Alt Fn :: 1337

This is a film I have been looking forward to for some time. I was not such a big fan of the book as a child that I can still quote it word for word, but it certainly held fast in the stormy seas of my memory.

Now, I’m gonna get this out of the way early on; If you weren’t a fan of the book, and just want a fun film to see this Christmas, I HIGHLY DOUBT you will enjoy this. I saw it with two friends, one of whom joined us out of politeness, knowing nothing of it, suffice to say that when it ended he turned to me and said “Well, THAT was depressing.”

Depressing? Perhaps too strong. It certainly isn’t a bucket o’ chuckles. If you know nothing of the plot let me simply say it deals with some pretty heavy issues; growing up, change, feelings, anger… heck, even death, in a weird way. But I have to say, that personally, me, right here, that I, Lewis, enjoyed this film immensely.

The visuals are… well, I don’t want to use the word ‘breathtaking’… (Very little is genuinely breathtaking except strenuous exercise and sex, which are kinda one and the same). But no, the visuals are extremely impressive. There’s some lovely camerawork, some amazing scenery. A few of the landscapes I looked at and thought ‘wow, that’s exactly the sort of thing I saw inside my head as a child‘.

The most impressive visuals of course are the Wild Things themselves, which I am going to look into, but I assume were done by people in furry suits with the faces CGI’d on afterwards. (Which as I say, I am going to research, because if that is indeed how they did it, I want to know more. It’s the sort of thing I’d love to do with monsters in a film.) As such, they look real, both in the way that puppets do; that something is being physically caught on film, but without the jerky ‘one of two expressions‘ look puppets tend to have.

I’m not sure exactly what the Wild Things represent, at times they seem to reflect elements of the little boy’s personality, and at others they seem to link to characters in the real world. The little boy, Max, I might add, was portrayed brilliantly by a child actor who sincerely impressed me with his ability.

As I say, this isn’t the film for everyone, dealing as it does with some heavy issues head on, and really making you think at times. But if you suspect you might like it, I think you probably will.

Oh, and before I forget, the soundtrack left quite an impression on me as well. Some really nice tracks there.

It’s been a long, dusty, hyped and expensive road to my purchase of the game, and upon completion, I am left dazed and wondering: Were the Haters Right?

Now don’t start killing me yet, sure I enjoyed the game, is was a rip-roaring adventure packed epic, stuffed to the brim with twists and turns, interesting gameplay developments, and of course the ever beloved grand setpieces, alltogether a glorious addition to the FPS legacy, and Hot Damn was it better than COD5.

Still, I cannot help but feel in some way violated.

I am, of course, refering to The Mission- The Airport Mission. Now I’m as left wing as the next youth culture enthusiast, I laughed at Fox as they declared that any eight year old could pick up the game and become a terrorist, chuckled to myself as Australia threw a tantrum at the trailer, and said “Fair enough.” as Russia expressed concerns- and when the little box suggesting that one of the missions may be offensive, of course I picked ‘I will not be offended’ (And I am no way suggesting that Infinity Ward is to blame for my discomfort, I made my bed) figuring that, hey, I’m a young modern gamer, nothing could ever offend me! South Park is Funny! SAW Films Are Crass! Har Har Har! I played through the first few missions with a childish glee, leaping mountain chasms, snowmobilin’ down a mountain and over huge jumps, the entire sexy business of being a Modern Combatant.

And then I reach the level- No Russian.

The lift door slides open, and I am stood with a gang of russian terrorists, in a russain airport, cocking my heavy machine gun and strolling into the building as my comrades open fire on civilians. This sounds like something Nice Pete* would say.

Something small, a tiny voice, deep inside me starts to pull at my mind-strings, clamouring in miniscule dischord for attention- “Stop it”, he says, “those are people too…” Of course they are not. They are pixels. They are renderings. I never had this problem in Saint’s Row 2. Gladly I would chase down cars in my Helicopter Gunship, in Red Faction a great distraction was laying mines on roads, and wait for those you should be protecting to roll on over, there is no end to the attrocities I have commited in the name of Being Bored, but this… This was something else. You cannot run, in this section of the level, only walk, and walk you do. Slowly advancing upon the hapless innocent, so trusting that they barely seem to register the armed cohort trudging toward them, until bullets start tearing through them. My conscience was resurrected. Perhaps this is Infinity Ward’s tmater plan, unleash our loving hearts and then churn out cheapo passive and friendly games with minimal fuss, perhaps next we shall be playing Call of Duty: Field Ambulance, assuming the role of Kevin Bell, the pacifist agoraphobic medic desperate to heal all he can, allied or enemy, think Trauma Centre meets the Ashley level from RESI4.

