SALZBURG

So the day after Auschwitz was pretty much a day of driving through Poland, Czech Republic, Slovakia en route to Austria. Now, Poland was a mission to get out of. It took us three hours to get 100 miles through Poland and Czech Republic. And that was a bit annoying because we had seven or so hours worth of driving ahead of us as it was.

Anyhoo, the scenery got much better once we left Poland and feckin' Auschwitz behind - mountains and trees and what-not spreading out as far as the eye could see. Divine, and stuff. In the mean time I finished two books and Lee and Adam swapped driving positions occasionally. I dreamt of Moira Stewart. All was well.

Got to Salzburg to our comedy hotel. You know the pictures on tins of biscuits with lots of Aryan children frolicking in fields wearing lederhosen? And how your Gran seems to have a lot of figurines depicting such a scene? Well, yeah. We're staying in that scene. The double bed is four-poster, the light fixtures have antlers attached and the whole thing smells very strongly of old people's perfume. Not that this is altogether unpleasant, but when you realise that even Lee's really pungent natural aroma cannot penetrate the hotel's ambient smell, you start to become worried.

So we had some food and crashed pretty early in preparation of the trekkage that the day ahead would bring.

Not that there was much fucking point, as Adam's snoring was so chronic that Lee actually took his duvet and went to sleep in the car at around 4am. I shit you not. Adam couldn't give a flying fuck. He actually woke up when I jabbed him in the ribs for the millionth time, and when I told him to roll onto his front he simply said 'It won't make much difference', then proceeded to go back to sleep and start snoring.

CUNT.

Weirdly enough, me and Lee both dreamt about giant spiders. We have no idea why. I have only dreamt the same dream as someone else on one previous occasion -- with Alicia, while we were at opposite ends of the country. I shan't go into the details here, but suffice to say they were pretty much identical dreams. She is a bit psychic and we have been friends all our lives, so I suppose it follows. As with mine and Lee's dream.

So we sent off to Berchtesgaden, which is about 30km from Salzburg, back over the border into Germany. Man, this is confusing. Anyhoo, the point of being there was to visit the Eagle's Nest - Hitler's summer home. Now, none of us realised that this was high up in the mountains. Like 1837 metres above sea level. Thats roughly 6800 feet high. So we parked up and got on the cable car, which was slightly terrifying, as cable cars are, but not helped by the fact that each one was pretty much open air and seated only four people. It's the same feeling you get on a fairground ride - I'm sure this is safe, but it's been safe for like a hundred years and something is bound to go wrong at some point.

But it didn't and we made it up the mountain...only to find that there was a 15 minute walk...followed by a bus ride...followed by a lift...which would finally take us to the Eagle's Nest and the peak of the mountain. So after this TRIAL, we finally got out on top of the mountain. I immediately stumbled, Lee's legs began to shake, and we all began to yawn. Oh, yes indeed, the air was certainly thinner up there. In fact, it was so thin that while waiting in the queue for the lift me and Lee actually had a fit of the giggles - you remember the ludicrous kind you got the second time you ever smoked weed? Yeah, that happened.

Anyhoo, we ascended in the lift and emerged into glorious sunlight, and what I can only describe as some of the best views I have ever had the privelege to experience.




So that made it all worth it. For the record, the Eagle's Nest has now been converted into a restaurant so has little to do with Hitler or history. Although I was kinda glad of this as I had been worried that every holiday I take with Lee and Adam was going to turn into some feckin' tour of the third reich points of interest. Alack, not. The scenery was worth it.

We had a fantastic dinner in a charming place in the Baroque quarter of Salzburg this evening, and I think we strolled through one of the gardens where they filmed part of 'The Sound Of Music', which thrilled me very much. So I'm absolutely knackered now and we have a long drive ahead of us back to the UK tomorrow. I shall blog my final thoughts on the whole debacle on Friday. Or Saturday. Maybe Sunday. Whenever I recover enough to put it in perspective basically.

So now you know, don't be scared.

Peace xx

AUSCHWITZ - BIRKENAU

So we managed to have a pretty civilized evening yesterday and had a good night's sleep. Adam's snoring did wake me a couple of times throughout the night, but a well aimed jab in the ribs quickly remedied that situation and it was a mostly peaceful evening. That was lucky because today was to be our long day of visiting Auschwitz and Birkenau.

