1. Watch: Nicki Minaj - Anaconda: We’ll give you three guesses what the focus of Nicki’s latest video is… Sir Mix-A-Lot would probably approve.

  2. Watch: Bryan Cranston, Aaron Paul and Julia Louis-Dreyfus plug the Primtetime Emmys: Any chance to see Walt and Jesse back together - and not trying to kill each other - in any context, we’ll take it. Alternatively, any chance to see Seinfeld's Elaine and Tim Whatley back together is a chance worth taking, even if it involves three icons of television shilling for both the upcoming Emmys and Audi. Still, this kinda makes us want a sketch show starring Cranston and Paul. Make it happen, TV gods.

  3. I think I’ve finally realised that I’m getting old. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a relatively young adult, but the sort of half-baked philosophical meandering and faux-poignancy which populates a lot of the YA genre no longer appeals or speaks to me, and I’ve no desire to really seek it out in order to help me feel like I’m deep or misunderstood or intellectual (it also helps that I realised I’m none of those things to begin with). It’s likely that because of this, The Fault In Our Stars left me completely unmoved.
(I’d like to apologise before approaching the meat of this review for it being so disjointed and scatterbrained. TFIOS numbed my brain to such a degree that I can barely string together a coherent grumble of displeasure, let alone a full analytical review)
Hollywood cancer is a lot prettier than real life cancer isn’t it? Shailene Woodley is positively radiant, looking like she’s walked off the set of a shampoo commercial for the majority of the running time. I hope if I ever develop cancer, I get the Hazel-Grace Stage 4 variant. Shit looks like it’d be a breeze.
Watching The Fault In Our Stars, I felt as though I was in the process of an extremely long mugging by sentiment and emotion, neither of which has been earned. Everything was designed to say “THIS IS SAD AND POIGNANT, FEEL IT”, from the dreadful screenplay which is apparently taken verbatim from the novel at a lot of points, to the plaintive score, composed by Mike Mogis and Nate Walcott of Bright Eyes (how the mighty have fallen). It’s mawkish and entirely unartistic, the celluloid equivalent of a blank Hallmark card, an overlong TV movie but with none of the visual or narrative flair of the highlights of TV’s current golden age. Two and a quarter very poorly paced hours of incredibly dull cinematography and mostly duller indie songs for a soundtrack. I hope M83 got paid very well for the desecration of their previously wonderful “Wait”. Even the certified pop genius of Charli XCX’s “Boom Clap” is reduced to backing an awfully amateur travelogue establishing shot sequence. 
There’s little different here from any other YA romance film, but the “odds to overcome” filling of the cinematic sandwich happens to be a teenage relationship where both parties have or have had cancer, instead of less fatal USPs. Of course mortality and disease and death are subjects and themes which should be broached more often in fiction aimed at a younger generation, but something shouldn’t be praised to the hilltops just because it happens to. Against my better judgement, it makes me want to shout Fight Club’s “you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake” mantra over and over at the screen. That might be an incredibly harsh reaction to the tragedy of being afflicted with cancer so young, but it’s that poor of a film.
The whole endeavour feels purpose made to turn its opening anti-Hollywood romance spiel into a pack of lies, being a schmaltzy, sugar-coated, emotionally manipulative, cliche-cored tale of true love. Even after Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort, playing the most infuriating manic pixie dreamboat in film history) and Hazel make fun of a couple they know for the annoying tick of saying always after every kiss, they turn into hypocrites, forming their own incredibly similar cloying tick. You can’t discuss how silly and obvious the tropes of romantic fiction and fiction involving cancer, like you’re a trailblazing innovator of some new storytelling techniques, and then invoke pretty much every single one, completely straight. This film contains the line “I guess the world’s not a wish-granting factory”, spoken entirely sincerely after a pivotal revelation. I genuinely had to walk out of the room from a mixture of anger, bemusement, and not wanting to spew over my laptop. How the hell does that kind of crap get into a major movie script? I wouldn’t even expect that in bad fanfic. Roughly 99% of the dialogue and narration is less what teenagers realistically speak like and more what we all think we’re like as teenagers - confident, charismatic, intelligent, quick-witted, deep - when we’re annoying, smug twerps. It’s the voice of a pretentious grown adult coming from two handsome, flawless movie star mouths.
I will give it props for accurately representing, however fleetingly, a basics of a modern young relationship; the incessant texting (although the twee handdrawn text bubbles onscreen can fuck right off), late night phone calls, TV show binges… hell, even the use of Gmail over a suspiciously similar fictional substitute is welcome. And I have to give it props for being a female-led summer film which held up well against mega-grossing franchise behemoths. But other than those factors, and Woodley exhibiting an incredibly naturalistic talent for acting, showing she’s increasingly likely to challenge Jennifer Lawrence for the title of young queen of Hollywood, I genuinely can’t find anything to like about The Fault In Our Stars.
The most likeable character is Willem Dafoe’s grouchy bitter ex-pat, the author of Hazel and Augustus’ favourite novel, and even he is hateful and rude and dismissive of his two hopelessly naive fans who travel to Amsterdam to meet him. Perhaps because by the point he first appears I had equal dislike of our two protagonist goons, but he’s my favourite character. He feels like a necessary stab of negative realism popping the romanticised, entitled bubble of the cancer romancers. Yeah, asking if the cancer has spread to Augustus’ brain yet in response to a dumb question is offensive, but they kinda deserve it. Part of me hopes  Dafoe took the role because he agreed with his character, but alas that’s probably wishful thinking. 
Lastly, maybe it’s just me, it feels borderline offensive of John Green to have used the house of Anne Frank as a setting for the crest of an average teen romance, just to lend some gravitas to the situation or something. And then to have the characters have their first kiss in that house’s attic, to a goddamn round of applause, no less, it’s bafflingly tone-deaf.
Honestly? I envy Augustus’ amputated leg, at least that got to leave this thing early.

