Author Archives: Ben Gould

The Airbus A380 superjumbo is done.

5c535331d7ab670292531998-2732-13662021 and that’s the end for the Gulliver of the skies. Airbus – Boeing’s apparent nemesis – announced this month that their double-deck four-engine behemoth with its looney range of 8,500 nautical miles (with plush onboard bars), will no longer be made once its last deliveries are finished in 2021. Emirates were Airbus’ biggest customer, but once they cut their orders it was game over.

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It’s another example of the economics simply not working despite the superior aesthetics on display, airlines opting for smaller twin-engine planes, i.e., more efficient, cost-friendly orders.

It’s not exactly a Greek tragedy but a bit of a shame. As James Cameron (perhaps apocryphally) once said, “Bigger is better.” However, we will still see the existing colossal beasts rampaging through the clouds in the decades to come and then, presumably, dwindle away like the Dreadnought battleship of the early 20th century, sold for scrap metal or converted into a niche hotel for plane spotters who habitually wear Concorde pyjamas.

Sad.

Further reading:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-47225789

https://newatlas.com/airbus-a380-cease-deliveries/58486/

https://www.theguardian.com/business/2019/feb/14/passengers-love-airbus-a380-but-it-never-fully-took-off-with-buyers

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Princes Street wasn’t always a toilet.

I fucking hate Princes Street. It’s dire, chock-full of stores that appear designed exclusively for desperate housewives. There are also mobile phone shops and a budget book place – this curious number sells no novels, the only items on display autobiographies of pointless celebrities and road maps of Denmark published in 2004. All very bizarre. Added to this is the plethora of American tourists crawling about with their bumbags on, elephants in the In Bruges (2008) sense.

Princes Street looked decent in 1858, though. No spackers to be seen here.

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Ennio Morricone tour.

Ennio-Morricone-201114I first heard Ennio Morricone emanating from a dusty 4:3 TV in 1999. It was quite the introduction. For a Few Dollars More (1965) was on and I must confess it was the music that sucked me in rather than the story; I’d simply never heard of anything even remotely like it before. These days, on a Saturday afternoon attempting to trot off flab from a surfeit of Friday night booze, I on occasion find myself panting past our local Edinburgh prison to the very same maestro whom I ‘met’ in ’99, The Mission (1986) theme carrying me to the finish line.

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Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in the West (1968).

The Italian’s music is synonymous with American cinema, just as his friend, compatriot and collaborator Sergio Leone is in the vanguard of Americana. Looking back at those Leone masterworks, seldom has music so perfectly been synced to visuals. And it is telling to know that the score was indeed played on set and the shots aligned to its rhythm.

His final live performances have arrived this year. I hate to say ‘swansong’ but one wonders where Morricone continues to muster the energy from at 90 years of age. His upcoming concerts are in Antwerp, Dublin, Verona, and the last showings in June – six nights in a row – at the Terme di Caracalla in Rome. One must truly experience The Ecstasy of Gold at these splendid Roman baths.

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Terme di Caracalla, Rome.

One expects an anthology – this a fucking hell of a task to cherry-pick from over 500 scores – of some of the most operatic and iconic music to have emerged from 20th century cinema. Ennio Morricone is a trooper.

Further reading/viewing:

http://www.enniomorricone.org/events/

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2018/nov/27/ennio-morricone-review-o2-arena-london

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Outlaw King (2018).

lead_720_405This feature-length Netflix release garnered mixed reviews (63% on Rotten Tomatoes) but I was quite impressed by it. The film doesn’t have the romantic sweep and scope of Braveheart (1995) but it excels in details – its gritty and grim depiction of Medieval warfare and the violent politics at the heart of the Wars of Scottish Independence.

The movie is brooding and deadly serious, and, shockingly, well acted. Chris Pine might just be the only Yank capable of pulling off a half-decent Scots accent. Every previous attempt at a Scottish brogue made by an actor – save Jonny Lee Miller in Trainspotting (1996) – has been disastrous, Groundskeeper Willie in the flesh. Pine thankfully doesn’t go OTT.

