Jacob Kelly's Funeralopolis Vol. 2 Issue 5: The Last Barbecue

Vol. 2 Issue 5: The Last Barbecue

Page 1-Good Grief, Can They Please Write About Something Else?

Yet another viewing of a watered down studio horror film (Rob Savage's The Boogeyman) covering the subject of grief causes Kelly to lose the plot. Why is grief so popular today in horror? Do we need to think bigger than on an individual level? The current face of modern horror, Ari Aster, also uses grief. Why is it that he is an artist and Rob Savage is not? All will be answered.

Page 9-We Need More Shamans

A shocking revelation is made about how to revive the possession genre. Last month's The Pope's Exorcist may have found a temporary solution through star power. However, Thai horror The Medium appears to have the true answer on where to go next. Read on to find out what.

Page 13-Long Live the Reign of Sam Levinson

For the first time in a while, we review what's going down on the small screen. Here we take a look at Kelly's new best friend Sam Levinson, the creator of Euphoria and now causing controversy with his new TV show The Idol, a collaboration with pop sensation, The Weeknd. This has looked inviting ever since the media first dubbed it "torture porn". Episode by episode this goes through the show to see if it's really as shocking as they say.

Page 19-Is Time Up for the Barbecue and Beers Gang?

Over 22 years have passed since we've been pulling jobs with the Barbecue and Beers gang. From robbing 9 inch televisions to global espionage, we've done it all with this crew. Each time closing shop with a barbecue to show that in the face of it all, we are and remain family. Sadly, there isn't many stories left to tell as the penultimate chapter is reviewed. Elsewhere, Kelly gets in a few car crashes himself and stages a barbecue too to celebrate his leaving of Sheffield. Pull up a chair, crack open a beer and make yourself a burger but don't forget to say grace.

Good Grief, Can They Please Write About Something Else?

Howdy, Psycho-Schradists. Part of the reason for starting Funeralopolis was to express my dissatisfaction with the state of modern horror. My disappointment in its direction since those Blumhouse bastards changed the entire model and who they're oriented at after the success of Insidious. The meddling of studio polished watered down nonsense, which serves no purpose other than bland entertainment and can't even deliver us our basic twisted transgressive kicks. Also, the alternative to this, A24, which started off so strongly has wielded some weaker results lately in their strive for weird for weirds sake with notably less than weird results. Unlike the Blumhouse bastards, I'm sure those fellas can get it back on track and achieve greater consistency on their outings. Believing that simply moaning can be a meaningless exercise, where possible I have tried to suggest ways in which these newer movies should go and to try to recommend older classics to combat societies relentless rejection of anything older than 20 years. How to maintain what you could call the exploitation ethos whilst adapting to a new audience. Fundamentally, something I believed that senior critics were not writing about enough and they were readily accepting shit you wouldn't even serve your dog for dinner that gets released today in vast quantities.

Now, over the last few months since this rag tag magazine first began hitting the streets, I have been so shocked and moved to find that I am not alone in sharing these opinions and there have been those wanting someone to come out and address this utter shitshow that has been avoided for too long. As well as this, there have been those who may not have originally agreed or been aware of the drawbacks of horror in its current form as it is presented today but have revisited the older films I have suggested and come round to supporting the idea that things have certainly changed around here and not for the best. My Psycho-Schradists for too long have we suffered in silence. Under the impression we are slowly going insane amongst all this safe choir preaching yellow bellied bullshit.

I write for the sleazeballs, the maniacs and the thrill seekers. For the kind of people living in a dream, who horde outside the Disney shops on 42nd Street that were once grindhouses like zombies in Dawn of the Dead. Seemingly little or no reasoning power, but basic skills remain and more remembered behaviour from normal life. Wondering amidst all the aids, drugs and prostitution, where did it all go wrong? I write for people who pass their time by throwing darts at pictures of Rudy Guiliani, thinking with every blow at the board, one day I'm gonna really get that bastard for destroying our home. For those who feel this way, welcome to the home of Funeralopolis. Where all things sleazy are just a shout away.

Respected readers, the overwhelming response means that I will not give up on this area and will continue to focus my attention to this particular problem. Therefore, my aim will be to keep identifying that which I believe needs improving and refrain from repeating myself where possible. Rob Savages newest film, The Boogeyman, presents several flaws that have become all too common as of late and will be perfect to discuss as examples of shit I'm sick of seeing.

Those who have kept up with Rob Savage will know he's something of a fraud. He achieved fame after his 2020 pandemic techno horror Host. Not to be confused with the phenomenal creature feature from Bong Joon Ho or the crappy young adult Sci-fi misstep from Andrew Niccol that came during that wave of films like Twilight, Maze Runner and Hunger Games. Mr Savage's Host has to be one of the most overrated horror films of the last few years. You will see it ranked highly in all sorts of found footage and techno horror lists. Critics will often describe it as a refreshing take on what has become a well-worn genre. On paper, it is the perfect contribution to found footage that came at just the right time. The film itself? Bang stinking average.

After setting up some zeitgeist scares with the isolated zoom calls, it quickly descends in to the familiar and becomes just another regular addition to the genre complete with your usual boring and loud scenes of household items clattering in to walls with little suspense. It reminds of what Hitchcock said once that if a bomb happens to go off that's shock, if you know a bombs going to go off that's suspense. So basically, if you make the audience aware of something characters may not be aware of that creates tension. Whereas, if the unexpected happens it is less interesting. The suspense requiring a lot more skills as you have to maintain the viewer. In contrast, shock can have its place but it can also be a lot cheaper. Hence, why those types of possession movies got old quick.

Sadly, the majority of possession/demon/found footage movies today rely on shock over suspense. Essentially, resorting to slamming items against walls at high volumes to get you to react in a lazy and unearned manner. I'm looking at you The Conjuring. You'd have to go back to the '70s for that brooding slow burning atmosphere. The writing is so weak on these newer entries so it has to rely on set pieces and doesn't help either cause these directors aren't exactly David Beckham if you know what I mean. As I said, Host starts above this level with a relevant edge through the writing adding in the fears of the time but still becomes household items thrown about the gaff. Anything that could have been interesting is quickly lost. Of all the horrors that dared to, and even succeeded against all odds, in finishing the production stage and commenting on the conditions under which they were manufactured, Ben Wheatley's In The Earth would have my pick for the best. Not that we're spoilt for choice.

Savage then quickly bounced back with Dashcam in 2021 to capitalise on his new found fame. This I haven't seen but it appears to be another of these like Deadstream using social media as an excuse to go Gonzo. Something which in concept is very much fair game to explore and appeals to us at Funeralopolis but all too often comes off achingly modern and failing to say anything of worth. Instead of satirising internet trends they are just as ugly and hollow.

Most of those that have seen Dashcam criticise its run time and point out how the beauty of the VHS films is the anthology structure allowing for stories like these not to run out of steam. To me, that sounds like another undeveloped concept from Savage and we're in agreement this time. Thank fuck. I count two misses. Meaning most likely he did not improve his talents on his second attempt. Don't forget that when this came out Vue dropped it from their screening schedule. Savage, who if anything is always fast on the draw, was quick to use this to market the film by positioning it as so controversial the cinema won't even show it. Before you suck him off just yet, Vue hilariously then came out and said it was nothing to do with it being offensive but because they thought it was so bad no-one would want to see it. Now that's Savage.

Despite Dashcam appearing interestingly lo-fi, it is actually a Blumhouse production. The same cannot be said about his third feature, The Boogeyman Everything about the trailer screamed Blumhouse with its commercialised and ill-conceived slick production values, terrible writing and bland scares. My initial reaction to it was bursting out in laughter at every moment. It was so on point Blumhouse. Somehow it continues to be popular. I recall someone at the back of the cinema when the trailer aired going, "that looks scary!". Did we just watch the same thing? That was all I could think. How does one be scared by having such little context to go off and whatever information it does gives you you've seen hundreds of times over? Genuine question.

How are the vast majority of film goers terrified so easily? There's nothing amusingly transgressive at play to catch you off guard. Ok, generally speaking the odd decent set piece in an empty horror can be a little intense but unless it's Hitchcock or De Palma level you'll probably forget it in a week. What's actually scary is good writing, which is disappearing from this arena all too rapidly. I confess, I've not been truly terrified by a horror movie since 2008s Lake Mungo. That remains one of the most immaculate pieces of horror as a concept since The Blair Witch Project .