★☆☆☆☆ I think I’ve finally realised that I’m getting old. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a relatively young adult, but the sort of half-baked philosophical meandering and faux-poignancy which populates a lot of the YA genre no longer appeals or speaks to me, and I’ve no desire to really seek it out in order to help me feel like I’m deep or misunderstood or intellectual (it also helps that I realised I’m none of those things to begin with). It’s likely that because of this, The Fault In Our Stars left me completely unmoved.
(I’d like to apologise before approaching the meat of this review for it being so disjointed and scatterbrained. TFIOS numbed my brain to such a degree that I can barely string together a coherent grumble of displeasure, let alone a full analytical review)
Hollywood cancer is a lot prettier than real life cancer isn’t it? Shailene Woodley is positively radiant, looking like she’s walked off the set of a shampoo commercial for the majority of the running time. I hope if I ever develop cancer, I get the Hazel-Grace Stage 4 variant. Shit looks like it’d be a breeze.
Watching The Fault In Our Stars, I felt as though I was in the process of an extremely long mugging by sentiment and emotion, neither of which has been earned. Everything was designed to say “THIS IS SAD AND POIGNANT, FEEL IT”, from the dreadful screenplay which is apparently taken verbatim from the novel at a lot of points, to the plaintive score, composed by Mike Mogis and Nate Walcott of Bright Eyes (how the mighty have fallen). It’s mawkish and entirely unartistic, the celluloid equivalent of a blank Hallmark card, an overlong TV movie but with none of the visual or narrative flair of the highlights of TV’s current golden age. Two and a quarter very poorly paced hours of incredibly dull cinematography and mostly duller indie songs for a soundtrack. I hope M83 got paid very well for the desecration of their previously wonderful “Wait”. Even the certified pop genius of Charli XCX’s “Boom Clap” is reduced to backing an awfully amateur travelogue establishing shot sequence. 
There’s little different here from any other YA romance film, but the “odds to overcome” filling of the cinematic sandwich happens to be a teenage relationship where both parties have or have had cancer, instead of less fatal USPs. Of course mortality and disease and death are subjects and themes which should be broached more often in fiction aimed at a younger generation, but something shouldn’t be praised to the hilltops just because it happens to. Against my better judgement, it makes me want to shout Fight Club’s “you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake” mantra over and over at the screen. That might be an incredibly harsh reaction to the tragedy of being afflicted with cancer so young, but it’s that poor of a film.
The whole endeavour feels purpose made to turn its opening anti-Hollywood romance spiel into a pack of lies, being a schmaltzy, sugar-coated, emotionally manipulative, cliche-cored tale of true love. Even after Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort, playing the most infuriating manic pixie dreamboat in film history) and Hazel make fun of a couple they know for the annoying tick of saying always after every kiss, they turn into hypocrites, forming their own incredibly similar cloying tick. You can’t discuss how silly and obvious the tropes of romantic fiction and fiction involving cancer, like you’re a trailblazing innovator of some new storytelling techniques, and then invoke pretty much every single one, completely straight. This film contains the line “I guess the world’s not a wish-granting factory”, spoken entirely sincerely after a pivotal revelation. I genuinely had to walk out of the room from a mixture of anger, bemusement, and not wanting to spew over my laptop. How the hell does that kind of crap get into a major movie script? I wouldn’t even expect that in bad fanfic. Roughly 99% of the dialogue and narration is less what teenagers realistically speak like and more what we all think we’re like as teenagers - confident, charismatic, intelligent, quick-witted, deep - when we’re annoying, smug twerps. It’s the voice of a pretentious grown adult coming from two handsome, flawless movie star mouths.
I will give it props for accurately representing, however fleetingly, a basics of a modern young relationship; the incessant texting (although the twee handdrawn text bubbles onscreen can fuck right off), late night phone calls, TV show binges… hell, even the use of Gmail over a suspiciously similar fictional substitute is welcome. And I have to give it props for being a female-led summer film which held up well against mega-grossing franchise behemoths. But other than those factors, and Woodley exhibiting an incredibly naturalistic talent for acting, showing she’s increasingly likely to challenge Jennifer Lawrence for the title of young queen of Hollywood, I genuinely can’t find anything to like about The Fault In Our Stars.
The most likeable character is Willem Dafoe’s grouchy bitter ex-pat, the author of Hazel and Augustus’ favourite novel, and even he is hateful and rude and dismissive of his two hopelessly naive fans who travel to Amsterdam to meet him. Perhaps because by the point he first appears I had equal dislike of our two protagonist goons, but he’s my favourite character. He feels like a necessary stab of negative realism popping the romanticised, entitled bubble of the cancer romancers. Yeah, asking if the cancer has spread to Augustus’ brain yet in response to a dumb question is offensive, but they kinda deserve it. Part of me hopes  Dafoe took the role because he agreed with his character, but alas that’s probably wishful thinking. 
Lastly, maybe it’s just me, it feels borderline offensive of John Green to have used the house of Anne Frank as a setting for the crest of an average teen romance, just to lend some gravitas to the situation or something. And then to have the characters have their first kiss in that house’s attic, to a goddamn round of applause, no less, it’s bafflingly tone-deaf.
Honestly? I envy Augustus’ amputated leg, at least that got to leave this thing early.