I was somewhat ambivelant about visiting the camps. On the one hand, I had wanted to do it for some time. It's something I think everyone should do, if only to more fully understand something that, incredibly, happened within living memory. And the whole thing has been so mythologised by books, television, films etc -- the holocaust seems to be departing into the realms of the wild west in popular culture. I wanted to see it for myself. But I also recalled now our trip to Normandy last year and the impact of seeing the mass graveyards at Omaha beach. It was the first time any of us had indulged in collective grief on such a grand scale, and we were definitely unprepared for the emotion that was brought forth. But Omaha beach would be a puddle of misery compared to the tsunami that Auschwitz would surely unleash.

I had heard a lot about what you see, hear, smell, feel while at Auschwitz. As you read previously, I had been surprised to find that the town next to the camp wasn't a dreary backwater full of miserable people where sunlight failed to penetrate. That should have given me my first clue to what I personally would experience at Auschwitz. This morning was beautiful - sunny and clear. We drove off to our destination not without trepidation, and as we drove down a road which ran adjacent to some of the blocks where prisoners were kept, I felt my stomach tighten considerably. I think we all bristled slightly and am willing to bet we all had the thought that this was a terrible, terrible idea.

This tension was broken pretty swiftly, however. Remember yesterday I told you how Adam couldn't remember whether he had booked a hotel or not, and we ended up just rocking up at one of them and booking a room on the spot? Well, the plot thickened. During dinner, Adam got a call from the hotel he had ACTUALLY booked, somewhere in the town, wondering where he was and when he would be turning up. Of course by then we were in this other gaff so Adam had to apologise and tell them there had been a cock up. Presently, as we drove down a long, desolate road, Birkenau to our left and Auschwitz to our right, numerous small buildings in between, we were just about to pull into the Auschwitz car park when Adam suddenly saw an imposing grey building across the road and exclaimed 'That's the one! That's the hotel I'd booked!' Fuck a duck. This gaff was literally across the road from the death camp, and looked fucking hideous. Evidently Adam forgetting about hotels and what not was a most fortuitous occurence.

Back to the narrative of the day. The sun was still shining beautifully as we got into the camp and joined a tour group. Apparently you're not allowed to wonder round Auschwitz unaccompanied, and although I was a bit miffed at the beginning, as I stupidly thought we would be herded around like a bunch of mindless tourists, but it turned out that our guide knew exactly what she was doing. The place runs like clockwork.

So there was the usual. We were shown the gate, the watch tower, the famous sign which greeted deportees. There were the usual exhibits with old pictures we had seen a thousand times before. But things quickly got pretty deep. There were piles of suitcases that had been taken from murdered Jews, who were told to write their names and dates of birth on them to maintain the illusion that they would eventually get their luggage back. Next up, there were piles of shoes -- thousands and thousands of shoes. Each pair had been part of an outfit. Each pair was a choice someone made when they thought they were heading for a new existence in Poland. Each pair was a life. Same with the piles of glasses. One couldn't help but imagine them being ripped away from their owner and tossed into a pile in one of the vast warehouses at Birkenau. Hence why they were displayed in their thousands as one, single, twisted mess. There were hair combs, tins of polish, and probably most shockingly of all to me, two tonnes of real human hair that had been shaved from the prisoners upon their arrival. There it was, behind a glass case, this endless sea of different shades. These were the last physical remnants of lives which had been gone for 65 years or more.

We saw the prison block, with tiny cells that had standing room only. We saw the death wall, where people were shot dead in their hundreds. Finally we were taken across to Birkenau, about 3km away. Its the one with the huge gatehouse that the railway track runs right through. There is very little left of Birkenau, having consisted almost entirely of wooden brigs where prisoners were held before they were gassed in chambers at the far end of the compound. These had been destroyed with dynamite just before liberation in an attempt by the Nazis to cover up their crimes. The brigs were dismantled after the war, so that now Birkenau resembles a vast field dotted here and there by a brick chimney. After the suffocating closeness of Auschwitz, the green expanse of Birkenau was something of a relief. Finally, we ended at the memorial located right at the end of those famous railway tracks, and were left to wonder and take it all in as we saw fit.

