British film industry news

Following Prime Minister David Cameron’s comments on Wednesday that the “UK should fund more mainstream films”, some of Britain’s top filmmakers have been scrambling to adapt their forthcoming projects to match the industry’s new direction. Here’s a round-up of who’s on board:

Director Ken Loach has announced that the script for his new project Dark Without Light, about the power cuts of the 1970s, is being rewritten to include a computer generated puffin named Wrigglesworth. “Wrigglesworth says what everyone else is thinking,” Loach told Empire Magazine. “He speaks truth to power, and he glows in the dark.”

Kenneth Branagh was quick out of the gate too, telling the BBC that his next film, about the life of Boudicca, will be a bawdy comedy focussing more on the great warrior’s human side, including her penchant for going topless and lighting her own farts.

And Mike Leigh announced on Twitter this morning that he was planning a remake of Abigail’s Party which, he said, would feature “500% more explosions and a fuckawesome new ending that will blow you away”.

The Boat That Rocked until you were sick into your own hands

Arguably, The Boat That Rocked is a change of direction for writer, director and all-round spectacle wearer Richard Curtis. Instead of a nauseating tale about love (Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell, the only woman in the world to sport two wooden eyes, in Four Weddings And A Funeral; Hugh Grant and walking advert for teeth Julia Roberts in Notting Hill; Hugh Grant and yoghurt flogging doxy Martine McCutcheon and every other cunt in Love Actually), Curtis turns his Parker shit ink pen to the wacky world of pirate radio, where men are rapey two-dimensional pricks and women, instead of being the more rounded one-dimensional characters of his previous films, are reduced to the role of duplicitous cock mad vaginas on legs.

It’s difficult to know where to start hating The Boat That Rocked. You can choose to hate it as a whole, or you can pick out individual elements and hate those – the comedy attempted rape scene, for example, or the misogynist camaraderie of the Radio Rock DJs; the name Radio Rock; the fact that one of the characters is named Twatt (the extra ’t’ is what makes it hilarious); Kenneth Branagh’s sensitive portrayal of a man who shouts “Arse!” a lot; the cutaways to listeners of the radio station dancing by camper vans, or dancing in parks, or crowded around radios or, in one eye-widening scene, sitting on the toilet; the recreation of the Electric Ladyland album cover because it’s got tits in it. There’s more – so much more – to hate, but to continue would turn this paragraph into the longest paragraph in the history of paragraphs.

The story appears to be this: some annoying gobshites we’re supposed to like or care about or at least not wish death upon at the earliest opportunity run a radio station from a boat; Kenneth Branagh’s character – let’s call him Arse – and his assistant Twatt (Twatt!) are uptight suit-wearing establishment types who want to stop them because the script requires it. Along the way the annoying gobshites enjoy copious sexual exploits with nubile young women, fall out over the nubile young women because women are duplicitous or cock mad or both, and make up in manly ways that only men can, such as climbing things or punching each other in the arm. Two men on your ship experiencing a clash of egos? Why not settle it by climbing the mast and jumping into the sea? It’s perfectly fucking logical if you think about it.

Eventually Arse and Twatt (Twatt!) find a way to ban pirate radio (boo!) but the annoying gobshites keep broadcasting (hurrah!). In what I’m sure is supposed to be a rousing scene, the annoying gobshites aboard the boat stand up one by one and announce their reasons for defying Arse and Twatt. The trouble is, the script is so lazily written and the characters have been subjected to so little peril that the scene is pointless. Of course they’re going to keep broadcasting – the script demands it.

Then the ship sinks and you think the annoying gobshites might die. In the end, disappointingly, none of them do, not even the one who spent four hours submerged in freezing cold water in a leather jacket.

It’s not just the mast climbing scene that defies logic – the only way to explain the script’s baffling plot contrivances and character behaviour is if it had been written by a man who believed that, in any given situation, these characters would do the precise opposite of what real people would actually do. In the crazy world Curtis has created everybody does what they do for some reason, probably, but the script never bothers to tell us what those reasons are. They just do things. Presumably they’re all sociopaths.

Eventually, the film tricks you into thinking it’s going to end. The ship begins to sink and with a great sense of drama and urgency, the annoying gobshites sit around talking about things for four or five hours until, in the nick of time, a lot of CGI boats arrive to rescue them. Fantastically, there seems to be a boat dedicated to each DJ and, rather than swimming to the nearest boat, the DJs ignore their survival instincts and make for the boat that likes them the most. How do we know the people of each boat like a particular gobshite? By observing the carefully written placards held up by the respective crews. Under the circumstances, a normal person might think that shaving half an hour or so off the rescue time by not painting messages of devotion on large pieces of card would be prudent but, you know, fuck the RNLI and its obsession with haste.

