Hamilton's Water Breaks

You may have noticed I haven't been blogging as much lately.  You may think this a blessed relief for your eyeballs.  To those that think that I say

"Screw you pal, why are reading this then?  Go and waste your time jerking off to random holiday snaps on Facebook instead".

You still here? Great.

The reason is work.  We are fuckng busy. Less staff and more problems = multiple pains in my derriere.  Its so inconsiderate of my company to restrict my creative juices with their demands to come into the office and show my face and tap some buttons on a computer.

Anyways, I digress.  Something rather odd happened to me last week.  I was asked to star in my company's corporate video.  We are rebranding and have to showcase the company to prospective suitors.  It is good to know these film star looks haven't been completely wasted.

Rebranding is a very post modern palrour trick, a triumph of style over substance if you will. Dressing up the same old shit in order to confuse people into thinking they are getting a new and improved product i.e its not rat poison its Destructorat 2000. Sounds great but it'll still kill you, and it's still the same old shit. But hey it works as most to the public are sheep and at least it keeps hoardes of marketing tossers from burglarising your house.

The deal was I would be interviewed on camera in the office about how great the company is and then I would be whisked away to a scenic spot in the woods of East Sussex to throw shapes and pose for the camera like some Aldi Peter Andre. Either that or be be gang raped.  Luckily the film crew were tired so we just stuck to the filming.

Instead of setting up in one of the meeting rooms the crew set up smack in the middle of the office so I had lights and cameras on me whist everyone else was working. As you would appreciate this makes one feel rather self concious. What proceeded was a series of questions about what I did, why we were great and why I loved my colleagues.  My corporate bullshitometer was overloaded when asked what was the "funnest" thing about working here.  I had to be honest and say that "fun" is not a word I associated with work. "Tolerable" was the best I could do.

Once the interview was out the way I was taken to a little village 10 mins away for the Alan Partridge montage of me going about my daily business.  Here's me sitting on a bench looking pensively  into the middle distance. Here's me by the duck pond idly checking out the Koi carp. Here's me walking down the street without a care in the world.

"Can we do that one again?" said the director a pleasant, diminutive fellow from Manchester

"This time I want you to look content. But not smug.  Imagine that you have just been given a big bag of Haribo"

I'm sure you've heard the usual schpiel from actresses or muscians saying that shooting a promo film isn't glamourous.  A lot of waiting around followed by brief, intense bursts of action.  They aren't being modest, it really is quite boring.  Most of the time you are just a piece of meat pushed and pulled into what position the director feels satisfies his "vision". 

Multiple takes are needed of the same shot or slight changes of camera angle to help with the edit. The guys in my case were scheduled to film for 3 days to get a 3 minute finished product.  That's a lot of faffing about.

Plus, being filmed is a very bizarre concept when you think about.  A bunch of people hanging around staring at another bunch of people, for hours whilst no-one does much at all. I'm sure it will turn out great after they edit and whack on an emotive soundtrack.  I did suggest RATM's Killing In The Name Of and they said they would take it under consideration.

Availale at cinemas near you from September

Olympomania!

The people of Britain are in shock. After months of negativity concerning long queues at airports, infrastructure scares, deployment of surface to air missiles, Underground worries, terrorist threats, rising costs and a dearth of decent athletes we suddenly find a well oiled machine churning out gold medals like Boris Johnson delivers orgasms to his female members of staff; regularly and with gusto.


The English public could be forgiven for thinking WWII went the other way and that the nation is experiencing an alternative reality where we are imbued with a Teutonic efficiency and we don't quite know what to make of it. Mix that in with this unusual feeling that humans call pride and this goes some way to explain this foamy-mouthed hysteria currently sweeping the nation

It does help having wall to wall coverage courtesy of Auntie. At times it does feel like an Olympic themed sequel to A Clockwork Orange with a government endorsed Luduvico technique applied to all viewers. The public is bombarded with images of women's archery, until they are "corrected" and start bloody well enjoying it.