I doubt it though. And let’s face it, sales of the game have hardly suffered for the level, it took me personally somewhere around One Billion Years to find a copy for less that £50, settling with Amazon at a good £32, but a few days deliery. It’s not hard to understand why it sold so well, it is a fantastic game, perhaps not carrying the emotional weight of the first- as an englishman the SAS missions of COD4 had me enraptured, contrasting the explosion riddled American levels perfectly. The Prypiat mission was one of my all time favourite videogame experiences, and the entire game was centered around a mute protagonist! How about that! Such innovation… Shut up, the point is that I WAS SOAP McTAVISH! I was he, and he I, we were one and the same, until it became apparent that he was in fact a mohican sporting scot. Fuck you, Infinity Ward. That name doesn’t even make SENSE. Fuck you.

I suppose what I mean to say is, Infinity Ward, thankyou for making such a marvellous videogame, but please, PLEASE, if you want controversy, russia invading america is fine, controlling a soldier post nuclear warhead detonation helicopter crash, waiting for his death, go for it, heck, you pulled that one twice, but for God’s sake, if you’re making scenes that make veteran videogame violence enthusiasts concerned, just think twice. But as I say, I clicked the button. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t listen, but then who does?

*I put his body in my van

And I am the winner.

It is a well known fact that I am a chap who enjoys the odd zombie film or two. I cannot listen to Grandaddy’s A.M. 180 without getting 28 Days Later flashbacks, I play Left 4 Dead when Xbox Live funds will allow, and I am currently working my way through The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks and find myself taking it very seriously. My only regret is that I have not seen enough of the classical zombie films, the old ‘green make-up extras’ kind.

But right now I am not dwelling on the past, right now I am talking about zombie culture at present. Now, aforementioned 28 Days was probably not the first EVER, but certainly my first encounter with, the ‘fast zombie’. Since then, they seem to be everywhere. This Halloween just gone by marks the anniversary of Charlie Brooker’s five part zombie drama, Dead Set, which was nothing short of AMAZING AND BRILLIANT AND STUFF. I bring this up, as he was criticized for using fast zombies, but as he explained, his drama revolved around the virus spreading so quickly that no one had any time to react or prepare for it, which, let’s face it, is what makes zombie dramas entertaining, and there was no real way this could have happened with slow, shuffling ghouls.

Zombieland (15) , certainly does NOT break the mould in this respect. Fast zombies aplenty, I’m afraid. It does, however, break the mould in EVERY OTHER RESPECT. I watched a video review of this film that opened something like, “If someone tries to tell you the best bit of zombieland, shut them up. You do not want to know what it is.”

I agree with this whole-heartedly, I ain’t gonna spoil this gem of a film for nobody, but it does make it tricksy to review. Arguably, the best combination of the zombie/comedy genres I have ever seen. People might ask; “WHATABOUT SHAUNOFTHEDEAD I LOVE THAT MOVIE“. My reply is, yes, that film undoubtedly rocks  as well, but my beefs with Shaun of the Dead was always that the horror and laughs do not merge as neatly as I would have liked.

This film on the other hand, is a masterpiece. Some good visual gags, some good one-liners, some ‘flash to somewhere else’ scrubs-style moments,  some dark humour… All of this while still maintaining an air of unease with reminders that flesh-eating corpses are still roaming around. Hats must go off to Woody Harrelson, who manages to play both the comic relief, and the badass, at the same time. And on the subject of the actors, I thought the nameless protagonist, played by Jesse Eisenberg, would annoy the hell out of me, mainly because he reminds me a little of Michael Cera.

I HATE Michael Cera. He is NOT Scott Pilgrim. Edgar Wright, it surely cannot be too late to re-shoot all the scenes he is in with someone who actually looks and maybe even SOUNDS like Scott Pilgrim should, and not a nine-year-old girl.

I DIGRESSED. Jesse Eisenberg instead BLEW MY MIND. He plays a rather likeable social-recluse, a WOW subscriber who somehow is in pretty decent shape. AND HE PLAYS IT WELL. You actually feel for this guy, it’s kinda funny how awkward he is, and not in a Michael Cera, playing it up to the camera, “oh my, isn’t this an AWKWARD situation I find myself in(!)” kind of a way.

In conclusion, this is a brilliantly made zombie film, not over-doing the gore or scenes that inspire a sort of claustrophobic hopelessness in the audience, as many zombie films have done recently. A perfect example of the WRONG kind of zombie film would be Romero’s most recent disappointment, Diary of the Dead.

