the_rock456
Joined Jun 2001
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the_rock456's rating
If only I could, I would spend hours jotting away profane insults at Celentano, Rai (the Italian state broadcaster) and Rockpolitik. Unfortunately, I am of a far too indolent predisposition to do so. What follows is a mere sample of the gargantuan variety of disgraceful abuses cramming my already minute encephalon.
It all started some six months before the airdate of the show, with a surprisingly original teaser announcing, with the solemnity of the Archangel unleashing the Apocalypse upon the sinful people of the Earth, that some time in the distant future, Italian audiences would have the pleasure, nay the honour, of witnessing a four-episode Celentano extravaganza. 180 days, 10m and scores of undue trepidation and masterminded controversy later, the show airs loaded with its decidedly immodest ambition of enlightening the TV public of "il Bel Paese" with something so unimaginably different from the mind-numbing, spirit-crushing fare they have been accustomed to in the past decade or so.
Does it succeed? Most certainly not, as even the least deductive of you might have guessed. In a rare exercise blending hypocrisy and presumptuousness, Rockpolitik actually manages to scrape the lowest abyss of the Sea of Banality and the Profanic Ocean. The, some may say unwarranted, tirade is due precisely to the show's self-proclaimed grandiosity and uniqueness. In reality, it translates into an unapologetic repetition of contrived celebrity appearances, comic routines (the use of the word comic is nothing more than the result of the generous Christmas spirit currently prevailing) and lip-synched delights from the man himself, Celentano. The result is, therefore, just as mind-numbing and as spirit-crushing as the status quo it so pitifully attempts to denounce. After four interminable helpings of this rubbish, one cannot help but notice the inevitable plunge of Italian television, and culture in general, into the most desolate and squalid depths of ignorance.
It all started some six months before the airdate of the show, with a surprisingly original teaser announcing, with the solemnity of the Archangel unleashing the Apocalypse upon the sinful people of the Earth, that some time in the distant future, Italian audiences would have the pleasure, nay the honour, of witnessing a four-episode Celentano extravaganza. 180 days, 10m and scores of undue trepidation and masterminded controversy later, the show airs loaded with its decidedly immodest ambition of enlightening the TV public of "il Bel Paese" with something so unimaginably different from the mind-numbing, spirit-crushing fare they have been accustomed to in the past decade or so.
Does it succeed? Most certainly not, as even the least deductive of you might have guessed. In a rare exercise blending hypocrisy and presumptuousness, Rockpolitik actually manages to scrape the lowest abyss of the Sea of Banality and the Profanic Ocean. The, some may say unwarranted, tirade is due precisely to the show's self-proclaimed grandiosity and uniqueness. In reality, it translates into an unapologetic repetition of contrived celebrity appearances, comic routines (the use of the word comic is nothing more than the result of the generous Christmas spirit currently prevailing) and lip-synched delights from the man himself, Celentano. The result is, therefore, just as mind-numbing and as spirit-crushing as the status quo it so pitifully attempts to denounce. After four interminable helpings of this rubbish, one cannot help but notice the inevitable plunge of Italian television, and culture in general, into the most desolate and squalid depths of ignorance.
I have an awfully peculiar habit when it comes to selecting films. I see a DVD enthusiastically sitting up in the video shop display hoping for an erring punter to pick it up, and I also see, printed on its cover, enthusing quotes by some impossibly obscure, and equally unimaginative critic, and I know, having previously read a bunch of reviews, that the film in question is, indeed and by all accounts, a modern masterpiece, a wondrous cinematic effort of which the Lumières brothers would be so exceptionally proud that they are still singing a cappella in their graves.
After this plethora of positive hints that would induce any borderline rational halfwit to rent the film, what do I do? I solemnly approach the counter with either some awful monstrosity of the likes of The Stepford Wives, which my girlfriend, in a rather dictatorial manner, forces me to watch or, with a Memento or Fight Club or Requiem for a Dream that I have already seen a quadrizillion times but still prefer to a new film that might turn out to be an excruciating disappointment.