If the all-encompassing nature of the terrestrial coverage doesn’t satiate you additional titbits such as the inside of the showers at the Women's Greco wrestling can be found online. All you need to do is click on the BBC's comprehensive website and voila.  Connoisseurs should click here

To my suprise I actually found myself getting into sports I barely had the slightest bit of interest in a week ago. Gymnastics for instance is an activity I would normally associate with pre-pubescent girls and yet there I was glued to the telly as I marvelled at the strength and grace of our unfancied young team who where only robbed of silver by a less then honourable Japanese who got bumped up from bronze on appeal.



Much like the Wiggins, Ennis and Hoy I have made many sacrifices for these games. Last week I had to catch public transport 3 times to get up to London. THAT, my friends is real dedication. Normally I loathe going to London with its dirty streets, crowded tube and miserable faces but it was like entering a different world. The train was quiet, the tube efficient and the roads were closed to allow pedestrians free reign.

Even the sound of Boris Johnson's recorded tannoy dictats instructing Londoners to "have fun" like some Cold War dictator couldn't keep the smile from people's faces. Everyone was happy even when lining the streets for hours on end to watch cyclists whizz by in a matter of seconds.  Stalin would have been proud.

I was up at Earls Court to watch the indoor volleyball. Despite having soldiers at the entrance with semi-automatic weapons (no pictures we were told) and an x-ray system reminiscent of Heathrow Airport it was all remarkably efficient and painless with the ubiquitous Olympic helpers clad in purple shirts and beige chinos smiling at you beautifically from every corner.


Next day I was at Horse Guards Parade to see the razzmatazz of the beach volleyball. Walking through St James Park there was a genuine festival atmosphere as those lucky enough to be in attendance were well aware they had the hottest ticket in town. The temporary stadium is a marvel with amazing views of the London Eye and historic Westminster. They should really make it a permanent venue.

As a Brighton resident I am used to mixing with different nationalities but it was so nice to see all creeds, colour and nationalities waving their flags and brandishing their colours without a hint of trouble. Football fans could learn a lot from the Olympics.


So for a few days forget we are in the worst global recession we have had in years. Enjoy, yourself a take in some synchronised swimming or some taekwondo. Minority sports are a welcome distraction from paying the bills. It’s the best £9 billion we've ever spent.

Exploding Helicopter - Avatar

James Cameron is a man who doesn't like to do things by halves. His recent penchant for leviathan movies makes early output such The Terminator look like twee Arts Council small fry by comparison. Not content with breaking box office records with Titanic, Cameron had the Avatar concept on ice from as long ago as 1994 until the technology caught up with his expansive vision.

It might be the most expensive movie ever made, clocking in at a wallet busting $280 million, but wrapped up in all that beautiful CGI lies the heart of a bog standard outsider redemption story. A very, very expensive Dances With Wolves starring lanky blue alien hippies if you will.

In the future mankind is running out of natural resources so nasty corporations having begun mining valuable minerals from distant planets, such as Pandora, a lush jungle covered planet that has a very rare and valuable material called Unobtainium (Jesus, really!?).

In order to persuade the native Na'vi that raping their planet is in their best interests scientists have tried to ingratiate themselves with the locals by creating Na'vi-human hybrids called Avatars which they can inhabit in order to blend in with the population and show that we're not really just greedy bastards only interested in taking advantage of their planet for financial gain.

When the locals sensibly refuse to be bullied or bribed the troops are sent in to change their minds with some good old fashioned "shock and awe". Seriously, as an allegory for the Iraq war Avatar is about a subtle as a stiletto through the ball bag.

So when the shit eventually hits the fan Cameron goes absolutely bananas on the exploding helicopter front. I'm talking record territory here. As benefits the most expensive movie ever made it contains the most helicopters blown up in a movie with no fewer than six of these bad boys obliterated in the space of five hectic minutes. I can see why over at EHHQ there weren't too many takers to review this behemoth. Lucky for you dear readers someone has big enough brass cojones to deliver on a payload of this magnitude.