★☆☆☆☆
    I think I’ve finally realised that I’m getting old. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a relatively young adult, but the sort of half-baked philosophical meandering and faux-poignancy which populates a lot of the YA genre no longer appeals or speaks to me, and I’ve no desire to really seek it out in order to help me feel like I’m deep or misunderstood or intellectual (it also helps that I realised I’m none of those things to begin with). It’s likely that because of this, The Fault In Our Stars left me completely unmoved.
(I’d like to apologise before approaching the meat of this review for it being so disjointed and scatterbrained. TFIOS numbed my brain to such a degree that I can barely string together a coherent grumble of displeasure, let alone a full analytical review)
Hollywood cancer is a lot prettier than real life cancer isn’t it? Shailene Woodley is positively radiant, looking like she’s walked off the set of a shampoo commercial for the majority of the running time. I hope if I ever develop cancer, I get the Hazel-Grace Stage 4 variant. Shit looks like it’d be a breeze.
Watching The Fault In Our Stars, I felt as though I was in the process of an extremely long mugging by sentiment and emotion, neither of which has been earned. Everything was designed to say “THIS IS SAD AND POIGNANT, FEEL IT”, from the dreadful screenplay which is apparently taken verbatim from the novel at a lot of points, to the plaintive score, composed by Mike Mogis and Nate Walcott of Bright Eyes (how the mighty have fallen). It’s mawkish and entirely unartistic, the celluloid equivalent of a blank Hallmark card, an overlong TV movie but with none of the visual or narrative flair of the highlights of TV’s current golden age. Two and a quarter very poorly paced hours of incredibly dull cinematography and mostly duller indie songs for a soundtrack. I hope M83 got paid very well for the desecration of their previously wonderful “Wait”. Even the certified pop genius of Charli XCX’s “Boom Clap” is reduced to backing an awfully amateur travelogue establishing shot sequence. 
There’s little different here from any other YA romance film, but the “odds to overcome” filling of the cinematic sandwich happens to be a teenage relationship where both parties have or have had cancer, instead of less fatal USPs. Of course mortality and disease and death are subjects and themes which should be broached more often in fiction aimed at a younger generation, but something shouldn’t be praised to the hilltops just because it happens to. Against my better judgement, it makes me want to shout Fight Club’s “you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake” mantra over and over at the screen. That might be an incredibly harsh reaction to the tragedy of being afflicted with cancer so young, but it’s that poor of a film.
The whole endeavour feels purpose made to turn its opening anti-Hollywood romance spiel into a pack of lies, being a schmaltzy, sugar-coated, emotionally manipulative, cliche-cored tale of true love. Even after Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort, playing the most infuriating manic pixie dreamboat in film history) and Hazel make fun of a couple they know for the annoying tick of saying always after every kiss, they turn into hypocrites, forming their own incredibly similar cloying tick. You can’t discuss how silly and obvious the tropes of romantic fiction and fiction involving cancer, like you’re a trailblazing innovator of some new storytelling techniques, and then invoke pretty much every single one, completely straight. This film contains the line “I guess the world’s not a wish-granting factory”, spoken entirely sincerely after a pivotal revelation. I genuinely had to walk out of the room from a mixture of anger, bemusement, and not wanting to spew over my laptop. How the hell does that kind of crap get into a major movie script? I wouldn’t even expect that in bad fanfic. Roughly 99% of the dialogue and narration is less what teenagers realistically speak like and more what we all think we’re like as teenagers - confident, charismatic, intelligent, quick-witted, deep - when we’re annoying, smug twerps. It’s the voice of a pretentious grown adult coming from two handsome, flawless movie star mouths.
I will give it props for accurately representing, however fleetingly, a basics of a modern young relationship; the incessant texting (although the twee handdrawn text bubbles onscreen can fuck right off), late night phone calls, TV show binges… hell, even the use of Gmail over a suspiciously similar fictional substitute is welcome. And I have to give it props for being a female-led summer film which held up well against mega-grossing franchise behemoths. But other than those factors, and Woodley exhibiting an incredibly naturalistic talent for acting, showing she’s increasingly likely to challenge Jennifer Lawrence for the title of young queen of Hollywood, I genuinely can’t find anything to like about The Fault In Our Stars.
The most likeable character is Willem Dafoe’s grouchy bitter ex-pat, the author of Hazel and Augustus’ favourite novel, and even he is hateful and rude and dismissive of his two hopelessly naive fans who travel to Amsterdam to meet him. Perhaps because by the point he first appears I had equal dislike of our two protagonist goons, but he’s my favourite character. He feels like a necessary stab of negative realism popping the romanticised, entitled bubble of the cancer romancers. Yeah, asking if the cancer has spread to Augustus’ brain yet in response to a dumb question is offensive, but they kinda deserve it. Part of me hopes  Dafoe took the role because he agreed with his character, but alas that’s probably wishful thinking. 
Lastly, maybe it’s just me, it feels borderline offensive of John Green to have used the house of Anne Frank as a setting for the crest of an average teen romance, just to lend some gravitas to the situation or something. And then to have the characters have their first kiss in that house’s attic, to a goddamn round of applause, no less, it’s bafflingly tone-deaf.
Honestly? I envy Augustus’ amputated leg, at least that got to leave this thing early.

