Leeds Zombie Film Festival 2008 Part Two

The key to this event becomes clear; social interaction through scenes of violent and horrific content. Though this isn’t a group of yobs screaming profanities at a football match as opposed to a group of like-minded people coming together to express joy at pain and suffering.
Oh wait.
But seriously, the people at this event are fans of a film genre that can be fun as well as serious. On the one hand, the element of seriousness comes from the barbs of social commentary that runs throughout certain zombie films (Dawn of the Dead for example is thought to be a criticism of consumerist culture). On the other hand despite, there is an element of fun that comes from playing around with film convention, in-jokes, and now and again a dismembered head performing unmentionable sex-act upon a reluctant young girl (Reanimator, again). The instant that is most prominent in mind, would be during Night of the Living Dead, filmed during the peak of the Civil Rights movement, in which Ben (Duane Jones), a black character who takes charge in the bleak situation, makes a point. Albeit by punching a subtly bigoted white survivor, to a disembodied cry of ‘Get in!’ in a decidedly broad northern accent that echoes around the theatre. This is greeted with a chorus of laughter by all.

Zombie films break barriers. Fact.

“If you thought that was heavy, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” chimes Dominic, paraphrasing the late great Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer. The switch between the plodding Night of the Living Dead to the hyperactive Reanimator marks the theme of ‘serious’ to ‘fun’ viewing material that is continued over the next, how many, oh 10 hours. Zombie Flesh Eaters just seems to fly by, in all its Italian-dubbed glory. Another slow burner, this is followed by the self referential Return of the Living Dead, a punk-rock 80s film which owes more than a sly nod to the original cycle of ‘living dead’ zombie films, and updates it with a highly comedic twist. There is plenty of the green stuff (zombie blood, in this particular mythology) to be had in this one.
Alas, break time, and the crowd amble in drips and drabs out into the daylight. Three or four ‘zombies’ are huddled together near the entrance, enjoying a mid-point fag break. It is almost too tempting to warn a group of corpses the perils of smoking, but self control is a blessing. There are a couple of chaps ‘rearranging their stomach wounds’, making theirs the fifth set of intestines I had seen that afternoon.

No time to dwell; on with the festival.

At this point, we are reminded why the festival is taking place, and where our the proceeds of our £18 per ticket is going to. Dominic actually went to Romania, to rescue ‘dancing bears’, a national past time in which a bear is made to stand on a hot tray or platform, rocking on the balls of its feet to avoid the heat, giving the impression of dancing. This was clearly a humbling venture for him, and it makes the mission of six films in twelve hours a worthy one.

Dawn of the Dead, the second in Romero’s flesh eating saga, begins its poignant commentary on the need to consume. The heroes in this one hole up in a shopping centre, and what might be a consumerists dream for some, soon becomes the stuff of nightmares. Though stylish in content, and clearly a budgetary improvement on Night of the Living Dead, it seems a drawn out affair, perhaps due to it being the fourth film in a long day. One or two audience members are finding it hard to keep up.

Dominic and Mark provide one last introductory ‘passage’. The next film is Planet Terror, a film that was intended as one half of Grindhouse, the Robert Rodrgiuez, Quentin Tarantino double feature in tribute to the low budget exploitation movies of the seventies. According to Mark, “American audiences were too daft to realise it was a double feature, and started leaving the cinema half way through!’’. We are viewing the second and better half, it would seem. The lights go down once more.
Though this film presents us with action and gore aplenty, not to mention apparent gun as fetish (one fake leg you wouldn’t get on the NHS), the only truly atrocious spectacle here is one Quentin Tarantino’s acting performance in a sizeable cameo.
As the event draws to a close, it is time for Dominic and Mark to thank those who “took time out of a Sunday that could have been used for drinking and church-going, in no particular order”, and to judge the ‘best looking zombie’ competition. Though it would appear only around twelve people knew about this category. One lucky cadaver walks off with a 2000 AD goody bag.

Not a bad day to be a zombie in Leeds.

