The Cosmos Rocks: Queen at the O2

Like the Champions that they are, they strode onto the stage. Stars, then asteroids, then planets flew past their heads and out into the auditorium in a sound and light show almost anachronistic in its bombast. Kerpow! Kersmash! Its Queen (and Paul Rodgers). The intergalactic theme of the opening made us wonder if even time travel was possible. Things promised to Rock. We prepared ourselves to Rock. Could Rock transport us back to a time and place when stadia the world over shuddered to the raw axe-power of Queen?

In anticipation, in the audience, heart palpitations were audible before the start. Not because half the congregation were over-weight and over fifty but because we were all wondering the same thing: Will it be any good?

The first number was just what the doctor ordered. 'Hammer to Fall', a Brian May banker, all riff and no messing. And for the first few songs I felt that if i squinted, I could see the twin towers of Wembley Stadium and Queen in their full eighties pomp.

Oh, but the Cosmos is a dark and dangerous place and with the words 'Here's a little acoustic number' so began a hellishly disappointing tail-spin into the worst excesses of stadium rock tedium. For the middle part of the evening, Queen went missing up their own arses and for that (considering the cost of a ticket) they should be soundly thrashed.

Let's be clear about this - Queen were preaching to the converted. No-one here was a sceptic. Everyone believed. Or like me, at least wanted to. With little to prove to an audience of fans, Queen could have decided to put on a show to entertain themselves and still everyone would have cheered. And that's almost what they did for part of the gig. And they nearly lost the crowd in doing it, too. In the quieter moments, you could just hear the sounds of seats tipping back up on their hinges increasing numbers of us decided that this might be a good moment to get another pint.
But who would dare deny Brian May and Roger Taylor any excess they desired? No one else on the team is going to be brave enough to say "Brian, you know that ten minute guitar solo that's essentially you just wanking yourself off? Do you think its necessary?"

A word now on Mr Paul Rodgers. He cut a moderately folorn figure on stage at times, despite striking some authentic rock god poses and hurling his mic stand into the air (and catching it) on several occasions. He's a stout little guy without a tenth of his predecessor's charisma but in hitting all the notes in all the songs he won over the crowd. By the end of things, we'd become accustomed to his voice. The little guy did good.

For the last third of the gig common sense returned and the back catalogue was put to work to entertain the fans.
There was a beautifully judged version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' that was generally touching and a fun rendition of 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love' was as light-hearted as any of its eighties live performances. Footage of those concerts shows a band happy to have a laugh at their own expense, revelling the bombast whilst poking fun at themselves.

In the end, that's my single and fairly moderate quibble. The bombast of old was there but the tongue in cheek attitude that's necessary to puncture that particular hot air balloon was missing. And what does it matter? It was exhilarating to see these guys on stage. When Freddie died, I never thought I would. In the end, it wasn't Rock which overcame me. It was sheer Love.

The Long Dark Knight...

Jesus. That was DARK. And LONG. When I left the cinema, I went straight home and watched The Sound of Music and Bambi back to back, just to get The Dark Knight out of my system. Only once have I sat in a cinema and witnessed such a punishing film. And that was Frank Miller's 'Sin City'. The Dark Knight takes a cue or two from Miller's sketchbook, of course. Any enjoyment that I was able to derive from the impressive spectacle of the film (and it is impressive, and spectacular) was completely nullified by the ordeal of sitting through some of the most depressing movie philosophy I've seen.

Batman Begins was the palate cleanser, designed to remove from the memory the gothic cartoon of the first two modern Batman movies and the laughable, one dimensional shortcomings of the second two movies. Sure, Batman Begins was dark but not so dark that you couldn't see you moral route out of the cinema. The Dark Knight, Christopher Nolan's second Batman film is beautiful in many ways but damn ugly in many others.

