Film Review - The Damned United

*****Films about football are rarely successful. Often they are beset by a lack of realism, uber cliched plot lines or merely the appearance of Sylvester Stallone. Thankfully, much like the character it portrays, this film revels in breaking the mould.

As in the book, the movie follows legendary football manager Brian Clough's 44 days in charge of Leeds United whilst interspersing the narrative with that of his previous tenure at Derby County Football Club. There, in partnership with assistant Peter Taylor, he would take a small club in a provincial town from the bottom of the 2nd Division to the 1st Division Championship.

In the 'present' we join him on his first day in the top job with Leeds, a side already champions and still loyal to their long standing and recently departed manager Don Revie. Needless to say, they are less than enamoured with the outspoken new man intent on turning the team from what, in his eyes, is a dirty, play acting, cheating group, into a disciplined side who play fair and appreciate the beautiful game as Clough admirably believes it is meant to be played.

That's the historical background then, but in fact the genius of this film, is that 'in the background' is exactly where the football remains.

We are treated instead to the highs and lows of the pairs relationship, each of whom bring their own skills to the table - Taylor with a hawk-eye for the right kind of player and Clough with an exceptional man management ability.

More than the game itself, we gain an insight into the ego's, the mentality and psychology of success, not just in football but in any industry where winning is everything. The fine line between self-belief and arrogance, ambition and obsession, is dealt with artfully whilst still being heart warming and at times very funny.

Michael Sheen masters the essence of Clough with ease. The glint in his eye, the wry grin and the fierce rivalry with his nemesis Don Revie, but also the self-doubt especially when over-hearing the players criticism outside the dressing room door after another Leeds defeat.

Timothy Spall as Peter Taylor is the consummate safe pair of hands. Lovable and long suffering, his role is essential in providing a moral conscience and he alone convinces Clough, the most single minded and stubborn of characters, to see the error of his ways. The final scene where the two are reunited is touching, if unlikely to based in reality.

Hold the back page then, this is a football film that works! Not by attempting to capture the thrill of watching a fantastic goal scored, which could never be enjoyed in film as in life, but by focusing on the humanity of sport, the excitement of success against the odds and the escape that the glory of victory can bring.

For all of these joys we should certainly show gratitude to the late, great, Brian Howard Clough.

Piping hot!

This Friday I'm going to see a play in Shepherds Bush with a small group of work colleagues. I guess you'd call it a work social except there's only 6 of us attending. It's called 'Stovepipe' and it's directed by a chap who used to be a work colleague of ours.

Apparently, it's a 'promenade' piece which means there's audience involvement. No sitting in a theatre for this play, it all unfolds in the basement of the West 12 shopping Centre!!

Anyway, it's had some cracking reviews and the man in question, Michael Longhurst, has come in for some considerable praise. He could be hot property after this. See it all outlined below.

Guardian Review
Telegraph Review
Independent Review

Maybe when he's famous it'll give me something to bore the grand children with. I wonder if he's the next Michael Winner?

The Reader

I blogged previously on this subject (see Feed the World), but I've been introducing myself to one particular feed reader lately. As I surf the old super information highway, frequenting my favourite virtual haunts, I pick up any RSS feeds present and subscribe. Before I was adding them to my bookmarks but now my current reader of choice is Google's.

It's great! I get all the items I'm interested in flagged up on one page. For example, Russell Brand's latest column on the Guardian website, the lastest album reviews from NME, football news from the BBC etc, etc. It's like my own personalised web-centre just for my needs. Me, me, me, me, me.

I do wonder what all this means though. One of my little pleasures in life is to sit on a Saturday morning, turn the crisp pages of the Guardian, sip a cup of tea and wait for Football Focus to come on.

With my new found internet addiction, I'm more likely to be sat with headphones in my ears listening to Spotify and updating my twitter profile. "So what", I tell myself, "As long as you're having fun."

But that's just it. I'm not sure I am having fun. When I'm not near a PC to access my twitter account, I'm fearful that I'm missing out on some grand revelation posted in my absence. In truth, over the month or two I've been using the most fashionable of social networks, I think I've only read one real piece of news at all, and that was the fact we're having a baby, something I posted myself! I even received a text to say, "Blimey, you don't expect to see that kind of thing on twitter!"