This all sounds like it should have been a miserable, draining experience. It truly wasn't. I expected to feel like I was trudging through a dark, heavy cloud of gloom. I thought that the misery of the one and a half million souls that had perished there would have permeated mine. But they didn't. We've all been to those kind of places -- old castles or dungeons or whatever, where they really try to ham up the drama of what had taken place there, and really ram it down your throat in a pathetic attempt to give you an 'experience'; not so at Auschwitz. The tour is pretty matter of fact; perhaps this is because the facts speak for themselves. And that is the overwhelming feeling I have. Auschwitz and Berkenau are not there to impress you with a gimmick, draw you into their legend, or depress you. They are a memorial, they are treated as such, and they speak for themselves: they seem to say 'Here we are. This is what happened here'

Perhaps it was because the sun shone so brightly and brilliantly all day. We pondered later that perhaps our perception of these places had been skewed because of this. So, we decided to wait until dark and head back out to the huge, looming gates of Birkenau and see if we didn't change our minds about what we felt there. We jumped in the car, and sped back through the night. The gates loomed out of the darkness and we parked the car. We got out. We walked up to the fences. We looked at the barracks in the blackness. We saw the train tracks disappear into the shadows. We saw the guard tower jutting out into the night sky. And still, I felt no different. It stood as it has always stood. As a memorial. Even darkness couldn't scare me into feeling that there was something ominous and sinister there. There was no fear in me whatsoever.

As you walk through Birkenau, you look around and see the grass that grows around the train tracks and derelict barracks is lush and green and dotted with daisies and dandelions. Birds even fly through the trees that line the crumbling gas chambers. This is a place to reflect and remember. The harsh misery of all those souls is gone now, replaced by something resembling peacefulness and serenity. Perhaps they are still there, wondering the tree-lined roads between the blocks of Auschwitz, no longer subject to the pain and agony that marked the end of their lives. I don't know where that energy could have gone; all I know is the camps are free, the huts are burned, and we try our best not to atone but remember. Meryl Streep and Stephen Spielberg may have their Oscars, but for Auschwitz and Birkenau it is the truth of their continued immovable presence that is a greater testament than any fictional legend.

So now you know, don't be scared.

Peace xx

ONWARDS

So the day in Brussels ended with a meal, some fine beers and collapsing into bed rather early as we had to begin our long drive across the continent the next day. Adam's snoring was giving cause for concern, but seeing as he within elbow jabbing distance I wasn't worried that much. More on that story later.

So we arose the next morning to our continental breakfast, deciding to stock up on pain au chocolat and a worrying array of jams and nutellas that Lee insisted would come in handy. However the goon did very well in nabbing an entire bottle of orange juice from under the buffet table which we then made off with into the bright, brisk morning.

Getting out of Brussels was, once again, a fucking nightmare. That city has not one, but TWO ring roads and all we knew was that we were stuck on at least one of them. So after about an hour of driving randomly in a circle, during which time we got some hasty shots of pretty buildings just to show that we had seen more things than in reality we had during our time there, we managed to make it onto the motorway or freeway or autobahn or whatever the cock they call it, and we were away.

We left Belgium behind pretty quickly and crossed into Germany. No, there is no difference apart from the road signs become much, much more amusing. 'Ausfhart', which means 'Exit', for example, cropped up many times along the way. Look, we were in that car for five fucking hours. There wasn't much to do and I could only read my book for certain lengths of time before I felt like I was going absolutely bananas. But anyway, we made it to our destination: Wolfsburg. I had no idea why we were stopping there, and as we approached this strange little town, my heart sank a little.

The main aim of this part of the trip, you see, was to get across Europe as quick as possible so we could get to Auschwitz, which is in Poland. That's quite far, so would involve at least one night's stop somewhere along the way. Now, rather than stick a pin in a map, Adam did some research and found that if we had to stop in any old place it might as well be Wolfsburg because they have a Volkswagen plant and museum we could visit (Adam had a mark II Golf GTI for a number of years and we have a lot of fond memories), so at least we could give some purpose and structure to the rest stop.