★☆☆☆☆ I think I’ve finally realised that I’m getting old. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a relatively young adult, but the sort of half-baked philosophical meandering and faux-poignancy which populates a lot of the YA genre no longer appeals or speaks to me, and I’ve no desire to really seek it out in order to help me feel like I’m deep or misunderstood or intellectual (it also helps that I realised I’m none of those things to begin with). It’s likely that because of this, The Fault In Our Stars left me completely unmoved.
(I’d like to apologise before approaching the meat of this review for it being so disjointed and scatterbrained. TFIOS numbed my brain to such a degree that I can barely string together a coherent grumble of displeasure, let alone a full analytical review)
Hollywood cancer is a lot prettier than real life cancer isn’t it? Shailene Woodley is positively radiant, looking like she’s walked off the set of a shampoo commercial for the majority of the running time. I hope if I ever develop cancer, I get the Hazel-Grace Stage 4 variant. Shit looks like it’d be a breeze.
Watching The Fault In Our Stars, I felt as though I was in the process of an extremely long mugging by sentiment and emotion, neither of which has been earned. Everything was designed to say “THIS IS SAD AND POIGNANT, FEEL IT”, from the dreadful screenplay which is apparently taken verbatim from the novel at a lot of points, to the plaintive score, composed by Mike Mogis and Nate Walcott of Bright Eyes (how the mighty have fallen). It’s mawkish and entirely unartistic, the celluloid equivalent of a blank Hallmark card, an overlong TV movie but with none of the visual or narrative flair of the highlights of TV’s current golden age. Two and a quarter very poorly paced hours of incredibly dull cinematography and mostly duller indie songs for a soundtrack. I hope M83 got paid very well for the desecration of their previously wonderful “Wait”. Even the certified pop genius of Charli XCX’s “Boom Clap” is reduced to backing an awfully amateur travelogue establishing shot sequence. 
There’s little different here from any other YA romance film, but the “odds to overcome” filling of the cinematic sandwich happens to be a teenage relationship where both parties have or have had cancer, instead of less fatal USPs. Of course mortality and disease and death are subjects and themes which should be broached more often in fiction aimed at a younger generation, but something shouldn’t be praised to the hilltops just because it happens to. Against my better judgement, it makes me want to shout Fight Club’s “you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake” mantra over and over at the screen. That might be an incredibly harsh reaction to the tragedy of being afflicted with cancer so young, but it’s that poor of a film.
The whole endeavour feels purpose made to turn its opening anti-Hollywood romance spiel into a pack of lies, being a schmaltzy, sugar-coated, emotionally manipulative, cliche-cored tale of true love. Even after Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort, playing the most infuriating manic pixie dreamboat in film history) and Hazel make fun of a couple they know for the annoying tick of saying always after every kiss, they turn into hypocrites, forming their own incredibly similar cloying tick. You can’t discuss how silly and obvious the tropes of romantic fiction and fiction involving cancer, like you’re a trailblazing innovator of some new storytelling techniques, and then invoke pretty much every single one, completely straight. This film contains the line “I guess the world’s not a wish-granting factory”, spoken entirely sincerely after a pivotal revelation. I genuinely had to walk out of the room from a mixture of anger, bemusement, and not wanting to spew over my laptop. How the hell does that kind of crap get into a major movie script? I wouldn’t even expect that in bad fanfic. Roughly 99% of the dialogue and narration is less what teenagers realistically speak like and more what we all think we’re like as teenagers - confident, charismatic, intelligent, quick-witted, deep - when we’re annoying, smug twerps. It’s the voice of a pretentious grown adult coming from two handsome, flawless movie star mouths.
I will give it props for accurately representing, however fleetingly, a basics of a modern young relationship; the incessant texting (although the twee handdrawn text bubbles onscreen can fuck right off), late night phone calls, TV show binges… hell, even the use of Gmail over a suspiciously similar fictional substitute is welcome. And I have to give it props for being a female-led summer film which held up well against mega-grossing franchise behemoths. But other than those factors, and Woodley exhibiting an incredibly naturalistic talent for acting, showing she’s increasingly likely to challenge Jennifer Lawrence for the title of young queen of Hollywood, I genuinely can’t find anything to like about The Fault In Our Stars.
The most likeable character is Willem Dafoe’s grouchy bitter ex-pat, the author of Hazel and Augustus’ favourite novel, and even he is hateful and rude and dismissive of his two hopelessly naive fans who travel to Amsterdam to meet him. Perhaps because by the point he first appears I had equal dislike of our two protagonist goons, but he’s my favourite character. He feels like a necessary stab of negative realism popping the romanticised, entitled bubble of the cancer romancers. Yeah, asking if the cancer has spread to Augustus’ brain yet in response to a dumb question is offensive, but they kinda deserve it. Part of me hopes  Dafoe took the role because he agreed with his character, but alas that’s probably wishful thinking. 
Lastly, maybe it’s just me, it feels borderline offensive of John Green to have used the house of Anne Frank as a setting for the crest of an average teen romance, just to lend some gravitas to the situation or something. And then to have the characters have their first kiss in that house’s attic, to a goddamn round of applause, no less, it’s bafflingly tone-deaf.
Honestly? I envy Augustus’ amputated leg, at least that got to leave this thing early.