Personally, what puts me firmly on edge is when you challenge my beliefs or principles. I'm here to be told I'm wrong and everything I've been led to believe is in fact, untrue. Whether it be scientific theory, political ideology or philosophical questions. All the basic supports I lean on, that I have tied myself to are fucking nonsense and I have no bearings in these world, nothing solid to grip on to. It's all random, meaningless and unexplainable. There is only the void. Exactly what Lake Mungo did. It proposed the idea that the medium I love (film) is something to be feared. A dangerous entity we still do not fully understand. Similar to Blair Witch, which took my beloved setting of the woods (something I always associated with positively as growing up I always lived in houses that backed on to the woods) and turned it in to this vacuum where time doesn't operate normally. Both push the boundaries of technology in film that goes beyond mere classification as horror, becoming essential for any film fan wanting to see the progression of the medium. They border in to the existential. If you haven't seen Lake Mungos finale, I won't ruin it but it's ideas may seem familiar as I'm always stealing from it whenever I can.

For those less interested in Lake Mungo's relationship between cinema and death, the grief and family trauma aspect is undeniably alluring. They use unknown actors and most have them have never worked again adding to the authenticity of the project. However, this is a theme now so regularly used like clockwork it is beginning to bore. It seems like that's all writers can think to write about and nearly every horror coming out to today features a grieving teenager or widow. The pain of losing a loved one. Have they forgotten there are other things that can be written about? Are our times so uninteresting and empty that all we can do is focus on something so generic as grief? Making no attempt to address the specific problems of a particular decade is a one way ticket to irrelevancy. Why are we not riffing on the darker aspects of our culture? Vietnam, Hiroshima, Iraq... Touching these topics, wasn't it this that always made horror so gripping? A place where you could go for this conversation when no other genres would open their doors? Horror, the place you go when nothing else works. But where do you go when horror stops working? Jacob Kelly's Funeralopolis that's fucking where.

Generally, we need to think bigger beyond individual trauma and back in to national trauma. That's the collective nightmare. Horror filmmakers should constantly be thinking what is that and how do we define that? Has it changed to some degree and if so what changed it? This is where my love of creature features comes in to play. The subversive act of hiding cold wars inside ridiculously entertaining big dumb monster movies. True cinematic spectacle. Over time these have completely changed in the fears that they address. Look at Them! And Cloverfield, united by their monsters but two very different monsters. One covering the bomb and the other turning to 9/11. To be clear, I'm not all tapped out on the theme even at such a narrow and individual level. I'm just mainly bored by the repetitive routine of it, it's easiness as a go to and the lack of new ground covered every time it's used.

The other day I was thinking who is the go to director these days for young film enthusiasts first getting in to the game? For my generation, the answer was obvious, ask pretty much anyone and they'll probably agree it was Paul Thomas Anderson. He dominated the 2000s and 2010s by so perfectly maintaining this challenging arthouse but still commercial hybrid. When people my age were first navigating the terrain, There Will Be Blood had only been out a few years and already it seemed destined to be a classic of the 21st century along with Mulholland Drive and In the Mood for Love. Paul Thomas Anderson then continued with a steady stream of hits and just hasn't really missed.

Right, so my guys had Paul. Who do the kids have now as the artsy but still able to win the biggest crowds?

Challenging without being off putting. Marvel doesn't really make directors. So that's them off the table. Films like Everything Everywhere at Once is not really an alternative, it's still Marvelised rubbish. Horrors increased in popularity out of nowhere. Therefore, I guess you have to go for someone from A24, which is also a little irritating because that’s a production company or even to some extent arguably a genre in itself. Is auterism dying out as we know it?

Regardless, there have been a few auteurs who have emerged from there such as the Safdie Brothers and Ari Aster. 3

For now, we shall just address Ari Aster. Midsommar is literally the most popular horror film on Letterboxd, even topping Jordan Peele's Get Out. There's another name some may throw back at me but if honest is becoming increasingly disappointing and could well be a fraud. Get Out was near perfect conceptually and for the first half the satire is on point but the sloppier second half that sinks in to the generic (even if it is fun) is often ignored. I forgave this as it was his debut and assumed he would grow on that. He hasn't. Everything released since has got worse and worse. Blows my mind that some were trying to call him the best horror film director of all time. Excuse me? Let's go over this. Get Out gets points for the relevance to our times but his last two have been way off the mark. So, all told he has one great film to his name, that doesn't warrant him best of all time status now, does it?

Back to Ari Aster, I have often wondered myself whether we've overhyped this guy too as the face of contemporary horror. Was it one of those trains we boarded too soon and then found we couldn't get off? If he was releasing at any other time he'd be nowhere near as successful. His success can be accounted to the fact he's got very little to compete with. He steals heavily from other superior films from the past such as The Exorcist and The Wicker Man and then injects his own dumb gross out stoner humour as though still trying to impress his film student friends. That's his M.O. His critics have tried to discredit him as being uncaringly cruel towards his characters, focusing too much on their pain. Whilst I think to some extent this could be true, how do you explain the blatant humour in his work? It's not all doom and gloom. Maybe these people take him too seriously.

Anyway, one theme that regularly crops up in his work is this frequently used theme of grief and family trauma. Where've we seen that one before?

Watching bottom of the barrel garbage like Rob Savage's The Boogeyman week in week out, has only made me appreciate Ari Aster more. A good artist subverts his material and takes you beyond it in to their mind. Precisely what makes Ari Asters Ouvre so damn memorable. He's the one speck of gold under layers and layers of shit.

Whereas Blumhouse and other big studio horrors are so content with merely recycling and regurgitating, Aster genuinely has something to say on the subject. With each film he unapologetically takes you through his perversions in ways you're simply not going to get from these watered down studio horrors. He is by far the most revealing and has established himself as cinemas greatest auteur with mummy issues since David Chase. Not seen a man battle with his own mother in his work like this since Eminem. Mrs Aster or Bobbi Lurie as she goes as, must be some lady. Wherever she may be, Funeralopolis would like a word with her. We'd like to offer her a full interview and see what she has to say on the subject. Maybe she can argue her case and challenge this public image of her brought about by her naughty son. What a menace that Ari Aster is, who else has brought such a personal and comical touch to the proceedings? In the current climate, that is what makes Ari Aster: good.

Aster's antics combat the familiar Ztier trite that I have to put with on a weekly basis like The fucking Boogeyman. So next time you tell me Ari Aster is no good, try sitting through this shit every fucking Friday. Midsommar, Hereditary, Beau is Afraid , these are blessing. His offerings are more of an event. The antidote to the uninspired. I've said this multiple times but the overwriting common today stops the Blumhouse/studio model from being horror to me. Instead, they should be referred to as dull dramas. Aster puts the horror back in there going a different route with the comedy (what originally made Jordan Peele a force to be reckoned with). Blumhouse films are so serious and one note that they do nothing with the material. It is entirely predictable and comes at you with the same dose at the same time every week like fucking Whac-A-Mole.

Returning to The Boogeyman, because I'm aware this film has rattled me so badly I've done my best not to speak about it, Savage has leaned on Stephen King. Weaker King by any sane man's definition, made for students, hence why it's one of those 'Dollar Babies'. What the fuck is a guy with a 35 million budget turning to those for any way? Save it for the students, you fucking freak!

In fact, The Boogeyman was originally one of the first Dollar Babies, when King and Darabont initially discussed the concept together back in 1982, resulting in the Night Shift Collection half hour TV movies. There will be those that say this remake is way better than the cheap and amateurish version we got from Jeff Schiro back in the '80s (not a clue who this geezer is by the way, if anyone has any information on him please send it my way). They'll quote the greater talent involved from the cast and better production values. Allow me to counter, the trashy original was way better. For starters, it's only 28 minutes long compared with the latest ones excruciating 99 minutes. Whilst, the old one is by no means conventionally good, it goes the other way and begins working in its favour by being so sloppy.

It looks like it's been shot by a maniac with next to no knowledge of filmmaking, using only late night Xrated entertainment from a porno house for reference and its main actor so sleazy looking he could be a frequenter of those types of establishments that are now all but extinct. It is near impossible to get a grip on the thing due to the short running time causing it not to follow the usual beats, adding to how unsettling it all is. Nearly everything about it is so unpredictable, sweaty and deranged that it works better as a piece of horror than Rob Savage could ever have imagined. I'll take that over the new ones bland appearance.