In the midst of all these knee-slapping japes, one of the annoying gobshites is thought to have suffered a horrible death, drowning inside a sinking ship. Don’t dwell on that too much, though, because – look! – Nick Frost’s rapey character has only gone and hauled himself aboard a motorboat full of schoolgirls, in uniforms no less! Oh-oh!

Then, the film doesn’t end. The annoying gobshite who was presumed drowned appears out of the water like a bearded circus mermaid and each one of the main cast shouts “Rock and roll!”, because there’s nothing more rock and roll than making an audience cringe so hard that they snap clean in half.

And, if you need any more proof that The Boat That Rocked is a witless turd floating on a sea of misguided balls, Chris Moyles is thanked in the end credits. Rock and roll.

The Adult Porn Stiffy Tits Channel’s Christmas Day movie

St. Knickerless In Bangkok (1979) Sylvia Kristel stars as Santa Claus, transformed by an ancient curse into an insatiable nymphomaniac in this erotic children’s comedy classic.
Director: Art Smutjugs

Cast

Santa Claus/St. Knickerless………..Sylvia Kristel
Francois Allhands…………………Cagney Bonks
Mimsy Flangepants…………………Pert Goblets
Chanto Wazzockian…………………Alf Le Grope
Perverted Elf…………………….Ricky Gervais
Flimsy Rinser…………………….Madge Clams

Quotes

Perverted Elf: “Nice beard.”

Mimsy Flangepants: “I’ve never seen a sled pulled like that before.”

Francois Allhands: “Mademoiselle, please allow me to personally deliver this toy to the Basque region.”

Chanto Wazzockian (chanting): “You’ve spent too long as Father Christmas, it’s about time you experienced critical jizz mass.”

Don’t miss the romantic comedy that will make you wish you could puke your own bowels out

I feel the film 27 Dresses is such a cleverly written, under appreciated gem that I have written a new tag line for it in the hope of bringing it to a wider audience:

“SHE was a pathetic drippy spineless wedding-obsessed gawping shiny gob on a stick; HE was a smug, deceitful, shit-eating sociopathic doucheturd; HER BOSS was a limp-haired beige cardboard mockery of humanity; HER SISTER was a vapid blow-dried cock-mental two-dimensional simpering div; HER BEST FRIEND was a grating waxy slate-faced carping satchel of veal. TOGETHER, they were a group of disgusting insufferable unrealistic hateful shit fucking cunt bastards who deserved to be folded in half and chucked into a hole full of twitchy land mines, jagged metal, four day old gravy, cold tea bags, pus, razor blades, the grease from decomposing corpses, dirty socks, overpowered electric cattle prods, the bodily fluids of every seagull on Earth, one million tons of plutonium and a stink bomb.”

Should you ever watch 27 Dresses I’m sure you’ll agree that I’ve captured the spirit of the film in a pithy and accurate manner.

Frontrunners emerge for ITV Daybreak jobs

With Adrian Chiles now free to spend more time sitting in a warm glass box watching 22 men in shorts gambol in a field and Christine Bleakley free to resume her old career as a cage fighter, Daybreak is in need of two new, fresh, vibrant presenters to jar early morning TV viewers out of their dream state and into a harshly-lit studio environment. Here are the favourites battling it out for the two biggest jobs in TV land:

Amanda Sexpaste (43) Former Daily Star columnist and stand-in presenter of Good Food channel’s low-rated reality game show Starvation Towers, Amanda brings wit, ruthlessness, borderline alcoholism and an unpredictable temper to the presenting table.

Semolina Pumphandle (24) Before being sacked for over-zealously checking the quality of a cowboy’s erection on BBC flagship consumer affairs show Flagship, Semolina presented BBC flagship consumer affairs show Flagship.

Gruff Badgercock (45) Presenter of One Man And His Dog Extra, Gruff is much liked for liking things and being likeable. Despite this reputation for likeability he is a complete monster and once punched a duck for being ugly.

Wedge Frangipan (34) Breakout star of hit U.S. reality courtroom drama Justice Beach and now a court official on top-rated fluff circus Bikini Legal, Wedge possesses all the qualities guaranteed to infuriate and offend British viewers in equal measure.

Fanny Rogers (75) and Roger Fannies (26) The much loved husband and wife team best known for presenting Southampton Tonight for 25 years feel that nauseating over-familiarity and hosting the show in their dressing gowns is the way to win the hearts of viewers.

The Procedurals, episode 2: Murder!

Leamington Spa poured a cup of coffee from the machine in the break room of the office of Stroud Homicide Squad, sipped it and grimaced, as her partner Sutton Coldfield entered the room. “Good coffee?” he asked, seeing the look on her face.

“It tastes like the inside of a horse,” Leamington replied.