A perfect example of the RIGHT kind of zombie film would be Zombieland.

Yes, thats right. I just got my google wave preview account. Don’t have time to write about it right now but later in the week when I’ve explored its sexy feature list I’ll write a post!.

[·REC]- Balls to the Mall Horror.

I believe that’s the phrase, like when you wave them in a shopping center and the ladies scream with delight? Yeah.

There are things in life that are so intense, that they prompt people to say idiotic things like;

“I couldn’t look away! It was like watching a car crash in slow motion!”

This is a silly thing to say. You can look away. And you should. I should have. [·REC] (henceforth to be referred to as REC for my ease, and sanity) demands attention. This film is like watching your best girl and gran make love. It makes me want to cry, run away and hide, change my name and live out the rest of my now shattered life in Borneo, helping orangutans learn to read and write, so that finally they can get real jobs, but the flipside to all this is that, like girlfriend-grandmother intercourse, it’s also just that little bit sexy. Not hands-in-pants sexy, but appealing sexy, want to buy it dinner sexy, this is a sexy film with sexy people engaged in sexy combat with sexy evil assailants.

The film centers around the misadventures of Pablo the Cameraman and Tits, the Tits, filming the spanish reality TV show ‘While You Sleep.’ The show follows the actions of Spanish Firemen as they combat injustice in the small hours, starting with the rescue of an old lady trapped in her apartment. I know what you’re thinking;

“Don’t worry ma’m, I’m here to help, BAWMCHIKA-WA-WAAA.”

If only. No, the kindly old spinster alone with her cats seems to have gone batshit, launching her frail, portly self into a frenzied erotic melee, biting a sizeable chunk of neck from a policeman. Shortly afterward, poop and fans make friends, and at no point could I bring myself to look away. Wobbly camera work done to perfection, Pablo the Cameraman outshines Cloverfield’s Hud in every imaginable way, the man is a magician with that camera, and every shot is perfect. Never are we left out of the loop, never is the monster just off-screen, and no half baked romances here, no sir. Unfortunately, prior to watching REC, I had the pleasure of seeing Anchorman for possibly the millionth time this week, and thus could not help but mentally cast Seth Rogen as the faceless hero of footage collection. God rest his zombie bones.

The shocks are big, the twists excellent, and action brutal, definitely a film for the DVD shelf.

But as I say, for God’s sake don’t watch it. Just look at the pretty case. For my peace of mind. PLZ.

LUNAR LUNACY- Round One

Three hundred years ago, the newly formed religious sect of NASA landed man on the moon, and that man was Captain Scarlet. In subsequent years many attempts to top the red-clad immortal’s battles with the satellite’s various rock-monsters have been made, though few have lived up. Some notable attempts were that of Bruce Lee and Tilda Swinton, in a space-bound sexcapade that I’m sure none of us will forget or fabricate whilst locked in my under-stairs cupboard, like a naked and sore Harry Potter. Happy Place, Happy Place…

Since NASA’s triumph, space exploration has come on in leaps and bounds, by which I mean little nerds in Texas trying to leap their way into the heavens, and take their rightful places at the side of Sandra Benes in Space: 1999. Richard Branson has been bulding spaceships, Jeremy Clarkson and the gang launched a bloody Reliant Robin (failure though it may have been) and NASA are still twatting about with finding old meteors on the surface. Good lord, 570 feet beneath the franco/swiss border the LHC is going to pelt shit at stuff like nobody’s business, if the French can do science with no regard for global safety, why has this taken America so long? The point is that it’s about time NASA did something. Many people don’t agree with the ambitious plan to check for water particles by blowing a hole in the backside of the moon, but these people also seem to disagree with spelling and common sense, and can thereby be disregarded.

Why Not?

And then there are heroes.

Moon Facts:

Ancient peoples believed that the moon caused mental illness. They were right.

70% of the world’s wanted criminals anticipate sanctuary on the moon’s surface within the next ten years.

Some believe that Hitler is on the moon. They are right.

Some theorize that the moon is a giant egg, from which will hatch a race of sexy blue bisexual alien ladies who totally want to get it on with you, despite your weight issues.

The Moon is the setting of Stephanie Meyer’s new novel.

60% of the time, it works… Every time.

Whatever your stance on moon-splosions, the bottom line is that no one cares. Science is going to nuke the moon, the whales, and God, and in this teen’s view, those are damned good ideas. Am I being sarcastic? Am I not? Find out, when I reveal all after it becomes apparent whether or not the moon crashes into any of earth’s good bits.