My theory on adapting expert horror novelist Stephen King is that you have to pinpoint the good, be brave enough to disregard the bad and try to latch your own meanings on to the intoxicating imagery. You could say this about any adapting but the difference with the King is that he literally spells it out to you what's good, what's shit and what's yours for the taking. Making him probably the greatest person to adapt because his books are so fun, flawed, cinematic and ripe with ideas to merge with your own. Savage, being the coward that he is, doesn't do any of these things. If there's one thing I hate in cinema it’s a coward. Take away his cinema card and put this man in jail for sheer gutlessness.

In his interviews, he has spoken about, "reclaiming the monster under the bed" How fucking juvenile. I think we all got over that when we were 10, mate. Imagine you're in the boozer, you haven't kept up to date with your horror for whatever reason. You've been too busy with work and other nonsense, so you ask, "Right, what's happening in horror right now?". Then someone tells you, "oh, there's this new guy called Rob Savage". So naturally after clearing up it's not the former Welsh football player with a hard on for yellow cards, you add, "ah cool, what's he about then?". And the other person answers, "Oh, he's reclaiming the monster under the bed". Terrible. Terrible. Terrible.

I'd sleep easier at night if I knew Rob Savage's hands would never touch a camera again. Chop those fuckers off and lash them in the pile with Ryan Goslings arms in Only God Forgives . Fair enough if you were to take the monster under the bed and you tie it in to contemporary culture. What this ghost represents is something powerful and is an abstract image of what currently scares us in society. That would be fine. That's how any good film works. This is precisely what Savage was trying to do with Host, albeit doing a half arsed job and giving up part way through. When it comes to The Boogeyman, he's hardly getting out from under the bed. There's no subversion. No attempt to leap frog in to something else.

Yes I'm aware there is some pathetic attempt to align The Boogeyman with our favourite fucking theme of grief but it's still just complete and utter nothingness. Surely it's lost all impact and meaning at this point? Why've we picked grief anyway? What bearing does that have right now? None whatsoever, it's just a generic go to. If anything it's the opposite with increasing our life expectancy causing unexpected consequences with diseases such as Alzheimer's. I hate to break it to you, lads, Our relatives aren't dying, they're doing too much living. Consequently, we should be getting more projects like Gaspar Noe's Vortex if anything.

While I'm at it, on this whole reclaiming the monster under the bed malarkey, why does it seem like the age films are geared at is dropping by the day? When they say horror and films in general peaked during the '70s it's because they actually wrote to a much more adult oriented audience and had models in place that promoted talented unique filmmakers. Back in the days when the Yanks fell behind to European arthouse cinema so had to fight back out of pride not just financially. That was the main goal of cinema if only for a short time. As opposed to having films like The Boogeyman featuring 15 year old characters and geared at 15 year old audiences. I'm all for silly childish movies and whole heartedly approve of your campy Saturday matinee aimed at the children but this in between stage is just awful. So serious and yet so uninteresting. All for dumbing down but at least put some humour in otherwise you end up pumping out such tedious bollocks as this. The '50s saw the rise of the teenager and those movies are hilarious. Those worked just fine.

Part of me wants to say step out of this and don't comment on entertainment which doesn't have your name on it and you're not the target audience. You're never going to win. It's theirs and they should have it. Frustration creeps in though when everything becomes tailored to a single audience like this and there's no alternative. It be like having loads of Alex Riders and no Jason Bournes. Except this is a terrible comparison because Stormbreaker has a shit load of camp to offer, whereas these 15 year old centred horror movies are extremely self-serious snoozefests. To be more horror appropriate, I want to say too many Twilights and not enough Draculas. But once again, there's camp! We need to have a serious chat about wiping these self-serious snoozefests off the map. If you're limited by how much you can say because of the mental capacity of your viewer then dumb that shit down and let's have a few laughs. No point just making a bad and restricted version that wants to be intelligent but can't be for fear of losing their particular audience. If you can't be smart, be stupid. And take pride in it. You may find more creative avenues by taking this route.

Plus, we should definitely be getting more adult oriented horror than we are. My logic behind this is that if you aim at older people, those older will like it and those younger will probably like it when they're older so it's open to more people with time. We're not fucking Benjamin Button! No chance though that the studio are thinking that way in terms of a growing appreciation. It's just get the product out there as quickly as possible to the age group most likely to go to the cinema. All instantaneous profits, no sustainability. The first week is all that matters now. Nothing grows.

Once again, going back to Ari Aster, considering the above as the basis for releases, this only makes something like Beau is Afraid more exciting, regardless of good or bad because of its risk. A 3 hour long comedy with zero guarantee of getting the profits back. Had any of these studios any sense they'd hire a nuts and bolts director who knows how to shoot fight scenes, establish an action star well versed in martial arts, make vehicles for them that bring in the big bucks and then blow a good proportion of that on some nutcase auteurs that most likely will not return profits but you do it cause it's good. This is how you fund quality under capitalism. By having on one side the guaranteed money maker and on the other side the allotted amount that you can then safely lose. Studios see auteurs as a risk, under this system it is not the same kind of risk. It is calculated risk.

Before even laying eyes on Beau is Afraid, the risk free anti-auterist approach generally handled by studios nearly makes it good already, which is a shocking reflection of the way films have gone. Praising a film for arriving to us in an altered and unpredictable form without any consideration for profits. But hey, this is it. This is what we've chosen. We have only ourselves to blame. I can say I've seen it and it is brilliant with plenty of wide ranging influences across the board even outside horror as we witness Ari Aster rubbing shoulders with all sorts of surrealists. No, I will not review it. Ever. Too much of a Freudian nightmare directed right at cock bearers. Those with cunts between their legs will either not get it at all or laugh hysterically at their pathetic male counterparts.

The scene with the ladder in to the attic freaked me out on a whole other level that I don't wish to discuss. Gave me the shivers. Don't care if this becomes a recurring thing, no amount of requests is gonna make me review Beau is Afraid. So don't you dare. Some things are just too heavy. Just know I thought it was really good and dross like The Boogeyman is only going to make a bigger converter to that nerdy looking chap Ari Aster. If grief and trauma is staying on the menu for the foreseeable future, then I'm only being served by Ari Aster until further notice.

Director: Rob Savage

Screenplay: Stephen King, Mark Heyman, Scott Beck, Bryan Woods

Starring: Sophie Thatcher, Vivien Lyra Blair, Chris Messina, David Dastmlachian

Cinematography: Eli Born

Music: Patrick Jonsson

Production company: 20th Century Studios

Distribution: 20th Century Studios

Country: USA

Run Time: 99 Mins

Budget: $35 Million

Plot Synopsis: Following the tragic death of her mother, two grieving children find themselves to be the next target of a monster lurking under the bed.

Bonus Points: -Somehow making the amateurish original look like Citizen Kane

Overall Score: 1/5

We Need More Shamans

When you wake up in the morning and park up in front of the mirror and you ask yourself, "who the fuck am I? I really can't be bothered going in to work today. Should I take the day off? Is one day really going to cure 20 plus years of trauma? What's the point?", remember that nobody cares, instead, say to yourself, "we need more shamans". When you grab your coat and make the bus in seconds flat, then the bus driver says it's no longer the £2 single and prices are going up, don't argue with the man. Tell him, "we need more shamans". When you get in to work and the boss is fuming because you're 14 minutes late, don't proceed to explain that it was all due to a crashed car on the route. Tell him, "we need more shamans"

When you're sitting in work bored out of your mind, wondering if going to the toilet for the fourth time that day to shave seconds off the hours will go unnoticed and your work mum begins making some joke about how you're clock watching again, don't laugh back. Tell her, "we need more shamans". When you finally finish work and you meet up with a few fellow victims of the rate race looking to break up the working week with the tremendous invention of the sauce, then the bar tender asks you what pint is to be today, sir, tell him, "we need more shamans". Announce it to the rest of the boozer so they can hear it from the beer garden, "we need more shamans! We need more shamans! We need more shamans!". When you're sitting staring in to the empty pint glass, unsure whether to make it the last and hit the hay or go on a bender well in to the next day, thinking maybe I need religion to fill the hole in my heart, now that is when you definitely say to yourself, "we need more shamans"

Practice this ritual for about a week and then you will be ready to read this review. Recently, I managed to catch a viewing The Medium over on Shudder. Not a perfect movie as it's let down by occasional moments wanting to appease American audiences who have come to expect those lousy crash bang wallop scenes as household objects slam in to the walls. As well as scenes of the possessed doing weird things at strange times during the night. All that may have been acceptable and novel back in 2007 but come on Paranormal Activity came out like 15 years ago, we don't need to be doing that shit any more. It's done. It's finished. Over. You may even question the full reasoning behind The Medium being a found footage movie. Despite, appreciating it's lo-fi aesthetic to counter The Boogeyman's unnecessary high production values and the unusual atmosphere it achieves with its pervy relationship between the camera man and subject. Wanting more of the scenes on the back of what you could call their buses. You will definitely laugh hysterically at the amount of times the main characters name is said. You may even find a new drinking game. How the film still comes out good after that silliness, I'm not sure.