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There’s no Battle of Bannockburn (1314) here, the movie acting as a sort of Batman Begins-esque ‘making of’ Robert the Bruce, the first act of a broader narrative. It’s decent –  no superheroes in capes or one-liners, just chain mail and chopped heads. Proper carnage. The Glory Days.

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Flughafen Berlin Brandenburg Willy Brandt – the Neverending Story.

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This airport – with carriers Easyjet, Germanwings, and Lufthansa set to dominate the runways – is now apparently meant to be operating in 2022, though this deadline changes every month. German so-called efficiency is down the pan with this mishap; construction started in 2006 when I had just emerged from Blue WKDs. It’s almost as if the nostalgia-afflicted aficionados for Schönefeld Airport and its GDR connotations have sabotaged the project, and Willy Brandt isn’t exactly a cool name (much unlike the rather dapper statesman).

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Trying to understand the myriad fuck-ups that can afflict a bunch of runways (this place was meant to have opened in 2011) is more difficult, I imagine, than Forrest Gump attempting a Will Hunting equation on a Fisher-Price calculator. Berlin is a beastly, glorious experience, however, so I can’t wait to wander around this airport in an attempt to pap a midget clutching a miniature bottle of Jägermeister.

Further reading:

https://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/new-airports-and-terminals/index.html

https://onemileatatime.com/berlin-brandenburg-airport/

https://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/berlin-brandenburg-airport-debacle/index.html

https://centreforaviation.com/analysis/reports/berlins-brandenburg-airport-opportunity-in-a-long-haul-vacuum-443298

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The Great War (1964).

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I finally got around to viewing this epic 26-episode series from 1964. It’s an incredible compendium of WWI in all its participants’ hubris and misguided adventurism, and is majestically narrated by Sir Michael Redgrave (this bloke sounds more Laurence Olivier than Laurence Olivier himself).

This is how to do a documentary – with sweeping scope and intricate detail, no half measures. With terrifying archive footage and an expert use of primary sources read by contemporary actors, as well as interviews with those serving on the military and civilian fronts, it set the benchmark for such works, acting as a precursor to The World at War (1973).

The wonders of the Internet ensure it is free to binge-watch.

 

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Rambling around Sofia.

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It’s always the same at a hostel. Why they insist on giving you a 20-minute monologue about the city I will never know. Pointless chat. Just hand me the keys to the room. Minging.

I don’t see a single person in the hostel building (for private rooms). I christen it the ‘Overlook Hotel’ and bash the bathroom door in with my e-cig. The hovel was dangerous, the Vertigo (1958) staircase a neck-breaking scenario waiting to happen. Thankfully I didn’t die, but I was terrified every time I went up or down the fucker.

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Like all post-communist countries, it’s backward. Street urchins are everywhere, Bugsy Malone (1976) rejects wandering the alleyways in search of shrapnel and fags. Bar staff are just awful. They scowl and grimace – pure hatred in their eyes. And they do this to all tavern visitors. Taxi drivers are scam artists. It’s the usual let’s-drive-around-in-circles nonsense. Scum.

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There were some highlights: I like the trams because they appear to be sent via DeLorean from the GDR in the ’70s. Also, the supermarket selection is eclectic. The Lidl was once again the crème de la crème. It was located slap-bang in the middle of a social realist nightmare of a housing estate, dirty-as-fuck matchbox apartments out of the age of Stalin.

The booze is cheap. The city is ugly. It’s cold. And that’s Sofia.

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Weston-super-Mare is a ghost town with tracksuits.

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You could be a trainee astronaut – if there is such a vocation – or have a Gary Kasparov-level IQ, but if you’re blessed with a thick West Country accent you just sound … profoundly thick to me. The dialect is essentially someone throwing up all over their vowels. Horror show.

Home of John Cleese, a.k.a. the lankiest goose-stepping mustachioed Python in history, Jeffrey Archer (cunt), and … Jill Dando, the highlight is the pier, scene of quite the transcendental moment in The Remains of the Day (1993) when Anthony Hopkins’ loyal butler realises his life was a waste of oxygen. He could have married Emma Thompson but nah, he instead opted to polish ornaments for James Fox. A truly tragic movie in the most understated way. The pier aside, the town is a shithole that makes Edinburgh look like Athens in the age of Aristotle.