Towards the end of the film the massed ranks of the Marines launch an all out assault on the Tree of Souls, the spiritual home of the Na'vi. In their way is Sully (Sam Worthington), a paraplegic marine, who has gone rogue and thrown his lot in with the tree huggers. He and his new buddies face a squadron of heavily armoured attack helicopters on nothing more than a bunch of emaciated pterodactyls armed only with bows and arrows. Despite these unfavourable odds they manage to achieve the greatest ever helicopter destruction committed to film. Who needs Stinger missiles eh?

First sees Sully flying a huge dragon called Toruk (the Bentley of dragons) into the melee of choppers and space ships that have arrived to dispatch a six pack of whoop-ass on the natives. He grabs hold of the chopper in the dragon's talons and swings it around like a hammer thrower and launches into a floating island where it goes up in delicious ball of flame. The 2nd flicks across the screen so fast you almost miss it but gets similar rock/flame treatment at the hands of another smaller Ikran.

The 3rd and 4th destroyed are perhaps a cinematic first: two helicopters actually flung into each other. In a similar technique one of the Ikran grabs and chopper and flings into off course into the path of the other making it split apart and fall to the ground in a plume of flame.

Lastly Hispanic-hardass turned deserter Chacon (Michelle Rodriguez ) plays a cat and mouse game with Colonel Quartich's (Stephen Lang) gunship behind a huge floating island. She manages to dodge and weave wave after wave of missile and gunfire before inevitable succumbing to the colonel's fury. The stricken chopper is finished off with a missile that sends the machine to chopper-heaven in a rich tangerine burst of flame.

Artistic merit

I remember watching this at the cinema in 3D and for the first time in a long time (maybe not since Cameron's other groundbreaker Terminator 2) felt truly blown away by a film's special effects. Part way through this film I distinctly remember realising that my mouth had been open for the last 45 minutes. That is how immersive it felt at the cinema.

Yes, much of the plot is hackneyed feel-good fluff with a lot of clunky dialogue thrown in for good measure but boy is it presented with panache. 3D movies are almost always gimmicky cash-ins designed to squeeze another £3 out of the punter whilst forcing them to do their best Buddy Holly impersonation but this one really is worth the money. The CGI blends seamlessly with the live action and you have to look very, very carefully to spot any glitches.

All the helicopter explosions are richly textured and authentically realised even though they all started life on a computer. The nine Oscars it won in 2011 including awards for Best Cinematography, Best Visual Effects and Best Art Direction show a lot of care, skill an attention was taken to realising this alternate universe

Exploding helicopter innovation

Take your pick. Most helicopters destroyed in a film, helicopter killed by a dragon and two helicopters destroyed simultaneously by each other. This film is a ground breaker.

Do passengers survive?

Even the good guys die here. Chacon is sacrificed in the name of pathos and the rest of the anonymous pilots will surely not have survived the flames and impact of falling thousands of feet into the jungle canopy. This isn't Air America.

Positives:

The two performances that really caught my eye were not the leads but in the supporting roles. Giovanni Ribisi's hilarious passive-agggresive performance as Parker Selfridge, RDA's head asshole, has echoes of Paul Reiser's corporate scumbag Carter Burke in Aliens. As is the norm with amoral corporate money men he only really is interested in the company's bottom line no matter how many lives he has to ruin. His comic interludes inject some much needed humour in a script that does stray into cliché territory from time to time.

"You throw a stick in the air and its gonna land on some sacred fern"

The other is Stephen Lang as Colonel Quartich a caricatured dick-swinging bullet-headed Marine who must be a distant cousin to Robert Duvall is Apocalypse Now such is his passion for "The Core" and his desire to blow stuff up. He is an irredeemably nasty piece of work with a nice line in military hard-assery

"You let me down son! So, you find yourself some local tail, and you just completely forget what team you're playin' for?"