Remember, whatever happens- I was right all along.

What follows is a subjective list of do’s and don’t from my brief (3 weeks) experience of university life.  Heed my words at your own digression and with an ocean’s worth of salt.

The Do’s:

• Befriend your flat mates.
• Eat said flatmates unusual culinary offerings.
• Talk to everyone, even if they haven’t brushed their teeth in 6 months and are still claiming to be a huge hit with the ladies.
• Be subjected to unusual drunken injuries.
• Wake up regretting drunken injuries.
• Let a game of dares go too far.
• Make someone drink a glass of oil, salt and chilli powder (Possibly during the game of dares)
• Call NHS direct when your flat mates get food poisoning.
• Walk to uni (Your bus fair can be spent on so many nicer things)
• Accept change.
• Get private accommodation.
• Enjoy how big your room is in private accomodation
• Spend copious amounts of time whining that nothing else in your house works.
• Have house parties.
• Put a sofa in the garden.
• Your washing.
• Enjoy yourself.

The Don’ts:

• Throw up in the house.
• Allow your floors to change colour before you mop them.
• Loose your old friends.
• Expect everything to be alright.
• Leave your doors open.
• Eat suspect meat.
• Forget the bin collection day.
• Ask 60 year old lecturers if they live with their parents.
• Fall behind.
• Trash the living room EVERY night.
• Do things because you can, not because you want to.
• Spend all your money.
• Get burgled.
• Leave your phone on at night. (RAY!!!)
• Tell girls you do Computer Science.
• Forget about Altfn.

/Chris x.

The latest addition to the Halo Universe assortment of unnacountably environmentally diverse Rings and Future Africa, is ODST, Orbital Drop Shock Troopers, set in Future Africa. Now, speaking from personal insight, it seems to me that enlisting in any sort of outfit that by its’ very name declares intent to fire you from orbit into battle is a SHIT idea, and you ought laugh at anyone who proposes it.

The gameplay itsself is a radical re-envisioning of the Halo experience, in which the player is forced to conserve ammunition and conceal oneself in order to evade the enemy. You are of course, not Master Chief! *Hearty Chuckle*, akin to that of Patrick Moore, after telling you about Audouin Dollfus’ metre long telescope in a rather unnerving manner. I digress. What a load of pickles, your character, the faceless, armoured harbinger of deathly winds plummets from the sky, and proceeds to rain death upon his foes, unwieldy weapons swiftly brought to bare with sickening ease, and mastery of all technologies second nature, like Patick Moore in Evangelion Unit 01. Shut up, BK…

The basis of the game is that you, the n00b, have been seperated from your rag-tag team of wise-cracking brethren in a drop gone awry (WHOD HAV THINKD SHOTTING MEN FRM SPAES CUD GO RONG?!?1) as a Covenant ship slips into sub space, presumably that same ship seen in Halo 2: Revenge of Halo. By some bizarre chance, your pod is in fact struck by another pod, and you awake from your slumbers some six hours after hitting the ground. Well, wall. You don’t start on the ground. You’re high up. And drop. Christ do these people love falling from things. As you search the city for your comrades, you are asked to look for clues as to their whereabouts, triggering sexy playable flashbacks of guns and shooting, which is where the variety comes into play- One member will be tearing a Warthog through a wildlife sanctuary, and another blowing up bridges and the like. You are also invited to listen to recordings taken prior to the invasion of the city, featuring a woman who talks too much, talking too much. Something to do with the Cities’ AI Controller, in honesty I haven’t finished the game yet, and I haven’t been paying ALL THAT MUCH ATTENTION, deserving of capitals because it’s blatantly obvious. I haven’t the foggiest what’s going on. [Edit: I finished the game, I still don't really understand.]

Know why? KNOW WHY?!

Because I’ve been focused on trying not to get killed.

That’s right. For all the misplaced claims of mere mortality, the lies of ammunition conservation, the half-truths regarding stealth gameplay, I still can’t shake the feeling that I ought be hiding in a well, somewhere far, far away. Maybe it’s the jazzy soundtrack, maybe the constant half-light that makes turning off your magic visor unthinkable, perhaps it’s because I haven’t been sleeping well, but SOMETHING about this game is making me worry to fuck about whatever asshole is going to leap around the corner next.

All in all, a good buy, says I. And I an invariably right about these things. Ask Psychic Simon. I’ll be right on the money about Halo 6.

At any rate, playing it is probably less of a waste of time than reading a review for a game that sold over two million copies in the first 24 hours. Think you can do better? Then fuck off.