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I am reminded of that Rust Cohl quote in True Detective when he rocks up to a hick village: “This place is like somebody’s memory of a town, and the memory is fading.”

But it was still better than Blackpool.

 

 

 

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The 1999 movie vault is something special and scary.

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1999 produced some truly cracking movies, dare I say two-in-one arthouse entertainments. They were from the sunny prism of the Clinton-era dot-com bubble, but laden with doom, premonitions of a darker age, and concerned with the very nature of reality itself –  its comforting distractions of material consumption and conformism. 9/11 changed everything; apathy was suddenly pummeled. The Y2K bug turned out to be fuck all and instead actual shit hit the fan. These movies – American Beauty, Fight Club, and The Matrix – capture that pre-9/11 unease with elan.

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They’re films of their era yet transcend the age because of the superior artistry on display. It’s not exactly fashionable today to laud the acting chops of Kevin Spacey, but he is superior in American Beauty, middle-aged melancholy defined as he squirms his way around suburban hell. The Matrix heralded a new dawn in special effects – bullet time and all that – yet was also one of the first pictures to probe with caution the digital landscape, 20 years before possessing a talking robot called Alexa was considered a normal pursuit.

In Fight Club, peculiarly a flop at the time (the pitfalls of bad marketing, they say) we find an Americana in the throes of an existential meltdown, angst-ridden males looking for something to fight for, a purpose or quest, amidst the dreariness of normalcy. Every generation needs a war.

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Though products of corporations, American Beauty, Fight Club, and The Matrix do not hesitate to bite the proverbial hand that feeds. There is a deep skepticism and paranoia running through them, that of the office as enslavement and deindividuation, the Michel Foucault Panopticon theme quite rampant. There’s also the sanguine at work here, that with mental and physical self-sacrifice and by disconnecting oneself from the cultural hegemony there is light, self-awareness, … happiness.

Further reading:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2015/jul/23/panopticon-digital-surveillance-jeremy-bentham

https://geekswipe.net/art/films/how-matrix-bullet-time-works/

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2000/jan/28/4

https://www.bustle.com/articles/178756-on-fight-clubs-20th-anniversary-author-chuck-palahniuk-talks-about-the-cult-classic-book

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Concorde Mark II – the Boom Overture.

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The Overture, the commercial airline of company Boom Supersonic, is on the cards. Edinburgh to Vancouver in four hours – the beasts flying at twice the speed of sound –  is just one of the many transocean routes being drafted.

The luxury vehicle – going nuts at 1,451 mph/Mach 2.2 and with the same fuel consumption as subsonic aircraft – will house a mere 55 seats, half the capacity of Concorde, but will be 30 times quieter. The XB-1, a half-scaled prototype, starts test flights this year. One imagines the fuckers with pitchforks in Nevada (where else?) will still be whingeing about the supersonic bantz outclassing cropdusters even when they can’t see or hear the former.

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Just look at that snap. It’s a wee bit missing from perfection, though. No one minds their own business on planes unless it’s a Gordon Gekko number; I’ve seen air stewards peek through artfully discreet holes in bog doors because the temporary inhabitant has taken more than three minutes to turd, wipe, and wash. My dream is this snap but with a metal curtain obscuring the view of me straddling a blow-up velociraptor (selfie craic) and regurgitating the Ross Geller voice.

Anyway, the 1973 FAA ban on supersonic air travel over the United States baffles many of us. Airlines, however, have ordered 30 of these Overtures and a review of outdated legislation is approaching. I’ll see you on one of these bad boys paid for with my swag from robbing the local Post Office.

Further reading:

https://www.independent.co.uk/travel/news-and-advice/son-of-concorde-supersonic-aircraft-plane-jet-speed-virgin-steve-jobs-widow-travel-subsonic-a8718911.html

https://www.geekwire.com/2019/boom-supersonic-closes-100m-funding-round-overture-faster-sound-jet/

https://reason.com/archives/2016/07/26/how-the-faa-killed-supersonic-flight

 

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