Negatives:

Whilst the movie ticks most blockbuster boxes it is overlong and there is a enough New age eco-bullshit to have even the staunchest of environmentalists regurgitating their mung beans

Favourite Quote:

Col. Quaritch: This low gravity'll make you soft. When you get soft Pandora'll shit you out dead with zero warning.

Interesting Fact :

On average each CGI frame of the movie, equivalent to1/24 of a second, took 47 hours to render. With a running time of 178 minutes and with 60% of the film shot using CGI you start to see why the film had such a high price tag.

Film Review - Killer Joe

Too many exposed vaginas. 

It's not something I say everyday and not what I was expecting to see when I pootled off for a matinee screening of Killer Joe. In fact at times, as I sat in the darkened cinema, I felt a bit like one of the tragic rainmac brigade silently shuffling themselves into celluloid oblivion such was the sleaze on offer.

Adapted from a play by Tracy Letts much of the plot centers around the grubby interior of the Texan trailer where white trash scumbags Ansel, Sharla and Chris Smith (Thomas Haden Church, Gina Gershon and Emile Hirsch) concoct a scheme to bump off Ansel's ex in order to cash in on her life insurance policy.  They employ the services of demented detective Joe Cooper (Mathew McConaughey) to do the deed but get more than they bargain for when things go pear shaped. 

Killer Joe is stylishly shot and has its moments but its not smart enough to challenge the Coens and not funny enough to rival Tarantino, both of whom have made a career in this down-at-heel story telling territory. William Freidkin, never the most understated of directors, instead sticks to what he is good at; shocking extremes. Violence comes in it all its visceral glory and the sex is a sleazy as it gets. 

A gratuitous scene involving Gina Gershon fellating a chicken drumstick will have you laughing and cringing in the space of of a minute.  McConaughey relationship with Ansel's underage daughter Dottie (Juno Temple) is also particularly unsettling. You do question some of Freidkin's choices.  Does he push the limits in order to further the story or is he just trying to provoke a reaction? Whatever the reasons, as a whole, the film lacks that certain charm or intelligence to balance out the darkness.

Killer Joe's deficiencies are not down to a lack of acting talent.  In a stiff middle finger to his critics McConaughey's Johnny Cash crossed with Red Rock West-era Hopper shows that there is more to him than just a toned six-pack and mega-watt smile. Emile Hersch continues his fabulous run of acting performances (Into The Wild is a must see) and Thomas Haden Church wins the award for dumbest lunkhead since Mr Bean. 

It is a shame the good performances are let down by some unrealistic character behaviour (Gershon gets clocked and then calmly sits down to eat the rest of her chicken with a smile on her bloodied face) and a shock ending that tries a little too hard to stay in the memory.

Still, kudos to Freidkin for doing something different and for managing to get a film through the creatively bankrupt studio system that isn't a sequel, a comic book adaptation or a Disney animation.

7 out of 10

An Alternative Visitor's Guide To Wimbledon

With everyone’s favourite Sco...Englishman Andy Murray finally getting to the Wimbledon Final (the first since Major Humprey Winstanley lost to domesticated chimpanzee Herculius in 1559), and wildcard Jonathan Marray defying the odds and winning the Doubles it is perhaps fitting that as someone who has been lucky enough to be granted entry into hallowed grounds of the All England Tennis Club for the past 3 years, I give you the inside scope on this creamiest of English institutions.

Tickets

If Michael Jackson was to rise from the grave and perform a one night only concert playing the Thriller album from start to finish, dressed appropriately as a zombie, it would be easier to snag at ticket then it would for Wimbledon. The ticketing system so archaic you would think it may have started life in Khruschev-era Russia.

If you happen to be pond scum like myself and don't have a million quid or a knighthood you will have endure the vagaries of the public ballot system. To be fair to the LTA at least there is still a system where Average Joe's can get hold of a ticket but boy do you have to jump through a few hoops to get one.