“Better than usual, then,” Coldfield replied, looking into Leamington’s eyes.

A moment of sexual tension occurred between the beautiful but intelligent Leamington Spa and her terse but bestubbled partner.

“Guys,” Detective Hickey said, putting his head around the door, “We just got the call – high school student murdered. Get your guns and shake your bu… am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Coldfield muttered.

“No,” Leamington said quickly, spilling her coffee.

EXCITING OPENING CREDIT SEQUENCE WITH URGENT MUSIC

Having driven to the crime scene during the exciting opening credit sequence with urgent music, Leamington and Coldfield stood on the deck of a school yacht, surveying the body of this week’s murder victim.

“Luckily the murderer left a detailed bio of the vic nailed to the mast,” Hickey said, holding up a laminated sheet of paper. “Her name is Melinda Zamboni, aged 17, heir to the Zamboni fortune. She liked ready salted crisps and hated lemons. It says here she was the school bitch, and the murderer writes that there will be a ton of people to arrest before he or she is finally caught.”

“Great work, Hickey,” Leamington said. “Looks like this could be our toughest case yet.”

Detective Dickey walked along the jetty to the yacht. “Permission to come aboard?” he said, jokingly.

“What have you got, Dickey?” Leamington asked.

“The vic was on the school yacht team – just interviewed the coach and he says Melinda was the best yacht whisperer he’d ever seen. Destined to be one of the best yachters ever to yacht.”

“We’d better arrest the coach,” Coldfield said. “It’s almost always the coach who’s the murderer. Usually it’s to cover up a doping scandal. Steroid abuse is rife in the cut-throat world of yachting.”

“Wait a minute,” Leamington said. “What about the vic’s over-ambitious father? Or her timid school friend who’d been pushed around one time too many?”

“There’s bound to be a jock ex-boyfriend too,” Dickey said.

“Okay,” Leamington said, “Get a warrant for the coach’s house and get CSU down there – but not CSI – I hate those guys.”

“While CSU are doing that I think we should look over the yacht again – those highly trained forensics guys might have missed something that we’ll spot immediately.”

“I agree,” Hickey agreed.

Coldfield’s mobile phone began to ring. He answered it. “Coldfield,” he said. There was no-one on the other end of the line, but he made the best of it. “Mm-hmm. I see. Okay. Thanks.”

“What is it?” Dickey asked.

“CSU’s been over the coach’s house and it’s clean. No evidence of drugs or murder. Just a colossal collection of pornography.”

“Dammit,” Leamington exclaimed. “We’re nowhere on this case. It’s just one big dead end.”

“Hey,” Hickey said, as a thought came to him. “Melinda had that resentful ex-boyfriend, but what if there’s a secret GIRLFRIEND? It would certainly be a titillating twist.”

“That’s motive right there,” Leamington agreed, dialling a random number on her own mobile phone. “This is Leamington Spa. No, not that one. Do a background check on Melinda Zamboni’s possible secret girlfriend and get back to me. Thanks.”

“All we can do now is wait,” Hickey said.

Leamington’s phone rang. “Leamington Spa,” she said. “Yes, that one. What did you find? Okay. Thanks.” She looked at her colleagues. “Well, the vic didn’t have a secret girlfriend. I don’t believe this.”

“So where does that leave us?” Dickey asked.

“Nowhere,” Leamington answered.

Coldfield looked at his partner. “You have to let this one go, Leamington,” he said. “We can’t solve them all, you know that. You could go crazy turning this one over in your head.”

“I know, Coldfield, but this case has really got under my skin,” Leamington said. “I really wanted to nail this bastard, but he was one step ahead of us all the way. Let’s walk away slowly and go to the sort of bar that doesn’t exist in real life.”

SLOW FADE TO BLACK WITH MOURNFUL VARIATION OF THEME TUNE OVER END CREDITS

The Procedurals, episode 1: Murder!

Leamington Spa looked around the authentically decorated open plan office of Stroud Homicide Squad. “My partner is busy having sexual intercourse with our immediate superior – who wants to engage in some banter before this week’s murder?” She called out. Hickey and Dickey, the secondary detectives with whom Leamington Spa and her partner Sutton Coldfield had a friendly rivalry, sauntered over.

“I decry your ability to solve crime efficiently,” Hickey said in a mock serious tone.

“I concur,” Dickey chipped in laconically.

“I rebuke you both with a sassy response,” Leamington replied.

Hickey and Dickey were about to make a remark about Leamington’s sister when the phone rang. Leamington answered it. “Stroud Homicide,” she said, then nodded, pretending there was a person on the other end of the line. “A murder, you say?” she said. “At the park, eh? Okay, we’ll be right there.”

Hickey and Dickey looked to Leamington for expository dialogue.