Once you get past these flaws, you will find a solution to this dead genre does exist. The Pope's Exorcist may have found a temporary fix through unrelenting star power but The Medium presents the more permanent remedy. Those who haven't got the memo yet, it's that we need more shamans. Show me the shamans. I'm all about the shamans. Bye bye Benjamins.

I was less bothered by the traditional imagery of 'Mink' being possessed than I was the dreams she describes and the ceremonies she attends. No need to appease US audiences with what comes from their typical output, make this completely your own. That moment where you see the sacred statues decapitated head and the shaman weeping was powerful. This includes that scene where there's a Blair Witch like apology but it’s a crisis of faith. Give me this. Give me all of this. It's so refreshing and is way more horrifying than any tedious I'm possessed screaming, prattling about, dishing out your evil smile and pissing on the floor nonsense. Had a blast here getting lost in the Thai folklore and the use of location.

Come to think of it, I guess what we're talking about here with this shaman business is a desire for localised realism. Back in the '70s we got The Exorcist, a film which has been copied over and over but almost none of them have understood why that film has sustained its place in history for so long. They copy the act of the exorcisms and put huge emphasis on that as a spectacle but the images have become too familiar and I'm not sure where the Penderecki went. What you never see in the clones is the same detail to character and their beliefs to match the spectacle. There's no substance to the actions. Some of my favourite moments in The Exorcist arrive very early with Father Damian Karras going to pubs and seeing his mother, struggling to hold on to his faith. He's so fleshed out in a way that rarely happens now. With The Exorcist, we saw the perfect representation of the American priests and exorcists to the point it may never be beaten. They're so firmly established. Therefore, what we need to be doing is opening up the door to other cultures and seeing how they tackle the unknown.

Horror needs to tap in to these foreign cultures more to survive. Seeing the American view of life after death is becoming increasingly boring. The Medium is directed by Banjong Pisanthanakun, known to some for his Shutter film back in 2004. Sometimes lumped in with the Jhorrors accidentally due its similar atmosphere and set up but definitely on closer inspection the work of a Thai dude.

The Medium addresses Thai folklore but you could almost confuse it for being a South Korean horror. It is produced by Na Hong Jin, a South Korean master of exhilarating set pieces, quickly emerging as one of my favourite directors around. In 2008, he made Chasers, a film I recommend for those who adored Kim Jee-woon's I Saw the Devil. It's another fast paced thrill ride where guys are hot on each other's heels, sprinting after one another for the entire movie. Na Hong Jin's follow up, The Yellow Sea is even better, playing off like Hitchcock directing Jason Bourne. Foreign Correspondent with a violent modern edge.

Following his two stellar warm ups, Na Hong Jin cast his masterpiece out in to the world in 2016, The Wailing. My vote for the greatest horror film of the 2010s. Imagine it as horror done as an action heavy western epic where you are just completely blown away in the same way as watching a Christopher Nolan movie at the IMAX. Left me speechless, I came out unable to form a sentence or maintain standing upright. The legitimacy of Stendhal Syndrome has often been scrutinised but in the case of The Wailing, I was fucking Stenhal'd! 100% fugue state induced by the presence of art. Maybe Dario Argento was on to something there. I felt what he must have felt when ascending the steps of the Parthenon in Athens and entering a trance lasting several hours.

I mention The Wailing, a vastly superior film to The Medium, not only because of Na Hong Jin's producer credit, but because it showcases shamans too. There's a brutally exhausting sequence in The Wailing that goes on for what feels like an eternity. You have to see this on the biggest possible screen at the loudest possible volume. A laptop will not suffice. Under the correct conditions, you will have a near psychedelic and hallucinatory experience. Such chanting and metal clanging reminds you of an experimental rock concert. As though Jimi Hendrix re-emerged from the dead for Monterey Pop round 2 or Pink Floyd have been wheeled back in to Pompeii. Above all, it is an event to be seen. This is the direction the possession movie needs to take. Set the controls for the heart of the sun. We need to dance our way to death.

Has anyone ever seen Uncle Boonmee who can Recall his Past Lives? Came out back in 2010 from another Thai director by the name of Apichatpong Weerasethakul. Could even be one of the best films of all time. I need to make my peace with it because I don't really like the whole indie rock and rushed modernity thrown in to the picture during the final act. However, for the majority of the film, it is this 2001 meets La Jatee piece taking you through the death of film, the digital realms and lastly to Parinirvana. Although not an out and out horror, there are some haunting scenes of ghosts appearing at the dinner table, caves and ghost monkeys with eyes that will torment your dreams night after night. Our director believes in re-incarnation so takes you through the process cinematically. He believes both people and cinema can have multiple lives hence the meta film vs digital discussion and all Boonme's past lives intertwining.

We need to look back to Kobayashi's Kwaidan, then use more recent films such as The Medium, The Wailing and Uncle Boonmee who can Recall his Past Lives as a template to go forwards. Over in Japan, Koji Shiraishi is notorious for his found footage films covering the fantastical with Noroi: The Curse having had enough time to become something of a classic. I beg you, if you haven't seen it, you need to see his other film Occult. No other way of describing it but a Schraderesque found footage horror. Travis Bickle being led astray by unknown forces through symbols guiding him to commit acts of terrorism. There may even be a suicide vest in there.

There's a high energy and cultural specificity here when these shamans come to town and do their little rituals that the US can't match. Western audiences haven't seen anything like these of ceremonies either and I know I'm begging for more. It is the future of possession movies if they are to continue. Reminds me a little of action movies as the foreign market, in particular Asia, has thrived on Hollywood's inability to train martial arts stars, keeping them one step ahead of the competition. Even the odd Keanu Reeves, Scott Adkins or Chuck Norris can't stop them. No matter what level of training, they will always be the best at the raw fighting because it's in their blood.

Shamanic rituals is where they can be leagues ahead in the horror genre if that becomes their main priority. National identity at the forefront. Wasn't this always the defence of genre cinema? In that it allows you to really see the differences of how each country handles specific situations? You learn the situations and then witness them dealt with differently due to cultural contrasts. I've got no time for bland wishy washy drama, show me your definition of honour and your beliefs through action and suspense or get out. This is what it's all about. This is unexplored territory. Cinema is about connecting with other cultures, showing what hasn't been shown and all for a cheaper price than a plane ticket. If all this be true, I am here to learn what beliefs these mad bastards have. Invitation to blow my head off. Due to the sheer number of religions out there, this could take ages before it gets old. There's so many Asian countries that haven't really made horror films that we could be hearing from. Kelly has summoned you. Show me your rituals. Unleash your shamans!

Director: Banjong Pisanthanakun

Screenplay: Na Hong-Jin, Banjong Pisanthankun

Starring: Narilya Gulmongkolp, Sawanee Utooma, Yasaka Chaisorn

Cinematography: Naruphol Chokanapitak

Music: Chatchai Ponhprapaphan

Production company: GDH 559, Showbox

Distribution: GDH 559, Showbox

Country: Thailand, South Korea

Run Time: 130 Mins

Budget: Unknown

Plot Synopsis: A local girl called Mink from the Isan region of Thailand has become possessed. Call the shaman.