★☆☆☆☆

    I think I’ve finally realised that I’m getting old. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a relatively young adult, but the sort of half-baked philosophical meandering and faux-poignancy which populates a lot of the YA genre no longer appeals or speaks to me, and I’ve no desire to really seek it out in order to help me feel like I’m deep or misunderstood or intellectual (it also helps that I realised I’m none of those things to begin with). It’s likely that because of this, The Fault In Our Stars left me completely unmoved.

    (I’d like to apologise before approaching the meat of this review for it being so disjointed and scatterbrained. TFIOS numbed my brain to such a degree that I can barely string together a coherent grumble of displeasure, let alone a full analytical review)

    Hollywood cancer is a lot prettier than real life cancer isn’t it? Shailene Woodley is positively radiant, looking like she’s walked off the set of a shampoo commercial for the majority of the running time. I hope if I ever develop cancer, I get the Hazel-Grace Stage 4 variant. Shit looks like it’d be a breeze.

    Watching The Fault In Our Stars, I felt as though I was in the process of an extremely long mugging by sentiment and emotion, neither of which has been earned. Everything was designed to say “THIS IS SAD AND POIGNANT, FEEL IT”, from the dreadful screenplay which is apparently taken verbatim from the novel at a lot of points, to the plaintive score, composed by Mike Mogis and Nate Walcott of Bright Eyes (how the mighty have fallen). It’s mawkish and entirely unartistic, the celluloid equivalent of a blank Hallmark card, an overlong TV movie but with none of the visual or narrative flair of the highlights of TV’s current golden age. Two and a quarter very poorly paced hours of incredibly dull cinematography and mostly duller indie songs for a soundtrack. I hope M83 got paid very well for the desecration of their previously wonderful “Wait”. Even the certified pop genius of Charli XCX’s “Boom Clap” is reduced to backing an awfully amateur travelogue establishing shot sequence. 

    There’s little different here from any other YA romance film, but the “odds to overcome” filling of the cinematic sandwich happens to be a teenage relationship where both parties have or have had cancer, instead of less fatal USPs. Of course mortality and disease and death are subjects and themes which should be broached more often in fiction aimed at a younger generation, but something shouldn’t be praised to the hilltops just because it happens to. Against my better judgement, it makes me want to shout Fight Club’s “you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake” mantra over and over at the screen. That might be an incredibly harsh reaction to the tragedy of being afflicted with cancer so young, but it’s that poor of a film.

    The whole endeavour feels purpose made to turn its opening anti-Hollywood romance spiel into a pack of lies, being a schmaltzy, sugar-coated, emotionally manipulative, cliche-cored tale of true love. Even after Augustus Waters (Ansel Elgort, playing the most infuriating manic pixie dreamboat in film history) and Hazel make fun of a couple they know for the annoying tick of saying always after every kiss, they turn into hypocrites, forming their own incredibly similar cloying tick. You can’t discuss how silly and obvious the tropes of romantic fiction and fiction involving cancer, like you’re a trailblazing innovator of some new storytelling techniques, and then invoke pretty much every single one, completely straight. This film contains the line “I guess the world’s not a wish-granting factory”, spoken entirely sincerely after a pivotal revelation. I genuinely had to walk out of the room from a mixture of anger, bemusement, and not wanting to spew over my laptop. How the hell does that kind of crap get into a major movie script? I wouldn’t even expect that in bad fanfic. Roughly 99% of the dialogue and narration is less what teenagers realistically speak like and more what we all think we’re like as teenagers - confident, charismatic, intelligent, quick-witted, deep - when we’re annoying, smug twerps. It’s the voice of a pretentious grown adult coming from two handsome, flawless movie star mouths.