It’s been a while since I posted. I feel I owe you all a present. You have to promise to play nicely with this one though. Thus far its unix only. Thats Linux and Mac amongst other things. So, if you own one of these systems and wish to cause a minor nuisance / be a REALLY 1337 H4xxx333rrrr then read on. Pybomber.py is a python script capable of sending lots of emails to a target of your choice with random crap inside. Often relating to fisting the elderly or burning down homeless shelters.

What you need to do is open the terminal, type “sudo su”, followed by your password, then type “sendmail -bd“. This will start an smtp server on your computer. Then you run the script by typing “python Pybomber.py” (You need to be in the same directory as the script, this can be done with the command “cd directory/subdirectory/supersubdirectory/yourgay“.

Approx 80% of emails get through to hotmail accounts, however only about 10% make it past gmail spam filters. The script is for educational purposes. If you use it then you WILL get caught. Don’t be a douche. If you can’t figure out how to make it run then you probably shouldn’t run it.

Pybomber source code can be downloaded here. You’ll need to save it with a .py extension.

/Chris x.

I recently discovered I have the ability to forsee events. Like the other day, I was just thinking, ‘Man, Kanye West and Taylor Swift, if put together, would NOT GET ON‘.

Anywhich, I decided I needed an alias to keep my amazing ability safe. I chose ‘Psychic Simon‘, and like some kind of psyche-piercing pie-man, I have used my amazing and very handsome powers to predict the following, which I am dedicating to my good friends Winlow and Jenn because they happen to be in it.

I have a Gift.

WHO WINS THE LOTTERY NOW, DERREN BROWN

Returning, as I have, from a week of early music goodness in the fair and merry town of Durham, I have decided to enrapture you with the long and short of the Early Music World as it exists today. Early Music (by which we mean mainly Baroque, and Renaissance, not the Bee Gees) is the pop music of yesteryear, the sort of beat which predates even your ancient mother, perhaps making it unsurprising that it is the realm of the aged vagabonds doomed to walk the earth for eternity for some unspeakable crime, people who badly edit Dowland songs and the like. For such a specialist* musical selection, the number of people joining me on my seven days of non-stop baroque around the clock was interestingly high, and featured a glorious range of pensioners, ranging from men with beards to women, with beards, and occasionally a seven year old with a pushy ninety year old mother who birthed said spawn through some black voodoo science and catholicism in a back alley clinic in tokyo’s sewer-city. Within the hallowed halls of Durham University, the Cool Kids numbered One, and he wasn’t even me.

A basic runthrough (for those of you who are interested, though you ought direct your friends here one at a time, to prevent the internet breaking) of a day would be as follows-

• Arising from ones bed come the rooster’s crow, 7:00
• A cup of tea
• A full English breakfast with fellow musicians, 8:00
• A cup of tea
• First session, be it singing, luting, violation, or recorderism at 9:15
• A cup of tea
• Second session, in either the same vein as first, or a Mix and Match, according to how goddamn OFF THE HOOK you are, 11:00
• A cup of tea
• Lunch, to be prepared by ones own fair hand, usually something along the lines of Sausage Fajitas, or Questionable Curry
• A cup of tea
• Choir or Orchestra, 2:30
• A cup of tea
• Choice of Delights (COD, to be expanded upon later), 4:30
• Dinner, again prepared by your own good self, often resembling lunch, 6:30
• A cup of tea (or two)
• A concert, in which you may choose to perform anything you have learned, or simply let some dude on a Theorboe melt your face with some sweet tunage
• Going to the bar, 9:30
• Listening to Florence and the Machine in the desperate hope that it will somehow keep your street cred alive and stable until you can get back to mugging and arson back home, 11:00 until you fall asleep.

As mentined, the Choice of Delights is one of the highlights of the day, a time in which, much as in american high school sports team selections, pieces of paper are pinned to a noticeboard, and like a scene from a George A Romero film, hoardes of the barely living cluster about and scrawl their ancient names to sign up for various treats, such as beginner lute classes, learning elizabethan dances, or getting a hip replacement.

Interestingly, the further into this course you stray, the more glorious it becomes. One begins to idolise the haggard bearded men, these pro-ana skeletal figures clutching instruments that can only be described as bamboozlifying, each different each unique, adorned with wooden headpieces of pixies, boars, lions, backed with Ivory and the bones of long dead moorish kings, winged cherubs and the various other ancient equivalents to Rock Band stickers.

In essence, the point of this article is to say simply this-

Early Music is Coming Back.

*Unheard of