The gripe with modern blockbuster comic-book movies is that they are just dumb entertainment and don't engage the audience's brain. The successful 'brain-buster' movie where emotions and explosions exist in a satisfying balance, is a rare beast. Noteable successes in this field like Casino Royale and The Bourne Identity can make you think A BIT whilst still providing a sufficiently happy ending to send you on your way after you've dusted the popcorn from your trousers. The Dark Knight just goes too far. It is so dark, that it is without hope. Batman, the fulcrum, the hero, the last gasp of air in the lungs of a corrupt society is a beaten, hunted man at the end of the film. The message is clear, expressed most clearly by the Joker himself: "When put to the test, these fine people will EAT EACHOTHER to stay alive." Or something like that. You get the point. We're fucked. And we fucked ourselves, with our greed, incompetence, fear and mistrust.

There's a comparision to be drawn between The Dark Knight and Iron Man, another superhero movie released at cinemas this year. The main characters in these two films are both billionaire industrialists who use their wealth to bankroll their crime-fighting antics. Both have high-tech suits and gadgets to aid them. And for both, the line beween the real man and the alter-ego is blurred. Which persona is the disguise? Bruce Wayne or Batman, Tony Stark or Iron Man. But here the comparisons end. Tony Stark's Iron Man is fun and brightly coloured. Poor Bruce Wayne is full of woe as he dispatches his foes. If the Iron Man costume is a jazzy, gold and red Lambourghini, the Batsuit is a hurse.

Having said all that, it should be noted that in The Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne does drive around in a Lamboughini. But he takes care to drive it into the side of a truck, just in case you thought he was enjoying himself too much. And it is grey.

Maybe that's the problem: If your main character isn't enjoying his mission, then how are you supposed to enjoy the film? In Iron Man, Tony Stark was clearly enjoying himself and I enjoyed the movie but if I'm honest it didn't make me think at all. In The Dark Knight, director Christopher Nolan wears his social conscience on his sleeve like the deadly armour on the batsuit and it's a shade too dark for me. A little more of that on show in Iron Man and a little less of it in The Dark Knight would have made both films more satisfying viewing.

Rafa v Roger

When I was growing up, TV was a bit of a luxury. Sure, we had one in the lounge but it seemed like it was only put on for special occasions. Like a felt hat.
The idea that you would 'sit in front of the television' was treated with the kind of scorn usually reserved for people who think Liverpool will ever win the League again, or something equally perverse and unlikely.
The telly might go on for an hour. But no more.
The only exception to this rule was for Trooping the Colour (in the early days) or Sport, chiefly the FA Cup Final or Wimbledon. Possibly the Olympics. Possibly the British Grand Prix. Or maybe a Test Match. You get the picture.
Sport had a simply spiritual characteristic that meant it could live and pulse on the TV screen as long as it liked.
This afternoon reminded me of those early days. The TV in our front room was positively begging to be turned off at about 20 past nine this evening. As we had been treated, it had been punished with hour after hour of rain delayed tennis brilliance the like of which we shalln't see again. Until perhaps next year. Rafa is the man. Roger is also the man but mainly Rafa is the man.
What a match.

Anthony Painter

Check out the thoughts of a man who knows a thing or two about politics.
http://www.e8voice.blogspot.com/

Solo Cinema

Tonight I rediscovered a forgotten pleasure.
With my wife and child absent from the family home this evening I found myself at an unexpected loose end. So I took myself off to the cinema. I took myself. No-one for company. And what bliss that is.
The film? I monumental triumph of the celluloid artform. A searing, burning stare into the jaws of one eighteenth century woman's quest for knowledge, acceptance and sexual awakening. Breathtakingly beautiful, the critics have called it.
Hang on, wait... I must have gone in the wrong door. There's a man in a spacesuit and...omigosh, he can F-L-Y and shoot fire from outta his hands.
I get a night to myself and you think that I'm gonna spend it on anything intellectual? No way, sister. Just me, an international-size bucket of popcorn and IRON MAN on the big screen. Way better than the Ted Hughes version.