So, let's read that sentence again: all Wolfsburg has in it is a Volkswagen plant and museum. It's basically like you came to England and were driving from London to Manchester and had to stay in Milton Keynes or Swindon for a night. Yes, this town was pretty grim. Our hotel looked like a working men's club and was run by a couple of middle aged lezzers. Not what I had in mind for a grand European adventure. But one should never judge a book by it's cover. We went out for dinner at a charming place, which was cheap and damned good, the beer was pretty cheap too and in the morning we had the best damn breakfast ever. Seriously, the lezzers had laid on quite a spread. There must have been 20 different types of sausage available to us. That was just what we needed after a night of Adam's dreadful, demonic snoring. It's like he has Zuul or Gozer or a fucking pencil eraser stuck in the middle of his face struggling to get out. Rest assured, I will be lobbing shoes at him if he carries on this evening. So all in all, Wolfsburg was kinda grim but not half bad!

So today was a colossal 8-hour drive to Auschwitz. It wasn't particularly painful: Lee and Adam took it in turns to drive, I plowed through my books and slept a bit. Although once we actually got over the border into Poland, the roads became really shit and the atmosphere somewhat depressing. I mean, sorry, but Poland is pretty dumpy. And seeing as our final destination was Auschwitz, my thoughts turned to exactly who's idea this whole depressing leg of the journey was. Then I remembered that when the European road trip idea was presented, I was the one who demanded to come to Auschwitz. So I shut up.

Anyhoo, so we arrived in Auschwitz, which is really rather a quaint town, thank FUCK. It was then that Adam decided to announce that he didn't know which hotel he'd booked and, in fact, whether he'd booked it at all. So we headed for one that looked quite, ya know, leafy, and barreled up in the hope we had a reservation. The moody Polack bird on the desk was a bit rude at first when she found we hadn't booked, but as soon as we handed over the cash for a couple of night's stay she was the soul of politeness. Bloody Poles. They never change. So anyway, the gaff we're staying in is pretty nice, and just down the road from the whole DEATH CAMP thing, though we can't actually see the gates from our balcony so that's good I suppose.

So all that reading I did today was pretty exhausting so I think it's dinner, beers and bed. Tomorrow we are doing the DEATH CAMP thing, which I'm looking forward to but it is going to be fucking excruciating. Then I have a pizza place that Alicia recommended to find, if I haven't shot myself in the face. After that, it's Salzburg the next day ('Sound of Music' museum, here I come), followed by Munich and Oktoberfest! Yey!

Now you know, don't be scared.

Peace xx

BRUSSELS

HELLO DEARS.

To keep me sane during my week-long adventure with my brothers, and to keep you all informed of the lollersome antics, I decided to write a daily blog about the experience.

So, day one.

I got off to a somewhat shaky start due to the fact I had partaken in a drinking binge the evening before. Lack of food followed by trips to the Fitz, Three Jolly Butchers, back to the Fitz, onto a rather blurry Fishbowl (as oftentimes it is) and finally a nightcap at mine while watching 'Bedknobs and Broomsticks' was a bit of a silly idea, admittedly. Especially as I haven't really been drunk in a while. What the hell. I wanted to kick up my heels and wallow in my own crapulence.

So I was shaken awake at some ungodly hour by Lee begging me to get up and start packing. Oh yeah, I hadn't packed or anything. So it was all a bit hectic. Adam had been packing for about three weeks for some reason, so I had a lot of catching up to do. When I finally managed to unglue my eyes, I could see the genuine fear in Lee's. He didn't want Adam turning up all irate and shit, which oftentimes he is apt to do.

So I lay there in my fug while I directed Lee in the packing operations. Due to his lack of common sense and my own debilitated state, this seemed to amount to him throwing all of my t-shirts in the case, some socks (which, to my credit, were already in pairs), and some undercrackers, whereas the main bulk of operations was focused on which CDs to take with us. And yes, there's a lot of Madonna. Only ONE Tori Amos album -- this is because I discovered, to my horror, that I've leant out all of her CDs to people and have yet to get them back. But fear not, good reader. 'Pon my return I shall set out on a mission to find them, recover them, and love them. Then we can have a Tori Amos party. Oh, what fun.