Firstly you have to send a stamped address envelope to the ticketing committee in order to receive an application form. A STAMPED ADDRESSED ENVELOPE FOR GOD SAKE? This isn't Why Don't You? or The Open University.

Then once you get the form you have to take extreme care to fill it out carefully in the blood of your first born. Woe betide anyone who forgets to fill in the form in the correct font lest they be struck down with the plague and their application banished to the fires of hell.

Interested parties will then face an anxious wait to find out if their name has been successfully pulled out of the top hat. You can't ask for a certain court though. You will get what they give you and like it. Then you have a window of about 23 mins between the receipt of the letter and your chance to pay. Miss this and you miss the tournament or as I did be forced to write a grovelling letter to the LTA telling them I missed the deadline because I was bed ridden on account of a nasty viper bite.

Of course you can just get take your chances on the limited release day tickets by getting there three days early and camping on Wimbledon Common like some fucking climate change protestor but who really is desperate enough to do that?

Grounds

Coincidentally Wimbledon is held in the borough of Wimbledon (what are the chances of that?), the leafiest of London suburbs where tramps are routinely hosed into gutters and the poor are routinely ground down to make attractive roof tiles for the extremely sought after properties in the area.

It's just a 20min walk up the hill from Wimbledon Underground (10mins by gilded carriage) to the well appointed grounds. Fans of airport customs will be in for a treat when they enter the gates as your bags will be checked in order to check for machetes and RPG missiles. If you are particularly swarthy you will get a good old fashioned pat down. I love a pat down.

Once through formalities newcomers may be forgiven for thinking they have entered Nirvana. Everything is decked out in the traditional dark green and purple livery, the fountains spew Bollinger and the umpires chairs are made of purest gold. Seriously the place is immaculate. If you look carefully you will see an army of oompa loompas picking up Pimms cups between points.

If you have a grounds ticket you can jump on any court minus Court Two, One and Centre. On the outside courts you are literally within a few feet of the players, perfect for the stalkers amongst you. The young ball boys will provide no match for a determined fan who wants to get that little bit closer to their obsession.

Then of course there is Henman Hill or Murray Mound (if you are a shameful turncoat) where you can drink overpriced Pimms (£9 I don't fucking think so) and eat strawberries and cream whilst watching your heroes on the big screen. It’s almost like watching it in your front room!

Weather

The first day of play normally takes place during the height of British summer so you can absolutely guarantee it is going to fucking rain. Luckily in a remarkable break from fusty tradition the All England Club opted to put a retractable roof on Centre Court to the tune of £80 million ensuring play even in the wettest of conditions. Of course poor people don't get to go on Centre Court and have to sit it in the rain and go slightly demented listening to tits like Cliff Richard singing We're All Going On A Summer Holiday.

People

I say demenented as Wimbledon does strange things to people. This year I was on Court 2 and the crowd felt compelled to clap every anodyne stadium announcement like God was speaking to them directly. They even clapped ground staff running on with the covers when it started raining. Then they clapped them off again. If the umpire had decided to sacrifice one of the ball boys in the name of Tlaloc I would not have been surprised if he got a warm round of applause.

Wimbledon is so middle class it isn't even funny. You are just as likely to see a singlet or a tattoo as you are a black person. Oohh that was a bit controversial wasn't it? Controversial but sadly true. Whilst unfortunate it does mean that the atmosphere is somewhat unique. Firstly, everyone is massively happy just to be there. "Its a special club and I'm in" is what we're all thinking.  Add the royal patronage, the reverential BBC coverage and the sprinkling of celebrities (Kylie, John Hurt, Ryan Giggs, Dustin Hoffman amongst others this year) and you begin to understand the lengths people go to to get in.

A place to see and be seen then. The Calistas and Hugos that you can hear burbling about the place would certainly be mortified if they couldn't attend. Mix that in with the pleasant housewives waving Union Jacks, the well brought up children on school trips, the regimented ball boys and I imagine this is what Britain was like in the 50's. All the rules and regulations have kept out most of the modern day riff-raff and have created a very British time capsule.

