a career decline around. Both the Sutherlands have done it – Keifer’s profile has never been higher now he’s the star of 24 and his dad Donald is enjoying his OAP years in Dirty Sexy Money. Sarah Jessica Parker became a household name after years as a Broadway baby and minor film star the moment Carrie Bradshaw first typed out the words ‘I couldn’t help but wonder’ in Sex and the City, winning herself an Emmy for her troubles. For some it’s a chance for steady work with regular hours; Gary Sinise (probably best known as Forrest’s reluctant friend Lieutenant Dan in Forrest Gump) is currently the lead detective dealing with the 9/11 death of his wife in high profile spin-off CSI: New York and now enjoys the steady work it provides.

When Ellen Degeneres came out as a lesbian on her sitcom Ellen it shocked, and confronted attitudes. Here was a character and actress with a ready-made devoted following. If the show had begun with an openly gay character, in the early 90s, it’s doubtful it would have succeeded, but television allows an audience time to build an attachment. Similarly, The Cosby Show helped to mainstream the idea of a successful, professional black family, and Buffy paved the way for shows with strong female leads.

Fans of a TV show are more passionate and loyal than fans of one movie; there’s a reason Trekkie’s remain the stereotype for geekiness. When post-apocalyptic drama Jericho was cancelled after one season last year fan outcry and petitioning salvaged it for another season (the devotees were passionate but few in number and it’s been announced that the seven episodes of season two will be the end for Jericho, unfortunately).

And after four years of bitter disappointment since the end of Sex and the City, with the prospect of a movie repeatedly dangled and cruelly pulled away, the film was finally green-lit last year and is due this May. The internet buzz has been O.T.T., and obsessed fans alone guarantee a hit. It’s a comfort thing – fans already know the characters, they’ve invested time (and money, with DVD buying) in watching six seasons, so they’ll watch for nostalgia if nothing else.

Some films cry out for serialisation. Think about the disappointed Harry Potter fans left sad that many favourite moments from the books have been left out of the films because there’s simply not enough time. The books tracking seven years of the boy wizard’s life could easily be made into a seven season show to include nuances of the rich universe J.K. Rowling created. (Yes, I am a Potter geek and I’m not ashamed.) The Sixth Sense could have been a cool kid detective show, Haley Joel embracing his creepy gift to help dead people move on. I’d love to have seen more of Leon: Jean Reno and Natalie Portman taking on the criminal underworld one kill at a time. What a missed opportunity!

Still, there’s a magic about cinema that TV can’t always emulate. My recent favourites have existed in their own worlds. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind – can anybody imagine this as anything other than the beautiful two hours of mind-bending memory-chasing that it is? I think most audiences would switch off after two episodes out of sheer confusion if it were a show. And musical Moulin Rouge!, with its quirky costumes, dazzling sequences and story-within-a-story theme is a frenetic, theatrical piece of celluloid that could never translate into a series.

So perhaps the age of cinema isn’t dead yet. Though if I see one more trailer for another Paris Hilton project, or Eddie Murphy-in-a-fat-suit ‘comedy’, I might reconsider. I’m always amazed by how many rotten films get made. That’s the advantage TV has over film – it’s unforgiving. If a show is bad people will stop watching and it gets cancelled. If a film is bad then people blow money to see it once, can’t ask for a refund based on poor content quality, and the film can be called a success. And then similar dross gets made. TV is more democratic. But maybe I’m wrong; how else can I explain why Rosie O’Donnell still has a career?

Check out today’s new columns on Calliope: Voice of the Writers.

I Heart Leona

Leona Lewis has made it to the top of the charts in the US! She is fabulous and it’s about time we had a British answer to Whitney, Mariah and Christina.

The US version of Bleeding Love.

The UK version of Bleeding Love. I personally think the UK one is a lot more interesting to watch. It’s also a lot sexier, so it’s odd that the US version is so tame. Not to mention the US audience is denied the chance to see her in the gorgeous sparkly dress – a trench coat doesn’t really compare.

Check out her X Factor rendition of Barry Manilow’s Could It Be Magic. Stunning.

Beer Pong for Beginners

This is a memoir piece of travel-writing I wrote for my journalism course.

Some of the names have been changed!

New Yorkers always drive furiously towards Manhattan, as though it might not be there at the end of the road. My fellow international exchange students, Greek George and Spanish Juan, have spent the four hour drive from Utica to the city showing off before they drop me at the hotel Deauville in Midtown at sunset. One problem: I got my days mixed up. The man at the front desk tells me the friends I am meeting for the weekend are due to arrive tomorrow. After months stuck on campus, with no US license, the busiest city is mine alone. But I can’t even survive Manhattan with a Manhattan cocktail. The man smiles: “That’ll be $150 for the extra night.”