Bonus Points:

-Mink just being a fucking liability and going rogue every 5 minutes

-The sleazy camera man who never stops filming even when he should probably put the camera down at help Mink

-The atmosphere generated through location, found footage and its unusually long length

-Adding the growing canon of shaman cinema

Overall Score: 4/5

Long Live the Reign of Sam Levinson

Episode 1-Pop Tarts & Rat Tales:

Let me spell this out for you intellectual types, don't you know a silly pot boiler when you see one? The only thing more embarrassing than this show are the kinds of people who are easily rattled by it. It's here to shock, it's here to provoke and it's absolutely here to wind you up, so why are you letting it get to you? By complaining about it, you're only playing it further in to their hands, to the point they can only win. In this field, any publicity is good publicity. Did they not teach you this in school, rookie? Crack open a few beers, have a few laughs, be normal and join me as I go through the naughtiest show of the year. So naughty in fact, The Parents Television and Media council wanted it off the air. Last time I checked, The Idol is rated TV-MA meaning for Mature Audience Only, which is generally seen as being 18 or older in the TV world. Begging the question of why are they butting in on what a fully grown individual can watch? Speaking as a fellow parent, butt out and do your job as a parent by managing what they watch. It is not HBO's job to ensure that children do not watch adult content, it is your job. They are here to advise and that's it. What in the Mary Whitehouse hell do you think you fellas are up to? I'd say get a grip but seeing them squirm and get fired up like this makes me want to rub my hands together. It gives me a real hard on.

I am not all too familiar with this Sam Levinson character. My first encounter with this man's name was through the backlash to wonderful films from last year such as Blonde and Deep Water. From the gist of it, it would appear the kids today associate anything sexually charged with this Sam Levinson guy and they believe he is some sort of rogue devil. Notably though, not in a playful way but rather he is viewed with total disdain. Even though, I was yet to encounter a single one of his works other than as a producer credit, I could tell I was really going to like this man, who it turns out is the son of Barry Levinson. Basically, some proper square type who gave us Rain Man. A sort of Robert Zemeckis family approved entertainment kind of fellow. Assume Barry's nippers spent too much time amongst the shallow rich elite of Hollywood and is taking out years of mental abuse on the children of today by inviting them on a journey through his warped mind. After doing a bit of reading on this horny hellraiser, it would appear he began writing episodes for this show called Euphoria. The millennials chosen controversial show that depicts adolescence at its extremes. Bringing back the generational argument for parents to work out whether there's a line between that which is honest and educational and that which is too much for younger viewers. I've not seen a single second of Euphoria, I'm sorry, I'm 26 years old. I was part of the Skins generation and I'm sure if I watched that again, it would be unbearably cringe inducing. According to the consensus, Levinson has really made a name for himself as the bad boy of Euphoria, forever turning the show in to sexploitation. This time not just stirring adults but teenagers too, all for just throwing in a bit of boobs now and then. If this continues, I may have to watch this Euphoria just to show my support for Mr Levinson and his debaucherous ways. Every bad word I hear about him only makes me warm to him more.

There's you back story filled, now for episode one of The Idol. First half comes off as though HBO is striving for another Entourage but replacing film with the music industry. What a time for HBO to even consider releasing something similar to that since that was such an of its time show with all the ups and downs of '90s culture. Had it come out today, it would be deemed highly misogynistic. Nobody's amused by anything any more. You're not even allowed to have your own non-taken seriously little boys club hangout show where dudes be rocking every week. How they ever thought The Idol would go down well in 2023 who knows but when you're playing for controversy, none of that matters. Every bad review is one more person who's seen it so you can't lose. When it comes to the satire early on, it is Hank Azaria and Eli Roth who are killing it. The dialogue is to a poor standard but those guys are on fire. Hank's locking people in bathrooms and abandoning all morality for success. Eli's googling himself, demanding to be let in to rich houses and refusing to allow any Jewish jokes today because he's not in the mood.

Then in the second half, having got all the quirky structural tricks out the system with the flashbacks and limited time problem solving out the way, they try and carve their own Basic Instinct. We're talking Sleazy pop trash with big names. Definitely preferred the second half, which was far less showy and straight to the point. Seems like there's a good dynamic between The Weeknd (amazingly cast to play on his sleazy image) and Depp Jr (who has come a long way since Yoga Hosers into being a potential star). This relationship could genuinely work because they've started it by showing it as a good thing in allowing a pop star to explore their inner sleaze and rise above the throwaway nature of mainstream music. I'm sure it will only get more twisted but so far, it seems fairly positive. The Weeknd rocking up the gaff with his rat rail, popping out the vial and then choking his co-star in the studio already seems like iconic material. They have the perfect ending too with The Weeknd rambling on about when Donna Summer sang you knew she could fuck and that's what he wants from Depp Jr. After a kinky bit of choking, he rips open the silk scarf and declares that now she is ready to sing.

Now that's a statement and we may have found our new weekly dumb trash show. Whether any of it will develop in to anything worthwhile on the satire front, who knows? But as for seeing big names doing sexual acts (even if they are a little tame so far) regardless of quality always makes for a pretty dumb fun erotic thriller if you ask me. Same with this whole "male fantasy" accusation just amusing either way. Let's see where it goes and ride it out. Could get good, could stay laughable nonsense but enjoyable if you're not taking it too seriously. The show has already won because people are already offended and angered by it, making the whole affair even more amusing. Imagine crying about boobies. For readers of Funeralopolis, this is part of a standard diet and is needed a minimum of 5 times a day. In all honesty, The Idol doesn't seem that outrageous so far. No lines have been crossed. So don't get your knickers in a twist. We're making it too easy for them. Let the silly sexploitation shockers work harder if you ask me.

Episode 2-Double Fantasy:

Completely boring follow up that barely even meets the required quota of The Weeknd giving Depp Jr enough head for a pass. How did they let us down this badly? It's fine pissing off the squares but when you're disappointing the dudes who come for trashy delights, you're really in trouble. Won't have a leg to stand on soon enough if they keep that up. I hate the words "gratuitous nudity", cause when can nudity ever be gratuitous? Not necessary? It's always necessary! Doesn't serve the plot? Excuse me, they ARE the plot. Our intellectuals have been campaigning to say this show would be great if it was more interested in satirising the music industry and less interested in switching to sleaze at every opportunity. Personally, I'd say it's the opposite of this. This show could would be great if it was less interested in satirising the music industry and more interested in switching to sleaze at every opportunity. Sadly, the satire it isn't good enough to warrant its inclusion but the sleaze gives it some style and actual appeal. Somehow it's become even more Entourage by having these near plotless hangout episodes but on this occasion, it's not got enough jokes to keep you absorbed. They're almost going the Nashville route on this. A darker play on Woodstock with a fascistic undercurrent.

One of the undeniable and unsung heroes of The Idol is the cinematographer Marcell Rev, known for Assassination Nation, Paterno, White God and Euphoria. Although, Spring Breakers and The Idol have many connections in their aesthetic and aims, one thing that sets them apart is that Korine's film is a digital creation and Rev opts for 35mm film. Lined up side by side, you could say they are the best of both worlds. Rev cites '70s Pakula post-Watergate thrillers as his source of inspiration. He refers to natural light and use of zooms as the link between them. I'd have gone with Miami Vice and Michael Mann films of the '80s as this stylistically superb piece of pop with outfits getting equal if not more dedication to plot. After all, this show is very much a lurid spectacle. I'd love to hear more about Rev's decisions here. The recent Pacifiction is shot on these tiny digital cameras and that has way more in line with post-Watergate thrillers of the '70s. Don't take that as a dig at Rev, quite the opposite, more so that I'd be curious to hear more of a breakdown on this as to what he believes can and cannot be achieved with film against digital.

Episode 3-Daybreak:

And we are back in business with the finest episode of the series. The Weeknd is on fire, offering scraps to just about anyone who looks at his girl wrong. He's running the show. His way or the highway, bozo. Even sinks his teeth in to Depp Jr's assistant and bff, everybody's favourite sweetheart, Rachel Sennott. Noooo, how dare he! Luckily, we came here for The Weeknd bodys everyone show and that means everyone. Don't care how nice you are. You are just a target for The Weeknd to abuse. To be honest, I didn't think The Weeknd had it in him to be a tough guy. Always had him down as a bit of a softy, who was being the cheeky likeable bad boy. Here he's playing all sorts of mind games and has them all the ropes. Bending musicians and industry players to his will like a true pimp. Slick Rick said treat her like a prostitute. He's taken these words to heart and every person on the planet is now The Weeknd's bitch, including myself, who as repulsive as he is here, I can still not bring myself to completely hate. The rat tail really got a hold on me. Catch me sporting that look this time next week.