    I will give it props for accurately representing, however fleetingly, a basics of a modern young relationship; the incessant texting (although the twee handdrawn text bubbles onscreen can fuck right off), late night phone calls, TV show binges… hell, even the use of Gmail over a suspiciously similar fictional substitute is welcome. And I have to give it props for being a female-led summer film which held up well against mega-grossing franchise behemoths. But other than those factors, and Woodley exhibiting an incredibly naturalistic talent for acting, showing she’s increasingly likely to challenge Jennifer Lawrence for the title of young queen of Hollywood, I genuinely can’t find anything to like about The Fault In Our Stars.

    The most likeable character is Willem Dafoe’s grouchy bitter ex-pat, the author of Hazel and Augustus’ favourite novel, and even he is hateful and rude and dismissive of his two hopelessly naive fans who travel to Amsterdam to meet him. Perhaps because by the point he first appears I had equal dislike of our two protagonist goons, but he’s my favourite character. He feels like a necessary stab of negative realism popping the romanticised, entitled bubble of the cancer romancers. Yeah, asking if the cancer has spread to Augustus’ brain yet in response to a dumb question is offensive, but they kinda deserve it. Part of me hopes  Dafoe took the role because he agreed with his character, but alas that’s probably wishful thinking. 

    Lastly, maybe it’s just me, it feels borderline offensive of John Green to have used the house of Anne Frank as a setting for the crest of an average teen romance, just to lend some gravitas to the situation or something. And then to have the characters have their first kiss in that house’s attic, to a goddamn round of applause, no less, it’s bafflingly tone-deaf.

    Honestly? I envy Augustus’ amputated leg, at least that got to leave this thing early.

  4. Song Of The Day
    A perfectly chilled way to kick off your Tuesday from one of the most promising young producers around.

  5. Listen: Charli XCX - Break The Rules: Okay, so it’s not quite on "Boom Clap"'s level, but then there's not much else that is, because that song is quite possibly one of the best pop tunes of the millenium so far. But regardless, “Break The Rules” is still a heck of a followup, with roots in what we'll refer too as Charli's Scandinavian punk phase:

    The song is inspired by a lot of the things I was listening to whilst in Sweden at the end of last year… I spent about a month making a punk record and covering songs by Swedish punk bands like Snuffed By The Yakuza and stuff. This song was written when I came out of the other side of that punk phase and translated it into something more pop. Obviously, it’s about not giving a fuck.

    It’s a damn fine primer for her upcoming second album Sucker, released on October 21st.

  6. Florida’s C-Reezy continues to put out some of the freshest, finest alt-hip hop around. Building on last year’s half a dozen or so mixtapes, Creature features wonderfully varied sampling (from Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs to Bill Nighy in Love, Actually), features from McKinley Dixon, Gold Midas, and Grimoire, top production and Reezy visibly growing in confidence with each release. Dude deserves more than being at the of the Tumblr rap mountain, and right now you’d be be foolish to bet against him breaking that glass ceiling.
<a href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature” data-mce-href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature”>Creature by C-Reezy</a> Florida’s C-Reezy continues to put out some of the freshest, finest alt-hip hop around. Building on last year’s half a dozen or so mixtapes, Creature features wonderfully varied sampling (from Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs to Bill Nighy in Love, Actually), features from McKinley Dixon, Gold Midas, and Grimoire, top production and Reezy visibly growing in confidence with each release. Dude deserves more than being at the of the Tumblr rap mountain, and right now you’d be be foolish to bet against him breaking that glass ceiling.
<a href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature” data-mce-href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature”>Creature by C-Reezy</a>
    Florida’s C-Reezy continues to put out some of the freshest, finest alt-hip hop around. Building on last year’s half a dozen or so mixtapes, Creature features wonderfully varied sampling (from Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs to Bill Nighy in Love, Actually), features from McKinley Dixon, Gold Midas, and Grimoire, top production and Reezy visibly growing in confidence with each release. Dude deserves more than being at the of the Tumblr rap mountain, and right now you’d be be foolish to bet against him breaking that glass ceiling.
<a href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature” data-mce-href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature”>Creature by C-Reezy</a> Florida’s C-Reezy continues to put out some of the freshest, finest alt-hip hop around. Building on last year’s half a dozen or so mixtapes, Creature features wonderfully varied sampling (from Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs to Bill Nighy in Love, Actually), features from McKinley Dixon, Gold Midas, and Grimoire, top production and Reezy visibly growing in confidence with each release. Dude deserves more than being at the of the Tumblr rap mountain, and right now you’d be be foolish to bet against him breaking that glass ceiling.
<a href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature” data-mce-href=”http://c-reezy.bandcamp.com/album/creature”>Creature by C-Reezy</a>

    Florida’s C-Reezy continues to put out some of the freshest, finest alt-hip hop around. Building on last year’s half a dozen or so mixtapes, Creature features wonderfully varied sampling (from Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs to Bill Nighy in Love, Actually), features from McKinley Dixon, Gold Midas, and Grimoire, top production and Reezy visibly growing in confidence with each release. Dude deserves more than being at the of the Tumblr rap mountain, and right now you’d be be foolish to bet against him breaking that glass ceiling.

  7. Song Of The Day
    Today’s song of the day is Jive Bunny & The Mixmasters “Swing The Mood”, which was Number One when Hitsville’s David Scott was born. Happy birthday David!