At this point I’ve lived in upstate New York for three months with cheerleaders whose ideas of social drinking are alien to me. Here it is literally a competition, in the form of beer pong tournaments. Yet I’m legally not allowed to drink. The first thing I want to do on my first night alone in New York City is to sit in a pub and buy a G&T. The best tonic I can hope for is a hot chocolate at Starbucks.

I arrive at Utica, between Rochester and Albany, in the January. Eating doughnuts on the quiet train from Manhattan I wondered what college would be like, after the unlimited freedoms of a Welsh student town – shops within easy walking distance, driving not an issue, pubs that accept any student over 18 with open arms and a cold beer. It turns out my five suitemates are over 21, except the girl I share a large, bare room with, Kathleen. “I use my sister’s old license,” she says, showing me the card. She looks exactly like her older sibling; no bouncer would question it.

There’s no pub we can saunter to in our snow-wearied Ugg boots. Campus is isolated but for a gas station across the road. That first night we go upstairs to suite 210 – a boys’ dorm filled with posters of half-naked models, stolen road signs and packs of playing cards. I spot a rectangular wooden board: the beer pong table. Beer pong is not just a ‘sport’. It’s an institution. The boys set up the table. Barry explains: “You just try to get your ball in one of the cups at the other end of the table. If you sink it, your opponent drinks it.” Todd chimes in: “It’s a win-win game.” The cheerleaders perform a routine to Ram Jam’s Black Betty, and I play my first game, egged on by the boys.

A few weeks later, I’m heading to Boston with The Crazy Fools. Every Tuesday I join them for beer pong at a Utica bar but I’ve yet to see a gig. We drop off Ryan’s boxer puppy Dooley with friends and pile up in the van to the bar. “Just help us unload our stuff and they’ll let you in no problem – you’re with the band,” Sean tells me. I unpack instruments through the bar’s back entrance, smiling at the manager; he doesn’t say anything. The bar is dark, with plenty of Irish paraphernalia. I settle on a couch and chat with some of the girlfriends of the band. The grumpy Irish manager approaches. “IDs please,” he blusters. Ryan’s girlfriend is 19, but has a fake on her. My pal, keyboardist Garry, intercedes on my behalf: “Dude, she’s with the band. She forgot her ID but we came all the way from New York. Please let her order a Coke and watch us play.” No such luck; I’m literally shown the door. Ryan drives me back to the dorms, and to Dooley. “I’m really sorry Sarah – what a jerk.” Some bars in America are so scared of police crackdowns they won’t even allow an underage on the premises; I find it ironic that I could drive, vote, or die for my country over there, but drinking a soda and listening to a band is prohibited.

The Irish bar explains the popularity of beer pong; all you need is a table, plastic cups, a ping-pong ball and an older friend to bring a crate of Bud Light. It’s a completely American experience. At Easter weekend I’m with some friends at a house party in Coventry, Connecticut. This house is gargantuan, with three minimalist sitting rooms and an expansive dining room with an expensive-looking chandelier hanging above the table which, of course, sports drink cup triangle formations on each end, like pins at the end of a bowling lane. 25 college students dressed in baseball caps, drinking beer from plastic cups, look so out of place in this classic American home. With Garth Brooks playing on the stereo, it’s not long before a cup of beer is spilled. The formerly nonchalant host panics, rushing around to find a mop.

Back at Utica, socialising usually involves calling the boys down for a party for yet another tournament. Going out is tricky, but we manage it with flare; at Champ’s Sports Bar they pile me in the middle of the crowd, hoping the bouncer won’t notice me. He does, and my hand gets stamped: I’m branded underage. Inside the country music is loud, the crowd is thick, and jugs of beer are passed out freely.

In Manhattan, after a long day alone in Macy’s and Borders, my high school friends finally arrive to celebrate Ting’s 21^st birthday. The rest of us are still 20. She orders a Strawberry Daiquiri at the Hard Rock Café on Broadway, and proudly shows off her passport as proof of age. The ever-present country rock is playing, reminding me of beer pong parties up on campus. I tug on my Uggs and imagine dunking a ping pong ball smoothly into Ting’s cocktail.

Happy chocolate day!

Happy Easter everyone! Obviously Easter means more than just chocolate and is an important spiritual day for all Christians and Catholics, but I can’t help feeling heathenistic by feeling sad for Jesus that he never got to experience a Thorntons chocolate egg. I don’t understand how anyone who has tasted Thorntons could believe there is no God – nothing random could be so wonderful. In my list of things too amazing to be mere chance I also include sunsets, rainbows, dogs, elephants and, of course, love. But today is Easter, and while I think baby chicks are darling, it’s chocolate that really floats my boat today.