This episode reaches its peak during a brutally intense family dinner table conversation. There's something really amusing about a show which wants to call most of pop music superficial and position its star as desiring to be amongst the greats like Prince, MJ, Madonna and Donna Summer but can't rise above its own averageness. In a sense, making it ugly and sitting very much on that border between endorsing and criticising but not quite to the vulgar levels that Showgirls reaches. Marks though go to this nuanced approach to morality and artistry. In other scenes, it was a little embarrassing the way it was observing how artists need to be above humans to produce good art. However, this scene reaches the right level of dumb poetry with The Weeknd becoming this towering figure in their lives. A horrible man, deserving to be locked up in a cell for the rest of his life but honourable in his abilities to get people to reach their full potential. Like the Devil himself, he's a man of wealth and taste. Disturbing in his methods but even more shocking is the proof that it can get results. A bloody maverick. An exploiter of personal pain but if that's the back alleys you want to roll around in to produce art you can be proud of, accept no substitutes he's your man. No masterpiece was ever made without risk. Terrifying as it is, he is the evidence that sometimes humanity can progress by going against the moral and decent option. How many figures in history were just like that? He deserves a seat with the greats after this bloody shift. He is Nietzsche's Übermensch. Ladies and gentlemen, The Weeknd

As the conversation at the dinner table progresses, The Weeknd has Depp Jr open up about her abusive upbringing, contradicting the earlier image of her mother as this saintly figure. We wonder why Depp Jr is mourning her mother so badly when she would regularly beat her with a hairbrush until the skin broke. Depp Jr informs us she liked the encouragement it gave her and that she hasn't been able to write as well since. I think you know where this is going. The Weeknds ears perk up at this one. Our sadist has arrived. We have our masochist, we have our sadist. Let's fucking gooooooo! The Weeknd is going to whip Depp Jr with a hairbrush 'til she bleeds on live TV. Now that's entertainment. Quality television. Unfortunately, like with many sexual scenarios, the actualisation doesn't match the fantasy. At least not for the viewer anyway. After a marvellous set up, they tone things right down with a disappointingly tame and tasteful scene. A ridiculous amount of cuts in there, not sure what that's about. I came to see The Weeknd slap Depp Jr silly, Bizarro Sleazo. What's with this Fifty Shades of Grey soft crap? Make that bitch bleed! Either we're doing this S and M business properly or we're pantomiming. Go hard or go home. Might have got carried away there. However, if there is one thing The Idol has taught us, for a generation that is supposedly sex positive, this generation is so backwards and immature with all matters regarding sex. Making all the steps made during the erotic thriller heavy '90s feel like a distant memory.

Episode 4-Stars Belong to the World:

Having established the sadomasochistic relationship between The Weeknd and Depp Jr, The Idol sets its sights on a more epic vision. Of course, The Weeknd and Levinson have spun their spotlight on the music industry in to Manson territory. Another dangerous character who once infiltrated the music scene. He lived with Dennis Wilson for an entire year and even ended up having writing credits on The Beach Boys song Never Learnt Not to Love. Although hinted at by recent Tarantino and PTA efforts Once Upon a Time in Hollywood and Inherent Vice, the story goes that Manson drove Wilson crazy by inviting loads of people over to live with them, changing it from a peaceful home to one with orgies and chaos. The paradise became hell and Wilson's head went so badly he had to abandon his own home.

In The Idol's version on the classic tale, The Weeknd moves in to Depp Jr's mansion and brings in his gang of misfit musicians, heavies and Mike Dean. That's producer Mike Dean, famous for his work with Kanye West not the Tranmere loving legend from the Wirral. Finally, in comes the more violent intimidation from The Weeknd now he's got his heavies behind him. Nobody can leave the gaff. Anybody who falls out of line gets tied up and put on a time out in the corner. Given some time to think about their actions. We're here to make stars. Act against that and you're acting out of line the common interests of the group and so you're in trouble. This is brainwashing camp.

The Weeknd's done so much coke by this point in the story that words have become a challenge for him and he can only speak through kung fu. Basically, me at every gaff come 5am. Towards the end, Gaspar Noe regular, Karl Glusman, randomly joins the party. He really can't help himself. Soon as he sees something with some sleaze, he's putting pen to paper and signing right up. Never would you find that actor playing a normal character. One whiff of horniness and this guy wants in. The fact he was married to Zoe Kravitz says it all. This man likes sex. He could soon be the face of the American sleaze. Episode 4 is a solid outing in the sleaze department but as a penultimate episode it doesn't really work. They've set too much up here that if they hadn't have wasted so much time with the second episode they could have got to this quicker. Instead, it's come too late and really we need another episode in between this and the last one to flesh out the ideas here before the resolution.

Episode 5-Jocelyn Forever:

As guessed, it feels like there's an episode missing here, which in truth is technically the case. Originally, it was planned as a 6 episode deal with Amy Seimetz who did that indie horror banger She Dies Tomorrow a few years back. Under her guide, it was supposed to focus more on Depp Jr's character and her transformations. That was until Levinson hijacked the project, Seimetz backed out and it turned in to what the press described as "torture porn" with a greater attention on The Weeknd's character than previously. I rate Seimetz but I'm sure her version would have just been bland, lacking any style and featuring weak satire. Would anyone have talked about it? Would anyone have cared? Not too sure though why Levinson believed he could wrap this up in 5 episodes, it definitely needed 6 minimum and it's on this last one that you can certainly notice the story suffering from re-writes because it does not know how to position its characters. So much of this last hour becomes contrived and confused.

From the outset, we've skipped too far ahead in the story. In the previous episode, Depp Jr was thrilled and aroused by The Weeknd's violent streak. Backing his actions all the way and even egging him on. Now in the space of five minutes, The Weeknd looks like it's definitely the morning after and this monster has seen better days. Lack of sleep and the come down got this man looking pathetic. Jaw gurning, paranoid glances, sweat oozing down the face, can't form a full sentence other than to terrorise anyone standing in a five metre range, we've all been there and it's hilarious to see but robs the show of the power it had by making him suddenly this weak. On top of this, Depp Jr for no reason at all wants him out the house. No build up to that whatsoever. The threat is gone too soon but there is one way they can save this now and that's diving head first in to the camp. We've lost the realism, the only final hand we can play is comedy.

To some extent, they get away with it in near De Palma fashion. The Weeknd becoming the black Scarface, a former genius with a frazzled mind, crippled under the weight of his own addiction to the pow(d)er. Eli Roth and Hank Azaria are back cracking the jokes out. Eli arrives in some gym shorts, getting lap dances, fighting off infidelity, mocking his own Jewish heritage and making jokes about Kanye West. Hank goes in to DeNiro mode by providing an analysis on Little Red Riding Hood to the sleep deprived, coke fuelled man that was formerly The Weeknd but is now just a shadow of his former self. Ordering security to escort The Weeknd from the premises and giving him the here's 500 grand and leave town cheque or we kill you talk in the back of a van. It suddenly hits you, wait there was never any real threat at all. What were we so worried about? This woman is so rich and powerful, one snap of her fingers and any intruder is finished. Clearly, the home invasion imprisonment thing was all mental, which is a fine comment to make but we never saw how she got out of this? She just suddenly became the sadist and the roles reversed.

We do get possibly my favourite guilty pleasure moment of the whole show here though. When the Weeknd's in the back of the van being given the get out of town talk, he says, "You know I've been to prison for this shit, don't ya?", referencing a previous relationship he was in where he held a woman hostage. Having said this he then rips up the cheque. That's cinema. Wait til you see the bizarre and ludicrous conclusion. After booting him out of town, getting his nightclubs seized from him and a few more charges to his name, The Weeknd returns six weeks later at Depp Jr's massive stadium sized show. Somehow, he expects to be given a back stage pass and even more shockingly gets one. When he asks to see Depp Jr, he somehow is allowed past her security and invited in. Depp Jr then talks to him like she never nearly had him killed and the Weeknd didn't try to have her ex put in prison for a false rape accusation. All throughout, I was thinking ok this is interesting but where you are going to take this? Surely the decent ending here is that Depp Jr recognises the help The Weeknd gave her as a mentor but this is their final respectful conversation and proper goodbye before going their separate ways. The kind of ending where this isn't going to last, it was dangerous but some good came of it. Nope, not a chance, they go for just about the weirdest ending possible. Depp Jr goes out on stage, brings out The Weeknd and announces that they are lovers, she then says "you're mine now forever", emphasising some kind of power shift and this big fuck you to the unhuman suits like Eli Roth and Hank Azaria that have controlled so much of her life. What an awful flex. Like fuck you, you horrible cold capitalist pigs, I'm going to piss you off by becoming life-long partners with a mind controlling abuser who takes women hostage. All clap for Depp Jr's character. She has been granted agency but in the most ridiculous way that is meant to be a message of female power but is so poorly handled it becomes the opposite. Also, what of the rest of the musicians that were also terrible people then out of nowhere changed to being Todd Browning's Freaks but given a new home where they could be accepted? What of Rachel Sennott's character who was treated like shit the whole time and completely abandoned in the background by the end?

