Faith moans about Stanley Kubrick.

I'm pretty self-righteous on this topic, and apologize profusely to anyone who reads this because you will undoubtedly disagree with me, but I think I could have done a better job of A Clockwork Orange than Stanley Kubrick. I realise that the man is a revolutionary and uninhibitedly innovative director, and I am quite partial to much of his work (obviously The Shining was an unbeatably well-cast, written and organized film).
The Shining is a perfect example of Kubrick's tendency to make very subtle 'mistakes' that work to build a psychologically challenging character frame that he fails to build in any other conventional manner. His work is clean, faultless and calculated to such a degree that it's difficult for one to make such a bold statement as my previous one, especially one who is not trained in directing or any other form of cinematography. But, controversially, I do not believe that A Clockwork Orange is an example of his better achievements.

In the novel upon which the film is based, Anthony Burgess' use of euphamistic and, often, difficult to understand slanguage dialogue is...poetic, beautiful and artistic. His mixture of childish, unintelligent metaphor and contrastingly complicated symbolism and scenarios, proves the endearingly profound nature of each character, in particular, Alex:  his propensity for mischief and violence is so blatant and largely unrelatable and disgusting, and yet we still manage to uncover some kind of attachment to the character. Whether that's a result of Alex's tender age, or of Burgess' incredible ability to manipulate the reader through characteristic development, or  that of both factors, these are two key points overlooked by Kubrick throughout the cinematic adaptation.
I felt the casting was poor (in a regard similar to that experienced after watching Baz Luhrman's 'Romeo and Juliet', in which none of the cast appeared to understand any of their lines), thus the impact of Burgess' long-thought-out modern English slanguage is slashed dramatically.
In particular, the presentation of modern Britain in the film mirrored the expectations set forth by Kubrick's style: imaginatively clinical and clean, and underratedly simplistic. But it also portrayed a post-modern generic, stereotypical conception of modern architecture and society that rubbed uncomfortably against the dim, primal development of community and youth drawn from Burgess' masterpiece.
All in all, I'm sour and expected more because it's my favourite book and I have too much spare time.

Over and out.

Brighton Rock

I just dyed my hair black, and...well...it's gone sort of blue/red. Don't get me wrong, I've wanted black hair for a while but, upon fulfilling this wish, I have decided that I look a little 'emo'.
Besides, I digress; I was in sunny seaside Brighton yesterday for the first time in my life. Needless to mention, it did not prove to be particularly 'sunny' - rather, wet and windy, and said conditions broke my favourite umbrella. In a bid to distract myself from the unsurprisingly poor weather, I took a trip to The Lanes to slither through crowds of relentlessly trendy Brightonians and pine for an existence sufficiently 'with-it' to join them.
I know it sounds incredibly generic and hipster to state (not that you weren't all previously aware of my wannabe-hipster tendencies, anyway: what with my analog camera and homemade clothes and red hair) but I felt so in awe of everything that was going on there: the bustle of the streets, the organized chaos of the bright 1980s marketplace, the pseudo-uniqity of the ink-adorned, modestly clothed shop-owners, sat in the unassuming glow of an open 1973 Green Lantern comic book. I wish I was cool enough to fit in there.
Alas, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my H&M skirt and TK Maxx cardigan, and did my best to hide the shame of my misguided attire by taking an abhorrent number of cigarette breaks, under the cover of my unsalvageably warped umbrella, near a particular gathering of tattood boys with flesh tunnels and perfectly sculpted quiffs. None of them noticed me.

Over and out.

Faith moans about the band.

Today is turning into one of those days where I just wish I could sink into the ground and die. In fact, this has been an entire week of that feeling. On Sunday, I met Kiall to discuss my place in the band he's made. I didn't think that my presence was at all necessary and I was entirely aware that he agreed with me, albeit a carefully unvoiced opinion. He spent 3 hours trying to convince me that I was not going to be asked to leave, in the questionably appropriate setting of a Cafe Nero in town and fuelled by the warmth of four chai lattes, and promised that he wouldn't betray my trust by being wrong on this occasion. I find it increasingly difficult to trust his word, but I can't help but be that person who doesn't learn from their mistakes. In a foreseeable turn of events, only hidden from me by my own insurmountable denial of Kiall Wheatley's indecency, he today informed me that I am no longer welcome in the blues band he has formed despite my inability to contribute anything. He says that Sharon doesn't want to compete with me as a vocalist, or work with young musicians, and so it would be best if I left. I can't help but think, even though I realise that I was the first to suggest my leaving, that this is not what I wanted at all. I told him that I didn't want to leave, but that if that were what he wanted, then I'd rather I stopped now. I just got a text from him saying:

 'I had fun playing with you. We shouldn't stop altogether. Besides, we still have gigs.'

I'm no musician. I'm no vocalist or mandolin player, really. No one wants me and, despite all the promises he made me that he would never ask me to leave, he has. I don't know what I'm expected to do now, except maybe petrol bomb all of their homes/housevans.

Over and out.