Anyhoo, Adam turned up and enlisted Yolande to put my case in some sort of order, which she did impeccably, and after several cups of tea and a trip to the pasty shop, we were ready to go. I had my face squished into the window with a look of despair on my face more or less the whole time, but the lovely Kate Bush soundtrack was rather soothing. Getting on the Euro tunnel thingy was also painless. I got a copy of the Telegraph on the cheap (I know, I know. But it was discounted at Smith's. And, um, for some reason its the only newspaper in the country that manages to spell 'Pope' with a capital 'P'. Respect.), and settled down in the back of the car. But no-one ever told me how bloody quick the train is. I had just manouevered myself into a position with a modicum of comfort when it was announced that we would be on the road in a few minutes. Balls, I would have to sit up and pay attention to the bastard French countryside. Look, I've done France quite a lot. There's nothing new or interesting to see from the motorway. Belgium, by the way, is no different, so don't think I was suddenly inspired to give a shit just because we crossed the border.

Anyhoo, at this point I rummaged around and found Adam's 'travel pillow'. This turned out to be a cushion from his scabby sofa, but it was the best I could do so I covered in Lee's scabby hoody, wedged myself down, and slept pretty much until Brussels.

'Pon arrival in Brussels, Adam realised he only had a google maps print-out of the several streets immediately surrounding the location of the hotel. Long story short, we did an entire lap of Brussels on the ring road (which doesn't take as long as you think. But it does have a few tunnels teaming with carcenogens, yuk), then stopped at a bus stop to check the city map. This proved to be the cleverest thing anyone had done all day, and we found the hotel pretty quickly - before anyone could really get their rage on. Woop! I was slightly worried as we drove round as all I could see was conference centres and hotels. I think that's the only reason anyone comes to Brussels, right? (I suggested gate crashing a conference, but the idea didn't really take with the other two. I wanted to have free coffee and nick stuff. Like pens.) I was relieved as we got further into the ancient centre and saw that it is really a rather pretty city.

The pic is what I can see from our hotel. It's called 'Moon Hotel' - how delightfully whimsical! I am filled with LOLZ. Righto, Lee is getting hungry so we're off to look at more pretty things and feed ourselves.

Now you know, don't be scared.

Peace xx

Rufus Wainwright New Album

Welcome back readers. Now, as many of you have probably heard, Rufus Wainwright has a brand spanking new album out called ‘All Days Are Nights: Songs For Lulu’. Joy abundant, obviously. But this is not the album a fan would expect from Rufus at this stage, and in turn I don’t think this is the album the critics would have you believe. Let me explain.

The album opens with the fairly subdued but still fast-paced ‘Who Are You New York?’ Though lacking Rufus trademark orchestral lushness, and certainly different even from the slightly more rounded pop sensibilities of his previous album ‘Release The Stars’, this opening track harks back to ‘Poses’ or ‘Want One’ – its closest relative probably being ‘The Art Teacher’. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. Then comes ‘Sad With What I Have’. Once again, it’s just Rufus and his piano, channelling jazz and blues…and the album continues in a similar way. There are no other instruments, no grand choirs, not even a backing vocal. And while many of the sentiments and lyrics retain some of the inate Wainwright melodrama, this album really represents a different side of Rufus.

We certainly get some surprises. Remember when Rufus brilliantly set Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29 to music? Here he does the same thing with not one, but three more sonnets. I heard them for the first time when he performed them in Paris last summer, and was blown away. Rufus has a real talent for seeking out the truth of a lyric and matching it to music, and vice versa – so the effect is not lost on record. Later in the album, he includes ‘Les Feux D’Artifice T’Appelant’, an aria from his recent opera ‘Prima Donna’, sung entirely in French. It takes a very brave man and an immensely assured talent to release an album that contains a substantial amount of material gleaned from Shakespeare and French opera.

Things do get more sombre later on, but there are bright spots; as Rufus says ‘The world needs both the sun and the moon too’. So, the otherwise quiet and reflective ‘True Loves’ contains some lush, soaring piano solos; ‘The Dream’ twists, turns and takes us on a journey through what Rufus encounters in a waking daze and what keeps him from sleeping; and ‘Give Me What I Want And Give It To Me Now!’ is up-tempo, upbeat, and somehow manages to sound like a mixture between honky-tonk and a Bernard Herrman film score. The title of this last track is, perhaps, a knowing nod to Rufus’ famous diva-esque tendencies and massive ego. And maybe that was a deliberate deception, because Rufus is not being self-indulgent on this album. The main reason being that the emotional core of this record is Rufus living through his Mother’s illness and eventual death.