So next year if you are lucky enough to get in you can see what all the fuss is about for yourself. If it rains all day you will have a shit time but even on a cloudy day it can be glorious at Wimbledon.

TV Review - Louis Theroux - Twilight of the Porn Stars

Since the internet has invaded the popular consciousness pictures of naked ladies which were once as rare and treasured as ancient Babylonian scrolls are now as common as a discarded Metro on the Underground. In the time it takes to say "where's the Kleenex?" porn can now be accessed by your average punter for free on their phone with the minimum of fuss. Or so I'm told.

Louis first dipped a toe in the adult entertainment industry over 15 years ago when as a fresh faced reporter he went behind the scenes to document the curious lives of L.A's porn stars. Now he is back in San Fernando to find the porn business on it knees, an appropriate metaphor, in the face of this abundance of free amateur smut.

For a while the adult industry tried to combat the insidious threat of D.I.Y. productions by making ever more hardcore movies, as popularised by extreme director Rob Black.

"I created genres no one had ever seen. Assholes shredded open..."

Even he has had to tone it down when faced with ever dwindling sales which have forced the industry to aim for the more lucrative couples market by ditching the shocks and upping their production values.

Louis is on one such set and chats to Sander, a performer with 18 months in the business. His solution to "getting wood" with unattractive performers is the "boner pill" Cyalis. If there was any doubt about the tawdry nature of porn it is here in all its glory. The performers don't know the name of the film, the crew are busy texting and the director doesn't even remember the performer's name despite having had sex with her.

"Its work. Its not sex for pleasure"

Louis then visits talent agency L.A. Direct where performers can get €3000-$8000 for a gang bang, paid for with cash in a carrier bag. One of their office staff Fran Amidor is surprisingly candid about the respect they have for the performers in relation to the rest of the staff.

"I don't go to set and fucking suck cock...I don't want to be a mother of a whore"

So, in this age of the internet domination how do porn stars do to make ends meet? Webcams obviously. Louis interviews Kagney Linn Carter who performs regular live shows and has an unorthodox relationship with Monte her boyfriend and full time assistant. Its unorthodox because as Monte runs errands, cleans the kitchen and plays his video games he is fully aware that different men are regularly shagging his girlfriend. Despite this reality he appears relatively non-plussed. Does Kagney's career choice not bother him?

"I expressed a preference that five guys didn't jizz over her." he says diplomatically

Kagney tries to explain Monte's sanguine approach is down to her plan of action.

"He knows I'm always thinking about the future. One day I won't have to do this no more"

I don't know whether to be shocked or impressed by her incongruous professionalism. Its a strange and bizarre partnership but it seems to work despite itself.

"I've had 5 great years and whatever more we can get I'll take"

Of course not all relationships are able to withstand the obvious tensions between a career in porn and the monogamous expectations of would be partners. Louis interviews Tommy Gunn a porn veteran with 1100 films under his belt (who could forget the classics Chow My Puntang, Incredible Expanding Vagina and Grand Theft Anal 4) who has

"won everything they make".

it seems the industry has affected him badly. He is desperate for a family but his career has made that impossible. He readily acknowledges that porn hardens a person to the emotional feelings that civvies take for granted and this leads to a loss of self. Despite the good looks, cut torso and abundance of sex he cuts a lonely and insecure figure.

"Would girls be fucking me if they weren't getting paid to do it?"

Understandably the human side of relationships suffer when

"you leave someone you love to go and have sex with someone you don't"

Its not just relationships that suffer. A common strand running through the documentary is the suicide of Jon Dough a leading figure in the adult movie world who Louis interviewed in 1997. Many of his peers remember him but seem reluctant to go into detail about his suicide, the vulnerability of one of their own a thorny subject for a profession that prides itself on its emotional and physical "hardness".

