I Thought I Thor a Nordic God.

I went to see Thor last night and, well, you know that Simpsons episode where Mr Burns remembers being a young boy, smashing his dodgem repeatedly into the legs of that Irish handyman, then spends days laughing at the memory?  Well that’s me, still pissing myself.  The opening half hour or so sees Anthony Hopkins deliver line after line of hilarious, preposterous dialogue, matched only in his absurd delivery by Thor himself, Chris Hemsworth.  On top of that, we are introduced to Thor’s three stooges, one of whom sports a ginger beard of ZZ Top proportions, and may as well have been played by Gimli.  Sorely disappointing was when he opened his mouth and didn’t have a Scottish accent.  Honestly, with the first act barely done, the film has already thrown up every conceivable cliché in the book, and sent me and my lady into fits of giggles.

It was fucking brilliant.

Preferable film times meant that we reluctantly went to see the 3D version, which really would not have been my first choice.  But I must say this is one film where that muddy, discolouring effect the 3D filters cause is outweighed by the spectacle that is created.  The long, epic sweeping shots of Asgard (Thor’s realm) are truly astounding, and threaten to bring on a little motion sickness.

So yes, I really, really enjoyed Thor, but man, what a geeky evening at the cinema it was.  Aside from us, the only people in the auditorium were a group of (and I don’t mean this in a derogatory manner) dorks.  Lovely, polite, silent-during-the-film dorks.  So as if watching Thor, in 3D, with these dudes wasn’t geeky enough, the trailers consisted of the following: Green Lantern, X-Men: First Class, Transformers 3 and the new Pirates of The Caribbean.  The first of only two peeps heard from the nerdy fellas behind us came when the auditorium was plunged into silence following the Green Lantern trailer, and the end of a sentence rang out: “...yellow.  That’s his weakness.”  The slightly agitated tone suggested an unheard but heated disagreement over some superhero or another.  The second peep was the group laughing en masse when a Xena reference was made in the film.  Tellingly, one of the few lines in Thor that didn’t tickle me.

So yeah, altogether a rather geeky evening out.  Also, one thing I did want to mention was how dubious I was a couple of months back when it was announced that Kenneth Branagh was to direct Thor, not being a fan of his haughty breed of film making.  But seriously, the decision to bring him in was a stroke of absolute genius.  Overblown, pompous and pretentious, his style has found it’s perfect bedfellow.  Let’s hope that, with the promising-looking Captain America on the horizon, Marvel is back on track after a somewhat rocky couple of years.

Machete watches The Devils: An uncut masterpiece and a mean hangover.

I awoke on Sunday in Brighton, with precious few hours sleep under my belt, an apocalyptic hangover and a handlebar moustache.  I should have known then that a well-planned day was not on the cards.

The previous night my lady and I had travelled down to Brighton for a friend’s Mexican themed party.  I had shaved me a handlebar and hacked the sleeves off a leather jacket, she had practised walking in heels and donned an eye patch in preparation for our transformations into Machete and Luz, characters from Machete (the third best film of last year, as I’m sure you know).

But the Sunday is where we find ourselves for this story.  You see, on Sunday night London’s Barbican Centre played host to the second ever official UK screening of the uncensored director’s cut of Ken Russell’s 1971 masterpiece The Devils.  Brutal, beautiful and utterly fearless, the film acts as a damning account of the hypocrisies and corruption which formed the backbone of the Catholic church in the 17^th century.  Although The Devils has fallen foul of censors since its release, and only appeared in various neutered forms, it is the film’s distributer, Warner Brothers, who have been mostly responsible for it barely seeing the light of day.  It seems they still feel the sight of numerous naked and catatonic nuns crawling over each other to rape an edifice of Christ is too likely to upset audiences, at least if released on DVD.  The Rape of Christ is one of several notorious scenes which have been restored back into the film for the first time, largely thanks to the hard work of one Mark Kermode.  Indeed, many scenes were thought lost forever until negatives were found in various vaults around the world. 

So anyway, there we were at Brighton station, me armed with two tickets, a handlebar and a hangover the size of Jim Cameron’s sense of self-worth, beginning our trip into London.  No doubt if we’d been feeling better we would have been excited.  There was also the worry of missing our last train back that night.  They’d better start that projector before nine.  We arrived at the Barbican tube station, and, pushed for time, were given directions by a helpful homeless chap, who I wish nothing but good fortune to.  We arrived, somehow feeling worse than we had all day, and took our seats.  In attendance were members of cast and crew, as well as Ken Russell himself, who barely seemed to know where, or indeed who, he was.  But while the pre-screening chit-chat was informative and entertaining, we could do nothing but watch the time and calculate how much of the film we would have to miss in order to get the tube back to Victoria for the last train.  At well past nine the film began, and around halfway through we realised that missing the end simply wasn’t an option, so decided a taxi might just get us back in time. 

The credits rolled, we applauded (while inching our way from the auditorium).  I flagged down a taxi, and we sat, tapping and twisting our fingers anxiously, as we got caught in red light after red light.  Our train was due to leave at 11:32.  We threw money at the driver and ran into Victoria Station, where we were greeted with the news that our train was at platform 19, the very furthest from us.  It was 11:32.  And let me tell you friends, there’s a truly odd feeling which goes with running desperately through a train station with the most haunting images of burning priests and masturbating nuns spiralling round your head.  Until now I had always thought there to be something somewhat romantic about a couple running through a train station for the last train.  Another of my starry-eyed notions smashed.  We sat down, sweating and wheezing, beside an old couple.  We had made it with seconds to spare.

Despite the hangover, and despite spending outlandish amounts of money on last minute late night transport, the whole fiasco was more than worth it.  The Devils is a haunting, harrowing masterpiece, featuring truly exquisite performances from Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave in the lead roles, and images that will stay with me for a long time.  Honestly, I cannot convey to you in words the tragic beauty of Redgrave’s unhinged performance as the haunted and troubled Sister Jeanne.  I feel genuinely privileged to be among the few who have had the chance to see the film in its intended state.  I really hope the event helps to jog Warner Brothers into seeing the market for an uncut DVD release, as, forty years after its release, surely it is time for The Devils to find its audience, and for them to find it.