  8. Introducing first, hailing from the pen of Arash Amel, weighing in at 103 minutes, accompanied to the ring by its director Olivier Dahan, it is the number one contender for the title of Worst Film of 2014 and sure to be nominated for a bucketful of Razzies come awards season, it’s Grace Of Monaco!
Yes, it’s true. The biopic (although Dahan insists this is not a biopic -“ I hate biopics!” - instead “fiction based on real events”) of Hollywood legend-turned-principality royal Grace Kelly lives up to the hype of being truly putrid. Despite an interesting subject matter, a truly top tier cast, and a director of a previous Oscar winner, Grace Of Monaco is a vapid, horribly camp, utterly tedious attempt at making a serious and “important film”. It comes off more as a schmaltzy perfume advert stretched over an hour and three quarters.
There are some decent elements in there; the beautiful Mediterranean vistas, lush miss en scene, glamourous costuming (Dior dresses and all) and lavish production design are all candy for the eyes, but they really can’t polish this turd. Every member of the cast, from Kidman as Kelly to Tim Roth as Prince Rainier, even untouchable veterans such as Frank Langella and Derek Jacobi, feels dead behind the eyes and more dead. Although you can hardly blame them with such a risible script to work with; Amel reduces potentially fascinating material in Kelly’s personal conflicts to the star being a pawn between her husband and a hammy moustache-twirling Charles De Gaulle, as well as asking us to side with the tax evaders and gamblers and millionaires of Monaco (a bewilderingly tone deaf move in the current economic climate).
It should come as no surprise that the children of Kelly and Rainier relentlessly criticised the film, describing it as “needlessly glamorised and historically inaccurate”, with their requests for changes completely ignored. So not only is Grace Of Monaco distasteful to anyone with a modicum of taste in cinema, but it’s offended the family it’s based on. Worst of all, it’s not even in the category of “so bad it’s good”, so we’re left with a near-two hours of one-dimensional, humour-free bilge.

★☆☆☆☆ Introducing first, hailing from the pen of Arash Amel, weighing in at 103 minutes, accompanied to the ring by its director Olivier Dahan, it is the number one contender for the title of Worst Film of 2014 and sure to be nominated for a bucketful of Razzies come awards season, it’s Grace Of Monaco!
Yes, it’s true. The biopic (although Dahan insists this is not a biopic -“ I hate biopics!” - instead “fiction based on real events”) of Hollywood legend-turned-principality royal Grace Kelly lives up to the hype of being truly putrid. Despite an interesting subject matter, a truly top tier cast, and a director of a previous Oscar winner, Grace Of Monaco is a vapid, horribly camp, utterly tedious attempt at making a serious and “important film”. It comes off more as a schmaltzy perfume advert stretched over an hour and three quarters.
There are some decent elements in there; the beautiful Mediterranean vistas, lush miss en scene, glamourous costuming (Dior dresses and all) and lavish production design are all candy for the eyes, but they really can’t polish this turd. Every member of the cast, from Kidman as Kelly to Tim Roth as Prince Rainier, even untouchable veterans such as Frank Langella and Derek Jacobi, feels dead behind the eyes and more dead. Although you can hardly blame them with such a risible script to work with; Amel reduces potentially fascinating material in Kelly’s personal conflicts to the star being a pawn between her husband and a hammy moustache-twirling Charles De Gaulle, as well as asking us to side with the tax evaders and gamblers and millionaires of Monaco (a bewilderingly tone deaf move in the current economic climate).
It should come as no surprise that the children of Kelly and Rainier relentlessly criticised the film, describing it as “needlessly glamorised and historically inaccurate”, with their requests for changes completely ignored. So not only is Grace Of Monaco distasteful to anyone with a modicum of taste in cinema, but it’s offended the family it’s based on. Worst of all, it’s not even in the category of “so bad it’s good”, so we’re left with a near-two hours of one-dimensional, humour-free bilge.

★☆☆☆☆
    Introducing first, hailing from the pen of Arash Amel, weighing in at 103 minutes, accompanied to the ring by its director Olivier Dahan, it is the number one contender for the title of Worst Film of 2014 and sure to be nominated for a bucketful of Razzies come awards season, it’s Grace Of Monaco!
Yes, it’s true. The biopic (although Dahan insists this is not a biopic -“ I hate biopics!” - instead “fiction based on real events”) of Hollywood legend-turned-principality royal Grace Kelly lives up to the hype of being truly putrid. Despite an interesting subject matter, a truly top tier cast, and a director of a previous Oscar winner, Grace Of Monaco is a vapid, horribly camp, utterly tedious attempt at making a serious and “important film”. It comes off more as a schmaltzy perfume advert stretched over an hour and three quarters.
There are some decent elements in there; the beautiful Mediterranean vistas, lush miss en scene, glamourous costuming (Dior dresses and all) and lavish production design are all candy for the eyes, but they really can’t polish this turd. Every member of the cast, from Kidman as Kelly to Tim Roth as Prince Rainier, even untouchable veterans such as Frank Langella and Derek Jacobi, feels dead behind the eyes and more dead. Although you can hardly blame them with such a risible script to work with; Amel reduces potentially fascinating material in Kelly’s personal conflicts to the star being a pawn between her husband and a hammy moustache-twirling Charles De Gaulle, as well as asking us to side with the tax evaders and gamblers and millionaires of Monaco (a bewilderingly tone deaf move in the current economic climate).
It should come as no surprise that the children of Kelly and Rainier relentlessly criticised the film, describing it as “needlessly glamorised and historically inaccurate”, with their requests for changes completely ignored. So not only is Grace Of Monaco distasteful to anyone with a modicum of taste in cinema, but it’s offended the family it’s based on. Worst of all, it’s not even in the category of “so bad it’s good”, so we’re left with a near-two hours of one-dimensional, humour-free bilge.