The whole way through I'd been impressed by their refusal to present The Weeknd as simply a straight up bad guy. That would have been the lazy path. He's a bad dude who happens to help the main character. Yet, by the end when all is forgiven without consequences and no impact is had on the characters all you can think is you are so cheap it's unreal. Going for the most shocking ending and not even bothering to justify it organically. I almost respect it. I said at the start didn't I, this is a pot boiler. Made to provoke but not think. If it made you think it would do anything else, it sure fooled you. Even I almost was. The Weeknd's response to the controversy was to say it has been misunderstood with some of the scenes meant to be camp and cheesy, not just sexy because that's how Paul Verhoeven did it. He also believes in time people will get The Idol. Let's just I agree with the first part of what he said. A highly dissatisfying ending for wrapping things up but if you just roll with it in this kind of dumb pop The Bodyguard way, let the synths hit and the colours lull you, it almost works in a sensual way. Embrace the stupidity of the spectacle. So many questions and so one track minded that it unmistakably comes this misguided misogynist male fantasy by the end. But I got to hand it to you, you were funny The Idol. You get the nice try award.

Director: Sam Levinson

Screenplay: Sam Levinson, The Weeknd

Starring: The Weeknd, Depp Jr, Rachel Sennott, Eli Roth, Hank Azaria, Mike Dean

Cinematography: Marcell Rev

Music: The Weeknd, Mike Dean

Production company: A24, HBO

Distribution: HBO

Country: USA

Run Time: 5 Episodes

Budget: $75 million

Plot Synopsis: Down and depressed pop star Depp Jr is recoiling from her mother's death and struggling to release another hit. Along comes The Weeknd to do whatever is necessary to make this woman a renowned artist spoken of on the same level as Donna Summer and Madonna. This involves going on journey through one's own inner sleaze.

Bonus Points:

-First and foremost being the exact kind of project that smashes bonus points and being what the feature was made for

-Eli Roth googling pictures of himself and demanding to be let in to mansions because he's a fucking VIP. Being a full time nob head, Constantly cracking jokes about his Jewish heritage and Kanye West. Rocking up in gym shorts, getting lap dances and battling with infidelity

-Hank Azaria locking people in rooms, analysing Little Red Riding Hood to coke heads, threatening people to leave town in the back of vans. His favourite tune being George Harrison's My Sweet Lord

-The Weeknd and Depp Jr for providing an adequate amount of nudity. Depp Jr for looking like a bonafied star. The Weeknd for his rat tail, offering nearly everyone a scrap for looking at his girl wrong, showing us his coke fuelled kung fu moves, being a fucking embarrassment on the comedown. For announcing he's been to prison for this shit and ripping up his fuck off cheque

-Sam Levinson for taking this in a Manson/Verhoeven direction, being the king that he is and rattling the squares once more with a bit of boob

Overall Score: 2.5/5

Is Time Up for the Barbecue and Beers Gang?

Is time up for the barbecue and beers gang? There is literally only supposed to be more of these left (although Vin Diesel suggests different) but public perception is definitely changing. Increasingly it is becoming cooler to hate this franchise. To turn on it, with the popular snarky and 'intellectual' response being, "this franchise has become so stupid and unrealistic", as though the first film was cinema verité of the finest quality. A slice of Italian neo-realism. Bicycle Thieves shit. Fellas, it was always ridiculous, I don't know what series you've been watching this whole time. There's been 10 movies, how have you only just arrived at this conclusion? If anything they're reliably and respectably stupid. Granted they've got sillier in relation to budget but why are you acting like this series turned on you? Seriously, talk shit about Fast and Furious? Tell me what you gon' do, Kelly? Act a Fool!

All that changed from day one is they got more money to engage in their stupidity further. You gotta respect that. It hasn't been all that bad a ride either. Another complaint is that they lost their street racing origins. To some extent, yes they did. However, they always try to throw in at least a detour or two back to the roots. In Fast X, Dom and the new bad guy Dante Reyes (Momoa) square off and shit talk before engaging in a race. Only this time, there are distractions in constant explosions and everybody who rides owns a gun. Whip and strap, men and women of honour and integrity. Dom now being a legend known worldwide for being a gearhead that the streets will defend to the death is absolutely hilarious. Haven't seen such notoriety since Anakin Skywalker was pod racing on the sands of Tatooine.

Still, I personally preferred the street race in the last film. There was this RZA remix of The Prodigy's Breathe and a flashback to young Toretto making his name. My favourite part coming when his amateurish opponent hits the NOS button early prompting a "too soon" from our baby faced tarmac cruncher. I always have time for the silly shot of them all glancing across at each other on the starting line, which has now moved over to being this digitally assisted fake one take as the camera seamlessly moves across each vehicle in an a supposedly unbroken shot. Cinema.

As may be clear, we're firmly in the field of Jacob Kelly guilty pleasures. Except for one thing, I don't feel very guilty about it. I've been an unashamed fan of this series from the start. It had the feel of the '50s hot rod and juvenile delinquent trash released by American International Pictures and New World Pictures. For those unfamiliar, hop straight in to Jack Hill's Pit Stop and get taken for a ride. Over time, the fast and furious films have come way too commercial to ever cement their legacy as carsploitation classics. If Tarantino had made Death Proof now I'm sure the characters would be berating these films over Nicolas Cage's version of Gone in 60 Seconds. Regardless, it's pretty wild seeing the barbecue and beers gang's expansion from robbing 9 inch televisions in the backs of trucks to engaging in global espionage with secret organisations. It may be just as ugly as Marvel movies but it's got one thing those don't and that's the crazy factor.

Who can blame them for widening their influences with the budgets? I say widening, this is limited to about 2 films. Recently, I saw Vin Diesel asked on a red carpet to name his favourite film. A common trend now, which I wish never started because it only reveals how stupid our beloved actors actually are these days in not knowing a single thing about the industry they're meant to work in. You begin to wonder if they ever study technique and do any research for roles or if they just walk in front of a camera all day. It's no wonder that acting theory has hardly developed since Brando with only Nicolas Cage offering anything remotely new to the table. The actors working today are as disposable as the films they star in.

Anyway, Vin Diesel opted to be all artsy picking commie grasser Elia Kazan's lauded anti-union film On the Waterfront. A film which attempts to justify the directors squealing to the house of Un-American Activities. He's a rat bastard that was saved by a brilliant performance by guess who? Marlon Brando. Sadly, not a terrible film that you want to say is a nuanced look at the corruption in unions like Blue Collar but when you know the directors history of being a dirty informant then such a stance falters.

Casting my hatred of the lauded Eli Kazan to one side, I'm not buying that as Vin's favourite film. Perhaps, he digs all the masculinity on show with the brawling on the docks but if we're being honest Vin Diesel has only ever seen two films in his life. They are Goldfinger and Point Break. My man's made an entire career out of copying them. Even going as far as to make his own Moonraker with Fast 9s outing in space. Respect. Don't they always say if you let any series run long enough it will find its way out to space? There's only so long you can jump the shark for until you bounce off the moon. Where we're going we don't need roads.

Hey, the fact that the narrow minded neanderthal Roman Pearce leads this mission says it all. Once he was an interesting character back in 2 Fast 2 Furious but as the series progressed he got shoehorned in to being the idiot who talks too much to fit the whole blockbuster serialised adventure format. A common fate that leaves you thinking, is that still the same character? Nope, Roman the badass became Roman the pea brain, just another stock character to keep up with the likes of Mission Impossible, which is basically just a far superior version of Fast and Furious under the guidance of the skilled Christopher McQuarrie. If there's one thing I know in this world though, it is that you don't leave a ding bat like Roman Pearce in charge.

Vin's performance has got weaker and weaker. We're at a stage now where they roll him on to set, he screws up his face a couple of times to convey the emotion of anger, then says the words, "family", collects his 20 million pay cheque and goes home. He's got an even better gig going on the Guardians series, he doesn't even have to show up for that one but he does have to stretch it to three words with, "I am Groot". Luckily, if he's not feeling doing that again, he can just email in some old outtakes still recorded on his laptop. You should watch his films in reverse, you might see some minor improvement in his acting calibre. The words just in. They're going to go back and give him an academy award for his performance in the Modjo music video for 'Lady'.