When emotion is so raw, I think an artist’s way of expressing themselves become simpler and more explicit. It seems as if there is no way to ‘dress up’ something so painful and immediate. The greatest example I can give here is Virginia Woolf. She was one of the 20^th century’s greatest writers. Her dense, beautiful prose was groundbreaking and, though much copied, has rarely been matched. Yet personally, I feel that her most powerful words were the final ones she wrote in a note to her beloved husband, Leonard, just before she committed suicide:

Dearest.

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.

The sparse, simple language conveys more than any affected, decorous poetry could have. And here Rufus – a man who we associate with words like ‘melodrama’ ‘opera’ ‘orchestra’ ‘diva’, dispenses with theatre. He is so numb with suffering and grief that as his Mother is dying, he simply leaves his sister an answer phone message warning her that she is on her way out. He asks who has never had to bleed in their life. He tells the imaginary friend of his childhood matter-of-factly that his Mother is in the hospital. He also tells us he’s in love, but doesn’t want to talk about it – perhaps telling us that this is a raw, personal work.

Consider Rufus’ hectic schedule these past few years: ‘Release The Stars’ was a pretty epic endeavour, as was his Judy Garland tribute at Carnegie Hall, which spawned a double album and a rigorous touring schedule. Fans who saw Rufus live at this time were treated to a kind of two-part set: the first half had him singing songs from his new album and favourites from his back catalogue, while in the second half he transformed into an outfit reminiscent of Garland in ‘A Star Is Born’ (complete with stockings and suspenders) and belted out some of her classics. I was treated to this sight on at least three separate occasions. Lucky me! He then managed to follow this up by writing an entire opera from scratch, and to complicate matters further he decided to write it in French. His Mother, by now very ill, managed to see the premiere of ‘Prima Donna’ but died just before this album was released. So maybe Rufus felt that, his Mother’s illness aside, that it was time to get back to doing what he did best, and what comes most naturally to most musicians. He wanted to sit down at the piano and write. Perhaps being presented so immediately with a sense of mortality made the grand excesses of the last few years seem frivolous.

Some reviews claim that ‘Songs For Lulu’ is morbid and inaccessible. I can assure you this is not the case. Rufus does not dwell on the subject of death or revel in misery. The musical arrangements are definitely not designed to alienate anyone. The lyrics are personal and touching but in no way depressing. The overall effect is one of beauty, and it reminds you that much as we love his more ostentatious work, Rufus is an astoundingly talented musician who loses nothing by trying to progress and bring different qualities to his music.

Absolutely beautiful. Get it now.

Peace xx

Strong Mediums and Increasingly Desperate Housewives

Sigh, sigh. Doom, doom. I am in the process of voluntarily withdrawing from the world. I shall close my shutters; seal up my doors and windows; no dust from the street shall enter my home; no sunlight shall penetrate the darkness of my inner sanctum. My eight years of mourning will rival Bernada Alba's, or indeed any poetic misery that Lorca could have dreamt up. For five years and six seasons, I have faithfully followed my Housewives through good times and bad; great episodes and good episodes; some, even bad episodes. I held on tight as the good ship steered through stormy seas, always knowing that it would eventually reach calmer waters and deliver us back to the land of top quality. Alas, I fear this show has navigated into the wrong ocean altogether, never to return.

It's no secret that season five was particularly uneven and, by the finale, uninvolving. I would say the two standout episodes were 5.5, Mirror, Mirror, in which the housewives each had a flashback to what had been going on in the 5 years since season four, to great effect. The episode culminated in a party at Susan's where Mrs McCluskey tried to attack Dave Williams with a baseball bat. This was the first time we had seen the truly evil side of Dave and we were set up for an exciting villain for the season. The other episode was 5.8, City On Fire, where Dave killed his therapist and set fire to the nightclub. Gripping stuff in time for sweeps week, of course. However, the season soon fell apart after that. The Eli Scruggs episode, ironically entitled The Best Thing That Ever Could Have Happened, was a bizarre flashback episode revolving around someone we had never met, and Edie's death five episodes later resembled some sort of DVD extra 'souvenir' featurette, where each housewife remembered pivotal moments in their lives with Edie.

Now, upon second viewing, these episodes as standalones were excellent. But in the course of a season where we had an excellent villain and a plotline hurtling towards something catastrophic, it made no sense to suddenly interrupt the action twice in the second half of the season to bring us a pair of, contextually at least, truly strange episodes. By the time we got to the finale, we were all so bored by the season being dragged out, and so painfully aware of the predictable way it would conclude, that once it was over and done with we looked forward to a robust season six.