Leeds Zombie Film Festival 2008 Part One

It is no less than forty years since George A Romero’s Night of the Living Dead stormed the newly-born independent film scene, bringing an undercurrent of national sentiment to midnight drive-in screenings all over America. Created on a budget of US$60,000, its black and white grainy façade reflected the daily newsreel footage being viewed in workplaces, suburban homes, and schools, sending images of the atrocities that were an all too horrifying reality in Vietnam. It is this very film that initiates proceedings for the First Leeds Zombie Film Festival. Audience members are welcomed into the theatre to such colourfully titled tracks as ‘Killing Time’ by Massacre, ‘Overkill’ by Motorhead, ‘Kill ‘em All’ by Metallica and the Sex Pistols’ Pretty Vacant playing at an actually quite ear-bending level over the PA system. It would seem there is a theme here.
There is something mildly strange about a film ‘festival’ (I say festival when it’s more of a marathon) of this nature being organised and presented by Mark Charnock and Dominic Brunt. Strange, because the two likeable chaps on the stage presenting each film are two of Emmerdale’s darlings (‘Marlon’ and ‘Paddy respectively), a farm-set soap in which the most traumatic scenes revolve around being served a heady pint in the Woolpack or
receiving food poison from one of Betty Eagleton’s home made scones. Oh, and the occasional plane crash/storm/explosion (circle one).
The two men prove themselves to be jovial hosts who are clearly passionate about the event, ironically in aid of the World Society of Protection of Animals, which surely runs in direct contradiction to a scene in Reanimator in which a reanimated cat is repeatedly smashed into a wall until death takes its life once again, much to the joy of the present audience. This could perhaps serve as the equivalent of watching American History X at a National Front Rally. In the introductory speech, which is essentially a chance for the Dales duo to exhibit some ‘fanboy’ trivia, Mark wishes the audience a good time whilst he and Dominic ‘are of to Vue for a rom-com festival’. Of course, it’s a witticism and the audience laugh and move on from it, allowing images straight from ’68 to swamp the large projector screen, as Night of the Living Dead swamps the stark white projector screen with its iconic opening sequence.
As that trusty Pontiac makes its way up the gravel drive way, whilst the iconic ‘stars and stripes’ blows solemnly in the background, it becomes obvious that the Leeds City Varieties Centre is a venue with character, its faded shades of green and red décor hold no testament to the broad spectrum of acts who have performed here throughout its rich existence (Britain’s oldest theatre since 1888).
From the Royal Shakespeare Company right across the border of where art meets entertainment, to The Krankies, this venue has seen it all and reeks of history. Why not host a zombie festival here? If it’s good enough for The Krankies…. It is mentioned by Dom that Leeds’ Vue multiplex offered to host the festival, but logistically the cinema is nowhere near the town centre which ‘would make ‘going for a pint’ in the interval a problem’. Plus, looking around, there are a few audience members who might find it a problem hailing a cab in various states of decomposition....

Continued in Part Two

Adam Has A Novel Idea: Part Two (or a rare moment of clarity)

So... finally sat down today after a few non-productive months where the novel is concerned.

Outlined the general direction of the story arc, and have set about asking myself some very important questions in regards to who, what, where, when, why, and how.

As I was saying in the last novel blog I wrote, the two main characters who are essentially 'fox and hound' polar opposites fall in love after she tries to kill him.

After this 'event', she feels understandably bad, and gets in touch with him. Thus creating an 'awkward second date' type situation. Or a blind date even, as technically they haven't even met really.

And then it came to me.

The whole freaking glorious story is one big analogy for dating.

It's all there. The nerves as she 'notices' him, albeit through the scope of a high-powered sniper rifle. His inability to 'read' the situation (typical bloke, dont you know) ie, he doesnt know someone is making eyes at him. Clash of personalities (or a bullet in the shoulder/knee, in this case).

This first 'meet' is almost atypical of a 'Blind Date' scenario, and all the second-guessing that comes with it.
And of course, it ends in the all too familiar way. The guy gets shot down, and the woman scarpers, probably to eat Ben and Jerry's or dismantle her gun tripod. You know, what ever it is ladies are into these days.

So the story is on track.

And it got me thinking of some excellent chat-up techniques and 'lines' I have heard (and maybe even tried) whilst out and about.

