Last night I dreamed about, or at least very vividly invented the concept of, what I dubbed ‘futurist space hippies’, or something similar.
It was based around the idea that light from stars, nebulae and other cosmic entities help us create vital vitamins in the same way that natural sunlight helps us create Vitamin D. And just as a lack of sunlight can lead to vitamin deficiencies and even SAD, I came up with a sort of conspiracy theory that the human race only has all the problems it does because we are not getting enough cosmic light - thanks to terrestrial light pollution - to keep us healthy and happy.
Hence the futurist hippies hope to reach enlightenment and free themselves from the confines of bourgeois earth-bound society by pursuing space exploration and exposing themselves to all the space radiation they need to be complete. In the meantime, they travel to remote, uninhabited locations - particularly in the southern hemisphere, since it is pointed more towards the Milky Way - in order to bath in starlight. They stare through powerful telescopes at distant nebulae and imagine the sensation of being bathed in all the various alien colours we could never experience on Earth. They eschew the Pagan Gaia worship common among standard hippies and worship the cosmos more generally, studying physics, astronomy and engineering in the pursuit of leaving Earth rather than wearing hemp and running organic greengrocers to try and preserve it. They are technophiles where normal hippies are technophobes. Brief truces are made to organise black out events in big cities, but the futurists are involved purely to reduce light pollution rather than energy usage.
I can’t remember much more; in fact I had to make a concerted effort to remember anything at all and can’t remember anything else from last night as a consequence. I thought this concept deserved it.
I put red wine in the pasta sauce I cooked for dinner this evening and it tasted fantastic. I’ve never cooked with wine before because I usually never have any around the house, but I think I’ll be doing it again in the future. It’s such an easy way of adding depth, body and richness to a sauce.
When I was 13 I dreamt about an imaginary Soundgarden song called ‘Cyanide Christ’. Upon googling this title in the morning I found that it’s actually part of a Meshuggah song that I couldn’t recall ever seeing before. Spooky, eh?
I hadn’t heard that Meshuggah song myself, despite being a fan. I thing I considered the album title and artwork too cheesy, even for Meshuggah. Are you a fan? They are a semi-guilty secret for me, but I feel validated because Wire reviews them favourably.
Upon listening, New Millenium Cyanide Christ is classic Meshuggah and I love it.
I didn’t expect much from Jo Nesbo’s Headhunters after seeing the trailer and knowing nothing about it other than the fact that it was produced by the same people as the original Millenium Trilogy. But I got free tickets, so I decided to put my skepticism aside and just enjoy what appeared to be a mindless, exciting thriller.
Aside from the manic ADHD editing and frantic Hans-Zimmer-style strings, this is a classic example of a non-English-language film having all dialogue excised from it’s trailer so as not to intimidate British punters. The only defence of this practice which I could think of was that the audience might not be able to quickly switch to ‘subtitles mode’ for one short trailer amid other, English ones. Otherwise it is just patronising and cynical.
The film itself was more like a survival horror than I was expecting, with the lead character sustaining terrible injuries and being forced into horrendous circumstances while escaping his pursuer. There was very few of the slick thrills anticipated by the art theft clips in the trailer. There was, however, a very annoying ‘Oh by the way I planned everything lets go back and look at it again while I explain how clever I am and then cut to me looking smug’ endings, which I just hate.
Otherwise, not much comes to mind other than the fact that the film doesn’t try very hard to create empathy for its protagonist. For most of the film, we’re expected to sympathise merely because bad things are happening to him, despite him being a vain, jealous, arrogant thief. The only empathy seems to come from a teary heart-pouring to his wife which neatly accounts for all his foibles, but it comes far too late: after the majority of the strife has been and gone and after we really need to sympathise at all. It is shallow and ineffectual anyway, but its timing means that we have endure all the violence without really caring whether he survives or not.
Oh, there is a scene earlier in the film in which his desire to have a child is symbolised by him wistfully watching a group of girls play a singing game through a window in soft focus, but come on.