Well we're seven episodes in and I couldn't be more unimpressed. The Bolen mystery will, of course, probably become much more involving and dramatic as the season progresses, but I'm not sure anyone will really care. The plotlines themselves are being recycled, too! Does anyone else remember in season four, when Bree and Katherine had a rivalry over their cooking and clashing personality types, only for them to realise that they actually had a lot in common and would both benefit greatly if they combined their culinary knowledge and came to understand each other better? And then last night Bree and Angie had a rivalry over their cooking and clashing personality types, only for them to realise that they actually had a lot in common and would both benefit greatly if they combined their culinary knowledge and came to understand each other better. Even some of the dialogue was identical! Which makes me wonder if the writers are really trying anymore.

Case in point: Eva Longoria. Granted, it took a couple of seasons for her to really blossom into a great comic actress. But that is what she is. So why do they keep handing her storylines about children's parties, monkeys attacking clowns and housework? The comedy this season is rarely laugh-out-loud hilarious, and feels extremely contrived in the 'what sort of harebrained scheme will the housewives come up with this week?' vein. On the other end of the scale, the moving drama that the show is famous for seems to have boiled down to a musical cue. At the end of each episode someone will make a 'moving' speech like 'I worry about how to get that spot out of the upholstery...' accompanied by some violins. And I think we're meant to cry there. What ever happened to genuinely moving moments, like Lynette getting cured of cancer in season four? Bree breaking down over Rex's death in the season one finale? Susan crying through the door to Jackson in season five? I'm sorry, it just isn't the same.

I was told by a friend that in the past couple of seasons, Desperate Housewives seems to be following a one week on-one week off pattern. So a robust episode is followed by a meandering one, and so on. But why should it be so? What happened to each episode being a finely crafted piece of art, instead of a dull stepping stone to the next interesting plot? Don't get me wrong, it must be extremely difficult to keep working to the same standard after 130 episodes. So why then sign on to make a further 58?!

I mentioned in previous blogs my belief that season length should be cut down to around 13 episodes. This would allow for twice as many programmes with twice the quality. Make sense? I don't want to watch a show for six months of the year if it is going to bore me. I want it for three or four months and leave me wanting more. It's called longevity. Well, Desperate Housewives has proved it certainly has that. Fingers crossed for better quality.

And so to Medium, which has also entered it's sixth season and keeps getting better. We haven't had an episode so violent for a very long time. The body count was high and pretty grisly -- there were no shootings or stabbings -- instead each victim was beaten to death. Literally punched and kicked in the face until they were lifeless piles of bloody pulp. Nice! Rape was also pretty prevelant, too. What fun!

Scanlon's brother turned up and we find out he is a convicted rapist. In terms of narrative, Medium has reminded me of early ER in the way that it's character's backgrounds are slowly revealed instead of being heaped upon us all at once. I don't think that when David Cubitt first signed on as a one episode homicide detective he could have anticipated the layers that would be added to his character. From that beginning we have found out about his murdered sister, abusive Father, drug addiction, and finally we saw his marriage to Lynn and birth of their daughter. The appearence of his brother added another dimension to an already extremely complicated character. Great to see a return to the real dark, chilling, brutal themes that elevate the show above the lighter Ghost Whisperer style plot lines. One of the strongest episodes of the season.

Peace

xx

Oscar Nominations

So the 2010 Oscar nominations have been announced. Not too many surprises, to be honest. But let's take a look anyway.

So this year the best picture category has extended to ten films. Ostensibly to share the wealth, as it were, and bring more of the attention that an Oscar nomination brings to a wider variety of films. Actually, though, this is a money-making exercise. Hollywood has been hit by the recession too so needs to keep making as much money as possible. A nomination for best picture always makes a film's box office gross leap higher, so it makes sense to allow more films to reap the financial rewards. Also, the Oscar telecast has had steadily declining viewing figures for years. Some have accused the Academy of only nominated small, obscure films (yeah, right. If only), so people are therefore uninterested in the nominated films and don't watch the show. A bloated ten picture race is sure to bring in more crowds. Supposedly. When the viewing figures are revealed after Oscar night, we will see whether this ploy worked.