Louis tracks down his widow who confirms a life of sex drugs and rock and roll took their toll on him

"He felt like he failed in life as a man"

Life in the fast lane lead to a life of addiction that was far harder and far more damaging than the world of porn. He leaves behind a daughter who wants to be a police officer whose desire

"to stop people doing the wrong things"

is perhaps a reflection of her father's unfortunate life choices.

Twilight Of The Porn Stars plays out like a real life Boogie Nights and is impressive for only having been shot in a week when a alternate documentary about the Conservative Tea Party fell though. However Louis has set the bar very high with his recent output and the programme is neither funny enough to match Louis' work on Weird Weekends nor a serious enough expose to rival his recent exemplary documentaries on Autism and Dementia.

His underlying point that the porn industry is a heartless, damaging and exploitative business is hardly the stuff of revelation. Whilst Louis is still the master of uncovering the human elements underpinning any controversial topic Twilight of the Porn Stars really offers little that viewers haven't seen before and whilst still entertaining, suffers from being neither fish nor flesh.

Film Review: Prometheus

For all the fan boy negativity surrounding Ridley Scott's new film you would think he had made a child porn cash-in starring Jimmy Saville and called it Alien 5: Hide The Kids.

Such is the esteem held for Scott's back catalogue with classics such as the original Alien, Gladiator and Bladerunner it is inevitable that some people have ended up disappointed.


Whilst Prometheus does have delusions of grandeur tackling as it does the weighty concerns of mankind's very existence, which it ultimately fails to satisfactorily live up to, Scott creates a visually grandiose universe and a movie that delivers on most fronts. Yes, it lacks the creeping claustrophobia of Alien or the emotional impact of Bladerunner but the criticism is misplaced. Its like describing Mount Kilimanjaro as a hill because Everest is taller.

The fact that Prometheus is not a sequel, rather a quasi-prequel, to Alien has also riled a lot of net nerds. It does inhabit the same universe of cold hearted cyborgs (Michael Fassbender succeeds with his best Rutger Hauer/Ian Holm/Peter O'Toole impersonation), cryo-pods and critters bursting out of orifices but attempts to build an alternate mythology from some familiar strands.

 Scientists (Noomi Rapace and Logan Marshall-Green) find ancient cave drawings that they believe have been left by our creators "the Engineers" that may shed light on the origins of humanity. They get elderly billionaire Peter Weyland (an unrecognisable Guy Pearce) to fund a scientific expedition to a distant moon to get some answers. On arrival let's just say they get a close and personal welcome.

Much of the criticism of film as centred on the rather haphazard script by Lost writer Damon Lindelof which veers up a few logic cul-de-sacs. As scientists, most of the crew are dumber than a remedial class of toddlers with learning difficulties. Even before they leave the ship they decide the security expert they have brought along is surplus to requirements as this is "a scientific expedition" and weapons would somehow be a hindrance. They all promptly opt to take off their helmets and walk around dark, unchartered underground passages like lambs to the slaughter. Worst of all the brain box of a botanist (Rafe Spall) thinks nothing of pissing about with an obviously dangerous space cobra like he were petting a puppy. He gets what's coming to him.

 As characters go only Fassbender's cool calculating cyborg David is a match for the Ripleys, Vazquezes and Bishops that came before. His economy of movement and his creepy calm are perfectly pitched to his ulterior motives in the movie. The rest of the cast are a mixed bag, neither funny nor appealing enough for you to really root for them. Idris Elba is competent enough as the ship's captain, Charlize Theron's ice maiden looks nice enough in a catsuit but Noomi Rapace is a bit too wide eyed to be any competition for Sigourney Weaver. To be fair to the actors they don't have quite the same quality of zingers to work with.

Despite the inevitable comparisons the two hours flew by without a single check of the watch (as good a test as any) and included a good number of scares, a visceral finale and and open ended denouement that leaves ample room for a sequel and the possibility of filling in a few of the blanks critics have highlighted.

 One thing is for sure.  It ain't fucking game over man!