One day I’ll research the reasons behind chocolate coming to symbolise Easter. Chocolate, as we know it today, wasn’t consumed in the Middle East when Jesus was alive, and as far as any reading of the Bible I’ve undertaken has shown his resurrection wasn’t celebrated with any sickly sweet dessert treat. If anyone knows the reasons behind this modern tradition, then do leave a comment about it as I’d love to know but, due to terrific amounts of work this week, I don’t have the time to find out for myself.

Though I’m actually starting to suspect that chocolate as an Easter tradition is a cruel pagan trick designed to cause otherwise pious folks to commit the sin of gluttony.

An ode to gingers

Consider this week’s what I love about Britain an homage to my many flame-haired friends, for today I admit that I love gingers. I never pronounce the g’s hard because red hair and the accompanying fair skin is the ultimate in delicacy. Perhaps that’s why gingers are so famous for having fiery personalities – to compensate for such dainty colouring. It could be because of the obvious comparison between the colour of fire and the colour of red hair, but I prefer my own psychological take (it makes me sound smarter, agreed?). When I moved to Aberystwyth, Wales, to begin my degree I was inexplicably housed with, and next-door to, an astonishing number of gingers. Out of the 12 people in the two houses, five had red hair. That’s obviously way above the average ratio of gingers to everyone else, even in Wales. Once I’d recovered from the shock (as soon as the first box of chocolates were bandied about), I realised I was actually quite jealous of my ginger compatriots. In Britain it takes a strong person to survive childhood with ginger hair; no one knows why but every ginger kid in the country is bullied for it. So my new housemates were already maturely ahead of me – they’d overcome adversity and managed to not murder someone in a rage after snapping from one taunt too many. I’d never been bullied or teased or pushed to the end of my tether because of something so trivial as hair colour. So that’s one thing I love about Britain – the ginger friends who have survived with humour (and hair) intact.

 

 

To read more of the Britican Perspective, and my plea to Jamba Juice, check out: http://calliope.jimdo.com/the_britican_perspective.php

The Spider and the Deer

Under the balcony, outside the downstairs den, there was a patio with double glass doors leading outside that looked down the hill to the small woodland at the bottom of the property. A quiet rustling outside alerted me to a deer stood on the patio, enjoying the shade. It stood there for a while, gazing hungrily in to the distance towards Granddad’s little orchard.

I put down my book on the pull-out sofa, trying to not to draw attention to myself. Even in the hills of Sonora, California, where they are so ubiquitous, deer are hard to spot; they hide in the forests, wary of humans with their sharp rifles and heavy cars.

It must have seen me in the corner of its eye because it edged forward. As it ambled slowly across the patio, I followed its path in the shadowed house, entering the garage which smelled of fresh laundry. I was a spy on the trail, keeping an eye on the deer from the garage windows, following slower to keep behind.

Granddad had died.

He went quickly and naturally, but he went alone. His pastor found him a couple of days after the fatal heart attack, following a worried phone call from my mother. She was helpless, separated from her father by an entire continent and ocean. When he had bought the house it was ideal for a retired couple, blissful even: a large wooden home set on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada foothills. It was peaceful, surrounded by nature, both wild and domesticated. A marmalade cat would visit the house each day when I was there packing up the home to sell after the funeral. It would come to sprawl in the shade of the front-door overhang, weary from the dry June sun. I fed it milk in a saucer once, and after that it just kept coming back.

But after my Grandmother passed away the house was too big for my Granddad. Maybe he liked it that way; his affectionate nickname from her was ‘Stinkpot’. Not always so affectionate – often true. Still, though not much of a people person, I think he was lonely in that big house.

In that same garage I found a black widow spider. Starring at it in horror, I let out a scream that was completely involuntary. Mike, the handyman helping us do up the house to sell, smashed the spider with a hammer, along with her sack of babies waiting to hatch. Despite knowing what kind of lawsuit could befall us if a garage-sale patron had put their hand in the dark nook that had become home to the arachnid squatter, I still could not watch the massacre.

I wondered how the next owners would fare in the quiet spot of land on which my two American grandparents lived their last. I thought of the noble deer. I thought of the slaughtered spider family. And I was sorry to leave.

Harping on

Sorry to ‘harp on’ about this, but I’m mighty excited that Calliope is now launched! Today!

Check out the stories, poems, tips for writers and the glorious (of course) editorials. And now that the debut issue is complete I should have more time to devote to nuggetoftruth… until this time next month of course…

http://calliope.jimdo.com/index.php