I love Google Reader, but when I'm not on it I can't help but think about how many new posts, blogs etc., have come in since I last logged on. If, heaven forbid, I don't get a chance to do so for a couple of days, I'm swamped by the weighty bulk of notifications awaiting me.

There's a well worn phrase - 'information overload' - which I've always disliked, used as it is to encompass anything a smidge more complex than the instruction "Click here". However, I have to wonder whether in my clamour for new ways to express myself, absorb culture and keep informed, I'm not somehow diluting everything into an endless list of sound bites 140 characters in length.

I suppose that's why I enjoy this blog so much. I can delve, dip, discuss and deconstruct the world around me with as many characters as I deem necessary (I fully accept this may be more than the reader deems necessary. Tough! - who's blog is it anyway!?).

As we venture boldly into the web 2.0 age, I hope we don't lose sight of the pleasure that can be gleaned from thumbing a good paperback or flicking through the Arts supplement.

I suppose the methods we use for devouring information in the future will ultimately always be at the behest of the individual reader. The real question lies in whether the reader is a he, a she or an it?

Album Review: Years of Refusal - Morrissey

***
Since Morrissey's return from the LA wilderness, he has carved out a niche as the 'fashionable' elder statesman of rock, a description I have no doubt he would despise and perhaps is too sweeping a statement in truth.

However, whereas the likes of Gallagher, Weller et al are now at their influencial nadir, 'Morrissey', on the contrary, is a name oft quoted by pioneers of this decade's music. From Franz Ferdinand and The Libertines to Arctic Monkeys, all are vocal in their debt of gratitude to the legendary Smiths frontman.

You'd think therefore, he would be pretty pleased with his current lot? In a sense he is. When asked to comment on his current popularity, he swells with pride at his chart success, a success The Smiths could only dream of, but then this far from manifests itself in 'Years of Refusal'.

On listening to the album, you still get the sense that he wants to revel in his isolation as a man misunderstood. Perhaps the furore over his comments on immigration have inflamed this rhetoric or perhaps it's a comment on his quest for love in the personal sense rather than the acceptance of the 'world', 'All You Need Is Me' with its 'you'll miss me when I'm gone' and 'I'm OK by Myself' are perhaps the most obvious examples here, but the 'love' he'd found on 2006's 'Ringleader of the Tormentors' seems to have evaporated now.

Despite disappointingly returning to type, Morrissey still wraps his irresistable voice around some beautifully heart-wrenching lyrics. "I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris/Because only stone and steel accept my love" in particular evokes an elegant sadism in its choice of city as a refuge.

Meanwhile, 'Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed' opines that, "Life's not very much to lose/It's just so lonely here without you" sung so delicately as to thaw even the coldest critics heart.

Where there is due cause for criticism though, is in the use of two tracks included in last years Greatest Hits release. Ardent fans will already have heard them which does somewhat undermine their 'highlight' status here.

More of a concern though, is the current backing band Morrissey has cobbled together. They hack along ardently with bluster but there's precious little delicacy in their contribution. There's a real, "Lets throw the kitchen sink at it" attitude in evidence. Admirable perhaps but you feel the album would have benefitted from a little of its predecessors subtlety, maybe its Visconti.

There are moments however, when the bombast takes a backseat, particularly in 'You Were Good in Your Time' ending suddenly and portently in the mould of 'Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want". It's not enough to rescue the album though, at least not in the instrumental sense, and it leaves you harking more than ever for the jangle of a Marr riff.

Morrissey is still witty, acerbic and melodic and this is another wonderful reminder of why we should all cherish him greatly. It isn't however, the fully polished article, despite, I expect, having the potential to be the most radio-friendly of his recent releases.

A consolidation more than an unmitigated triumph, it's still clear we need him. You do wonder however, for how long will he need us?

'Intellectual Suicide' or My Response to "Thrill of the Chase"

On Monday evening, intent on having a good sit down and listen to the new Pete Doherty solo album, I was reminded I'd agreed to go with Laura to her Salvation Army Cell Group meeting.