As the wily foxes amongst you might have guessed, this was the case with Touching the Void. I "almost rented" it innumerable times, until I finally worked up the courage to remove the almost from the metaphorical sentence and actually did rent it to the applause of the audience in the store. And, well, the unimaginative critic was unoriginally spot on. The film does deserve two-thumbs up, mostly because it manages to render potentially lacklustre material - with a degree of grip and excitement worthy of a Discovery Channel documentary very gripping and, er, exciting indeed. To be frank, I'm not too sure how this astonishing feat was accomplished. In fact, the hybrid technique of fusing re-enactments with interviews is very common amongst those thriller-ride cable documentaries. Yet, the result in Touching the Void is infinitely more riveting and cinematic. This success should be partly attributed, and I may appear somewhat cuckoo here, to Simpson's voice. I genuinely believe that the tone of his voice manages to suit the mood of the story, and thus the film, like a tailor-made, er, suit. It goes without saying (or does it?) that credit is to be attributed to MacDonald for blending narration and re-enactments with such formidable dexterity so as to render a repetition of virtually identical shots infinitely more interesting than what it actually is: a repetition of virtually identical shots.
There are two other things I would like to ramble on about. One contributes to the technical value of the film and, in all probability, constitutes yet another sign of my mental infirmity: the sound of the snow. Well, to be somewhat more precise (and hopefully appear less insane) the sound that boots make as they plunge into snow or, the thud of the pickaxe being hammered into the ice walls. They all seemed to reinforce my enjoyment of the film. The other, and final object of my blathering has, praise the Lord, nothing to do with such inane and nonsensical matters and, surprisingly enough, does have timidly more profound connotations. How, I wonder, does someone find the will to keep ploughing on the way that Simpson chap did? If it were me though it could never possibly be me since I can barely cough up the courage to take the car and go to the country for a pleasant rural stroll I would have stared down the crevice, cried for about 25 days and picked my frosty nose for another 25, until I would have ultimately come to the conclusion that repeatedly banging my head against the ice wall would be, by far, the most convenient solution.
After this plethora of positive hints that would induce any borderline rational halfwit to rent the film, what do I do? I solemnly approach the counter with either some awful monstrosity of the likes of The Stepford Wives, which my girlfriend, in a rather dictatorial manner, forces me to watch or, with a Memento or Fight Club or Requiem for a Dream that I have already seen a quadrizillion times but still prefer to a new film that might turn out to be an excruciating disappointment.
As the wily foxes amongst you might have guessed, this was the case with Touching the Void. I "almost rented" it innumerable times, until I finally worked up the courage to remove the almost from the metaphorical sentence and actually did rent it to the applause of the audience in the store. And, well, the unimaginative critic was unoriginally spot on. The film does deserve two-thumbs up, mostly because it manages to render potentially lacklustre material - with a degree of grip and excitement worthy of a Discovery Channel documentary very gripping and, er, exciting indeed. To be frank, I'm not too sure how this astonishing feat was accomplished. In fact, the hybrid technique of fusing re-enactments with interviews is very common amongst those thriller-ride cable documentaries. Yet, the result in Touching the Void is infinitely more riveting and cinematic. This success should be partly attributed, and I may appear somewhat cuckoo here, to Simpson's voice. I genuinely believe that the tone of his voice manages to suit the mood of the story, and thus the film, like a tailor-made, er, suit. It goes without saying (or does it?) that credit is to be attributed to MacDonald for blending narration and re-enactments with such formidable dexterity so as to render a repetition of virtually identical shots infinitely more interesting than what it actually is: a repetition of virtually identical shots.
There are two other things I would like to ramble on about. One contributes to the technical value of the film and, in all probability, constitutes yet another sign of my mental infirmity: the sound of the snow. Well, to be somewhat more precise (and hopefully appear less insane) the sound that boots make as they plunge into snow or, the thud of the pickaxe being hammered into the ice walls. They all seemed to reinforce my enjoyment of the film. The other, and final object of my blathering has, praise the Lord, nothing to do with such inane and nonsensical matters and, surprisingly enough, does have timidly more profound connotations. How, I wonder, does someone find the will to keep ploughing on the way that Simpson chap did? If it were me though it could never possibly be me since I can barely cough up the courage to take the car and go to the country for a pleasant rural stroll I would have stared down the crevice, cried for about 25 days and picked my frosty nose for another 25, until I would have ultimately come to the conclusion that repeatedly banging my head against the ice wall would be, by far, the most convenient solution.