I feel the winner here will be Avatar. The Academy loves a blockbuster and this film has been dominating awards season. Although saying that, the consolation for The Hurt Locker will almost certainly be a best director win for Kathryn Bigelow. But this could go either way. Both best picture and best director will be a clear fight between former spouses Bigelow and James Cameron, so we could have vote-split upset where something clearly less deserving like Inglourious Basterds wins the statuette. So much for a ten-film race enhancing the Academy's credibility.

So, Up scored a nomination for best picture. The last animated feature to do this was, I think, Beauty and the Beast back in 1991. Goody! The big surprise here was The Blind Side scoring a nomination in this category. Now, urm, am I the only one that seems to remember that this film had only mediocre reviews on release and didn't exactly set the box office alight? But recently Hollywood has showed a lot of love towards this film and it's star, Sandra Bullock.

Which brings us neatly on to the best actress category. It was looking a bit touch and go as to whether Carey Mulligan would receive a nomination for her work in An Education, but there she is, right up with Meryl Streep, Sandra Bullock, Helen Mirren and Gabby Sidibe. Now, the most deserving winner here is probably Sidibe. She has been nominated for her role in Precious on many previous occasions but unfortunately has never won. I don't think this is about to change. Mirren and Mulligan have received congratulatory nominations, so the real battle here is between Streep and Bullock. And, unlikely as this sounds, I think Sandra Bullock is about to win her first Oscar. She beat Meryl at the SAG awards and also won the Golden Globe. Frankly, I wouldn't like to see Meryl win her first Oscar in 27 years for the fun but lightweight Julie & Julia. Especially after the many fantastic roles she didn't win for in the intervening years. This award is Bullock's to lose.

Jeff Bridges is a dead cert for best actor in Crazy Heart. He is a veteran and five-time nominee, and the only real standout in this category, I feel. There are murmurings of an upset by George Clooney, but I severely doubt it. I don't really think he was quite as good in Up In The Air as everyone makes out -- it's just that he is George Clooney, he who can do no wrong.

If I had any doubts about Bridges before the nominations were announced, I was certain when I saw Maggie Gyllenhaal's nomination in the supporting category for the same film. She wasn't nominated at the Globes or SAG, so her nomination here is something of a shock and tells me that there is a lot more support out there for Crazy Heart than we first thought. Speaking of supporting actress, Mo'nique has this sewn up for Precious. She has stormed through awards season over co-star Gabby Sidibe, and looking at the other nominees, I don't believe there is a chance of an upset. Penelope Cruz's nomination for Nine was not entirely unexpected as she is the darling of the Academy, and Anna Kendrick and Vera Farmiga have been jointly nominated in every set of awards up until this point. Anna Kendrick was something of a breakout in a performance that was, by turns, hilarious and touching. And Vera Farmiga is finally getting the attention she deserves after years doing sterling work. She is an extremely watchable and charismatic actress and I hope we see much more of her in years to come.

Supporting actor is easy, too: Christoph Waltz has taken home a lot of awards for Inglourious Basterds and I think this will be the big win for that film. Nothing else too interesting in this category, although I was overjoyed to see Stanley Tucci finally receive his first Oscar nomination for The Lovely Bones (which I expected to receive more nominations actually. Curious) Tucci has done a lot of outstanding character work recently in ER, The Devil Wears Prada, and Julie & Julia so his nomination here is thoroughly deserved.

No original screenplay nomination for Avatar means that this will probably be another win for The Hurt Locker. The only other possible option here is a win for A Serious Man, as the Academy does adore the Coen brothers. But I don't think this is likely. Adapted screenplay is a bit harder to judge. There are a range of films covering a range of subjects here, but I'm pretty sure this will go to Up In The Air. The Academy loves Jason Reitman, and seeing as I don't think his film will win the awards for picture, director, or any acting, I think this is where it will be rewarded.

Usually, the editing, cinematography, and visual effects categories are hard to judge. But this year James Cameron has made it easier for us: Avatar is going to win them all. It may also win for sound aswell, but I have a sneaky feeling that The Hurt Locker will grab this one away.

All in all, a pretty robust set of nominees. More interesting than last year, anyhow.

Check back for more Oscar talk as the season progresses.

Peace xx