Despite my perennial misgivings, I knew it was time to put my non-beliefs to one side and support her for an evening. Plus, the people in her group are a good laugh to be around, far from the bible-bashing cliche.

Coincidentally, their discussion that particular evening was on faith, trust and belief and the difference between all three (quite a tricky one I'm sure you'll agree). Much like Dr Watts in his recent 'Thrill of the chase' blog, I began to find myself harking back to Descartes and his unquestioning belief in God.

I've long understood that Christian belief requires a leap of faith, but it was referred to in our discussions on Monday as being seen by some as an 'intellectual suicide'. I'd never heard it put like that before and it seemed to sum up perfectly my issue with 'faith' i.e. that you can't come to faith, through logical, intellectual discussion or consideration - a point at odds with my secular upbringing. Ultimately, you have to take that unquestioning step into the unknown, not on the basis of fact but by an inward trust you have that it is right.

Then we came to 'doubt' (another core concept for Descartes). Bravely I thought, some people talked of times when they had doubted their faith and, to my surprise, it was universally agreed that sometimes being doubtful was a good thing. If there wasn't any doubt at all, then what would be the value of faith? Is it because of these doubts that faith is so cherished?

The example given is that of a father with two sons of similar age. He stands in a swimming pool beckoning to them to jump in. One dashes for the pool and jumps without a moments hesitation. The other is not so sure, but after 2 minutes eventually jumps in too. The point is that although the second son doubted the advice of his father, he still took the leap eventually. He has no less faith than his brother but, in the eyes of his father, just wasted time whilst dallying.

Now I'm not saying that I'm a convert, far from it, but I could certainly see the point. Does it matter that I have these intellectual doubts about the existence of God? Am I merely messing around with insignificant questions and wasting my time? In the end, is the quest for a higher truth, whether religious or otherwise, more important than the logical apprehensions that my mind keeps putting in the way?

Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn't but I can see more and more what old 'Des' was on about either way.

The Name of the Game

It's been one hell of a week. Ultrasounds, expectant revelations, podcasting, Laura's Dad taken into hospital after an electric scooter fell on his leg. It's had it all!

I don't wish to revel in the misfortune of my father-in-law, far from it, but on a purely philosophical level, I guess this is the wonder of life. Ups and downs, excitement and stresses.

Whatever way you want to look at it, I feel alive in this sense of variety, as if I'm truly experiencing the world to its fullest.

People often feel that marriage and kids tie you down, and of course you have to make great sacrifices, but not only are both these institutions of modern life incredibly rewarding in their own right but they make the moments of culture, creativity and escapism even more special.

A snatched pint with a mate one evening, a day to the countryside for two or a five-a-side football match crammed in between trips to the supermarket and finishing the ironing.

Aristotle believed we should lead a 'flourishing' life. I hope that's what I'm able to do. Or, to put it in Bruce Forsyth's terms, "Life is the name of the game".

Mini-Mac

Having finally been able to tell all about Laura's pregnancy, it feels like a weight from my shoulders. The early stages are so fraught with worry, you don't feel you can really get excited but I have to admit that now we've passed the most dangerous stage, it feels exhilarating and cathartic to finally let it all out.

I've got absolutely no idea how to be a father and not a clue how we're going to afford it, but who cares?!!! I just hope everything works out okay with the pregnancy, it's a healthy baby and, most importantly - it supports Chelsea.

What more can a Dad ask for?

Old Big 'Ead

In light of Gaz's recent blog and the forthcoming film release of 'The Damned United' (the excellent book of which Gaz recently lent me), I couldn't resist seeking out some old footage of the great man along with some of his quotes. Below are my favourites from those I've found on the web. Enjoy!

I want no epitaphs of profound history and all that type of thing. I contributed. I would hope they would say that, and I would hope somebody liked me.

On occasions I have been big-headed. I think most people are when they get in the limelight. I call myself Big Head just to remind myself not to be.

The river Trent is lovely, I know because I have walked on it for 18 years.

They say Rome wasn't built in a day, but I wasn't on that particular job.

Walk on water? I know most people out there will be saying that instead of walking on it, I should have taken more of it with my drinks. They are absolutely right.