• Firstly, and with a surprisingly high success rate, is the shouty chat up. You find someone you like the look of, approach the back of her head, and yell at her. If she doesnt punch you or attract the attention of a nearby bouncer, then she will probably be interested in buying you a kebab. And maybe breakfast.
• 'Can I buy you a drink, or would you rather have something else of equivalent monetary value?'
• 'Can I stand here?'
• 'From over there you looked like Anne Widdecombe so I thought I'd come and say hey.'
• 'You, me, staring contest, NOW!'
• 'Do you wanna have sex and get married?' (say this one real fast. The speed of delivery throws them completely).
• 'Oh, you have red hair. Do the curtains match your pubes?'
• 'I'm slipping into a diabetic coma. Do you wanna come back to mine and administer an adrenaline shot to the heart. Maybe call an ambulance?' (low low low success rate...apparently).
• 'I just got the all clear from the clinic, so, what are you doing later?'
• 'Mother says its cool, so if you wanna come over...'

And I'm sure I will think up some more in due course. Some of them havent had the most concise bench test as of yet (bruises , both physical and egotistical to prove it).
So feel free.

Adz

A Deathly Dose of Doubly Dirty Diabetes (or how I learned that alliteration just doesnt sell quite as well as vagrant nudity) PART ONE

For a decade now, or as the French say, decade, I have been living with a silent killer.


No, not a psychopathic mime artist who has cracked due to audience members claiming they can actually see the sides of his 'box'. Nor carbon monoxide.

In the golden Summer of 1998, a glorious pinhole in history that gave us the Furby and Lethal Weapon 4 (thus proving while your'e never 'too old for this shit', you can always be a little too anti-semetic), I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Which was annoying. I was due to compete in the up and coming school sports day.
Shot Put- for those who are too fat to run and too uncoordinated to toss a javelin.

It struck me at night, rousing me from any hope of peaceful slumber through the double threat of severe dehydration and regular (hourly or less) passing of water.
This went on for maybe ten days. I was shattered, losing weight rapidly (so maybe I could run the 100 in 9 flat after all...), weak, and barely able to even lift a mars bar to my young pink mouth.
People noticed. My parents thought I was on smack, and before I knew it the worldwide media got involved. It was no good.



I needed to see a doctor. Who told me I needed to go to hospital. Which is where I finally learned that diabetes didnt mean I possessed the power to move things with my mind.

Now the science bit...

Within the pancreas the insulin-producing langheran glands have ceased to work, are bereft of hormones. done and dusted, over the hills and far away. Insulin just doesnt live here anymore.

What of this fabled insulin? Well. everytime you eat, the pancreas produces insulin to help control the amount of sugar that enters your bloodstream as a result. No insulin, no blood sugar control. Which is always bad and rarely good.

Which in short means I get sad outside bakeries and funfairs.

So after a week in hospital, and intense diabetes training, I was released.

But what does it all mean?

• If you have a complimentary bowl of candy beans on your coffee table, you had better damn well hide them when I visit. It's like inviting Dracula over for a garlic baguette whilst enjoying the sunrise. In a Church.


• The expression 'kid in a candy store' is a coma waiting to happen.


• Death By Chocolate is a suicide method and not, repeat NOT a dessert option.


• You are treated like a more interesting and less controversial kind of vegetarian when it comes to 'dinner-talk'.


• Woolworths closing down can be attributed to me coming off pick 'n' mix.


• No global expedition can be safely undertaken with out prior and extensive knowledge of all known pharmacies, chemists, hospitals and witch doctors. You dont wanna get 'the shakes' in Papua, New Guinea. Fo Sho.

• You had better call up everyone you've ever slept with ever, 'cos they, um, might wanna get themselves checked out.
  

• You finally realise how retarded some of your friends are when they A) ask you what would happen if they injected some of your insulin and B) recoil in horror when you approach the, syringe in hand and maniacal grin on your face.
  

Shortly I will be posting a list of symptoms and ways to cope if youre at that delicate age, and find you have the condition. I dont want to get too seriousl just yet.
Peace and love.

Adz