“There’s been a murder at the park,” Leamington announced. “A young woman, strangled, shot, stabbed, beaten and hanged. Looks like a hit and run. Pull Coldfield out of the boss and let’s go!”

EXCITING OPENING CREDIT SEQUENCE WITH URGENT MUSIC

Having driven to the crime scene during the exciting opening credit sequence with urgent music, Leamington and Coldfield stood on a sturdy branch of the tree from which the body of this week’s victim hung and looked down at the body.

“We found her murder victim ID card in her purse,” Hickey said. “Her name is Calindra Bosanquet,” Hickey said. “She was a 24 year old trainee ballet dancer with hopes and dreams. She liked cats and sunsets. Empathise with her. Her ID says she had recently split up with her boyfriend, who has a minor criminal record, and that she has a kind father and a cruel mother. Also, it says here, her neighbour is a bit creepy.”

Leamington looked empathetic. “I’ve seen enough,” she said. “Let’s arrest the boyfriend.”

Coldfield looked up from his notepad. “The boyfriend? Really? My money’s on the mother.”

“We’ll get to the mother once we’ve found out the boyfriend loved her really and had an airtight alibi for the time of the murder. Patience, partner.”

“Fair enough,” Coldfield nodded.

“It won’t be the mother,” Hickey piped up. “You’ll only be about a third of the way through the investigation by the time you arrest her. She’ll be dislikeable and cold, probably from a rich family, but it’ll turn out she’s human underneath it all, and couldn’t ever hurt her little girl.”

“Okay then, I’ll go and pick up the creepy neighbour who’ll turn out to have been arrested for stalking a few years back,” Dickey said.

“No, wait,” Leamington said. “The neighbour’s too obvious, it can’t be him. I’m completely stumped. This case is one big dead end.”

“Wait a minute,” Coldfield exclaimed, excitement rising in his voice. “What if the boyfriend lied to us about his alibi?”

“He wouldn’t do that, surely? He loved her,” Hickey interjected.

“He would if he’d been having an affair with the mother,” Dickey countered.

“You think they both did it?” Coldfield asked. “There’s no evidence to support that.”

“Exactly!” Leamington said.

“What if the vic was having an affair with the creepy neighbour, and the mother and boyfriend found out? That’s motive right there,” said Hickey.

“This would be a lot easier if there was a caring but jealous friend to pin it on,” Coldfield said.

Everyone nodded silent agreement.

“Hey guys!” a uniformed cop called, climbing up the tree to the homicide detectives. “We got the murderer. It was the father. He just walked into the police station and confessed.”

“The father!” Leamington exclaimed. “But he was so kind. I never would have suspected him in a million years.”

“That’s what makes us the best homicide cops in Stroud,” Coldfield laughed.

VARIATION OF OPENING THEME OVER END CREDITS

Second trailer

Three of the world’s leading goat experts (Tom Cruise, Jake Gyllenhaal and Megan Fox) are miniaturised and injected into a goat only to find that it is full of an infinite number of smaller goats each full of an infinite number of smaller goats, in the groundbreaking new sci-fi blockbuster Goatspace, coming in eye-popping 3D to a cinema near you this holiday season. In goats, no-one can hear you scream.

Trailer

From the people who brought you Lesbian Chopper Donkeys, Blind Gynaecologists, Ministry Of Boobs and Turd School comes the hilarious gross-out feel-good film of the year. Will Ferrell, Adam Sandler, Ben Stiller, Owen Wilson and Seth Rogen star as five seven foot tall hard-drinking foul-mouthed gay ambulance drivers who must pose as nine teetotal heterosexual black midgets in order to win a women’s beach volleyball tournament for some fucking reason while unexpectedly learning something about themselves, in the outrageous comedy My Blue Balls, coming soon to an unfeeling cinema near you.

Are you paying too much for your home insurance?

Tomorrow I have to break up with the AA. I’m not looking forward to it. I’ll take it to a restaurant, let it down gently. “It’s not you, it’s me,” I’ll say. “I need a quote for home insurance that doesn’t appear to have been generated by an angry educationally subnormal alcoholic ape with a migraine pulling numbers out of its arse with a pair of red hot pliers.”

“But, I thought you were happy,” the AA will say, clasping my hand, its bottom lip trembling.

“Not since you introduced a compulsory excess of £100 and interest on monthly payments,” I’ll explain.

There’ll be weeping and begging, but I’ll stand firm. “Is there anything I can do to keep you as a customer?” It will ask, teary-eyed.

I’ll shake my head. “I’m with another company now,” I’ll tell it. “One that knows me, cares for me, and gives me a 50% discount for the first year. I’ve moved on.”

Then we’ll part ways, professing to each other that we’ll remain friends and stay in touch, but when I get home I’ll change my e-mail address and cancel the direct debit just to be on the safe side.