★☆☆☆☆ Introducing first, hailing from the pen of Arash Amel, weighing in at 103 minutes, accompanied to the ring by its director Olivier Dahan, it is the number one contender for the title of Worst Film of 2014 and sure to be nominated for a bucketful of Razzies come awards season, it’s Grace Of Monaco!
Yes, it’s true. The biopic (although Dahan insists this is not a biopic -“ I hate biopics!” - instead “fiction based on real events”) of Hollywood legend-turned-principality royal Grace Kelly lives up to the hype of being truly putrid. Despite an interesting subject matter, a truly top tier cast, and a director of a previous Oscar winner, Grace Of Monaco is a vapid, horribly camp, utterly tedious attempt at making a serious and “important film”. It comes off more as a schmaltzy perfume advert stretched over an hour and three quarters.
There are some decent elements in there; the beautiful Mediterranean vistas, lush miss en scene, glamourous costuming (Dior dresses and all) and lavish production design are all candy for the eyes, but they really can’t polish this turd. Every member of the cast, from Kidman as Kelly to Tim Roth as Prince Rainier, even untouchable veterans such as Frank Langella and Derek Jacobi, feels dead behind the eyes and more dead. Although you can hardly blame them with such a risible script to work with; Amel reduces potentially fascinating material in Kelly’s personal conflicts to the star being a pawn between her husband and a hammy moustache-twirling Charles De Gaulle, as well as asking us to side with the tax evaders and gamblers and millionaires of Monaco (a bewilderingly tone deaf move in the current economic climate).
It should come as no surprise that the children of Kelly and Rainier relentlessly criticised the film, describing it as “needlessly glamorised and historically inaccurate”, with their requests for changes completely ignored. So not only is Grace Of Monaco distasteful to anyone with a modicum of taste in cinema, but it’s offended the family it’s based on. Worst of all, it’s not even in the category of “so bad it’s good”, so we’re left with a near-two hours of one-dimensional, humour-free bilge.

★☆☆☆☆

    Introducing first, hailing from the pen of Arash Amel, weighing in at 103 minutes, accompanied to the ring by its director Olivier Dahan, it is the number one contender for the title of Worst Film of 2014 and sure to be nominated for a bucketful of Razzies come awards season, it’s Grace Of Monaco!

    Yes, it’s true. The biopic (although Dahan insists this is not a biopic -“ I hate biopics!” - instead “fiction based on real events”) of Hollywood legend-turned-principality royal Grace Kelly lives up to the hype of being truly putrid. Despite an interesting subject matter, a truly top tier cast, and a director of a previous Oscar winner, Grace Of Monaco is a vapid, horribly camp, utterly tedious attempt at making a serious and “important film”. It comes off more as a schmaltzy perfume advert stretched over an hour and three quarters.

    There are some decent elements in there; the beautiful Mediterranean vistas, lush miss en scene, glamourous costuming (Dior dresses and all) and lavish production design are all candy for the eyes, but they really can’t polish this turd. Every member of the cast, from Kidman as Kelly to Tim Roth as Prince Rainier, even untouchable veterans such as Frank Langella and Derek Jacobi, feels dead behind the eyes and more dead. Although you can hardly blame them with such a risible script to work with; Amel reduces potentially fascinating material in Kelly’s personal conflicts to the star being a pawn between her husband and a hammy moustache-twirling Charles De Gaulle, as well as asking us to side with the tax evaders and gamblers and millionaires of Monaco (a bewilderingly tone deaf move in the current economic climate).

    It should come as no surprise that the children of Kelly and Rainier relentlessly criticised the film, describing it as “needlessly glamorised and historically inaccurate”, with their requests for changes completely ignored. So not only is Grace Of Monaco distasteful to anyone with a modicum of taste in cinema, but it’s offended the family it’s based on. Worst of all, it’s not even in the category of “so bad it’s good”, so we’re left with a near-two hours of one-dimensional, humour-free bilge.

  9. Jedi of the day: All it took was a simple beard to make Luke Skywalker look like the biggest badass in the galaxy, instead of, y’know, regular Mark Hamill. Hamill seems to have slimmed down a whole bunch recently in preparation for the reprisal of his most famous role in Episode VII, and the facial hair really ties the whole Jedi Master look together. Obi-Wan would definitely be proud.

  10. Song Of The Day