Fast X opens and closes with some very choppy editing that nearly puts Rise of Skywalker to shame. A feat, which takes some doing. There's no way a professional did this in a studio with the latest equipment. I don't buy it. Literally, put together by some unfortunate soul suffering the late stages of amphetamine addiction armed with the primitive tools of Sellotape and a pair of scissors crippled by insomnia and working only between the hours of 4am and 6am.

It could be said that the entire film comes off as though it's got Roman Pearce's clueless hands all over it. There is next to no narrative or connective tissue linking individual scenes. Each scene comes at you at total random as though picked out of a hat. Most of the gang are separated in this adventure so we flick between them all with the role of a dice. Zero through line or anything to unite what we see as a central theme or idea or even just for basic coherence. In all its chaos, I'm here for it. So strap in, don't question a thing and let Roman be the boss conducting tactics like he's Mike Basset. Also, I'm starting to wonder why Brian didn't take charge of this mission. He's such an arsehole these days. He never gets involved in the missions anymore and he doesn't even show up to the barbecues. Can't even remember the last time me and the boys were sipping coronas with Dom at the barbecue and I looked over and there was teenage heartthrob Paul Walker with his gorgeous blonde locks flashing me his million dollar smile. Starting to think something might have happened to him. Either kill him off or bring him back as a T-Rex.

Jokes aside, we miss you, Paul. It hasn't been the same without you buddy! Someone must have told these guys that Fast Five was the popular highlight of the series so there's several callbacks to that. Accidentally, this actually brings them back to the low budget Cormanesque origins more so than any street racing could. Why?

The answer: stock footage. There's a really amusing aspect to them trying so hard to keep this story going that they drastically splice new footage of Jason Momoa in to the old frames of Fast Five, five fucking films ago, to make it look like he was involved in the vault heist in Rio. New levels of desperation and I can't say watching them struggle isn't entertaining. It's more than that. It's fucking thrilling. Like watching a learner driver parallel park. Get the deck chairs out and feast your eyes on these morons trying to unbox themselves out of a tight one! Some things you just have to see.

They're all out of road some critics will say. However, that's the fun in this late stage, watching them squirm and wriggle to make a story out of it. Pure refusal to give in and call it quits. For the barbecue and beers gang, the towel is never an option. Apollo Creed already dead before these guys stopping. An image to keep in mind when dealing with this crew is one they created themselves. I refer to the potentially 28 mile long runway from Fast and Furious 6. They'll do anything to keep this nonsense going. And so these films fall in to categorisation of creative stupidity. Full time shark jumpers. Honestly, if anything I admire the audacity. They'll drive cars across buildings and now down dams. It fits in to the same area as Emmerich's Moonfall from last year for its consistent challenging of science. My hat goes off to them, if you want to give me a physics lesson like this, if you want to tell me Isaac Newton is full of shit, then I'm going to listen. Bear in mind, this should not serve as an excuse though for championing bad filmmaking. No, only that if you want to succeed in this field you've got to really push the boundaries on contemporary thinking in matters of science. If Albert Einstein isn't shaking in his grave, you've failed the mission. That is the key to creative stupidity.

When it comes to circumstances concerning logic, Fast X truly excels and is near unmatchable in this department. They say when it comes to popular entertainment, an audience will generally accept one element that strays from reality. Call it the suspension of disbelief principle. This series had that from the outset with its cartoonisation of its nitrous oxide feature.

Who doesn't love it when the screen goes all fuzzy like the character is experiencing the effect of some drug? WHEEEEEEE! Now we're so far beyond that to the point you have to see it to believe it. One of my favourite rules of the series is that cars serve as a shield and so if you smash in to them at high speeds you will always be protected as they absorb any impact. Case in point, Dom in Fast and Furious 6 jumping out of a car across a motorway, catching Letty in mid-air and crashing in to a windshield on the way down. They match that in this one. Right at the climax, Dom's son jumps across from the seat of one car to another in one fluid motion whilst both vehicles are moving at high speeds. At a moment when the film should be getting serious, they opt for this nonsense. Oh God, I'm in shock.

Earlier, Dom literally plays football with a bomb across Rome to stop it rolling in to the Vatican. Only in a Fast and Furious would the logic be to drive in to the bomb to stop it exploding. Another desperate attempt to outdo Fast Fives using giant safes as battering rams. Now they have a burning bomb. I admire the upping of the ante.

Talk about Deus Ex Machinas. They end it all with a stunt of Dom escaping two trucks from the front and back by driving down a dam and nobody dies. Could he not just swerve them and play chicken with those truckers like a normal person? There's no chance Fast X had a writer. It resembles the kind of movies that arose from the 2007-08 writers' strike like Quantum of Solace and Revenge of the Fallen. Where these would throw set piece after set piece seemingly at random, going entire sections without dialogue and including all sorts of false starts and false endings. Watch Quantum of Solace again it literally begins 3 times before the story starts. An absolute narrative nightmare. In Revenge of the Fallen, The Jesus even says, "let's not get episodic, okay, old timer? Beginning, middle, end. Facts. Details. Condense: plot". I'm semi convinced he was actually just talking to Michael Bay behind the scenes and they accidentally included it in to the finished film.

These films had such an improvisational feel that they almost could be considered avant-garde. Of course they were bad but you know what, they were also thoroughly entertaining. In the process, far surpassing your usual boringly bad blockbusters. I'm sure with the current writers' strike, we could end up with more of these outrageous disasters so lock in those seat belts. Car wrecks are back on the menu boys and I'm more excited than I should be about that. If any Elia Kazan motherfuckers start jumping in with any union busting activities or anti-union sentiments, it's fists, alright? I want my Hollywood car wrecks like Lieutenant Aldo Raine wants his scalps.

Expanding on my previous point about vehicular armour, there is a moment in Fast X where Dom drops his car down from a plane on to a motorway crushing a couple of cars as he lands. Visualising this as his superhero pose isn't too big a leap. You can fully see it with the knee bent and fist raised. We're Marvelised now. Normally, I'd hate it but that was just so absurd it bounces back around to just plain old amusing. The 'influences' are out of control on this film. They've always carefully balanced those so that the racing and the car stunts take prevalence but they were not adverse to incorporating the odd fight sequence. This time they've got it all wrong and put too much attention on the fighting. There's one about every 10 minutes on the dot with every member of the cast getting their own, which normally I'd approve of but it shouldn't come at a detriment to what the franchise is known for, which is the car stunts. You sacrifice that, you lose the DNA.

On other films, it hasn't been as much of a problem with the deviations but this one you certainly notice it. Assume they just got nervous about the success of the Wicks and that's why Jason Statham's mate Louis Leterrier was brought in. The streets still remember the dripped in oil fist fight from The Transporter and Unleashed's swimming pool death matches. He actually made technically the second MCU movie too with The Incredible Hulk but most people choose to forget this. I think what happened there is Leterrier and Tim Roth were trying to make this R-Rated action flick, the studio wanted a kids movie and Ed Norton was on some Lawrence Olivier shit bending it in to the theatrical. Results in a bizarre clash of tones.

Leterrier once again doesn't fully get a hold of the movie he's making here. Not that he ever really does handle tones well. Unleashed being a perfect example with its mixing of kung fu, action oriented exploitation and corny sentimentalism that was all too common with the Europacorp model of filmmaking. Always warmed to Europacorp's ambitions to mix the drama and action but the reason Taken was one of the best of those is because it was so darned ugly. Scrapped all the soft bullshit for the Bronson enticing this Psycho-Schradist. Generally, Leterrier always does just enough of the elements that do interest me, despite some howlers scattered about. It's Jason Momoa who's struggled more in Fast X. Whilst he was the one drop of fun in Justice League's snoozefest, he's been such a disappointment over the years. We all know he's capable of making some Schwarzenegger style hard R-Rated action but for some reason he keeps bottling it. How long is he going to make us wait?

Unprofessional as ever to his cast mates, Vin Diesel claims Momoa's overacting is the reason for Fast X's bad response. Although, I'm not on board with what he brings to the table, he's far from the worst thing here. Trust me, there's far too many problems with it to single out his contribution as being the root cause. More so that he's a victim of this current way of playing villains. It's not just him, they're all doing it. He summed up perfectly the problem I've been having the last few years with my villains. As his character paints his nails with his hair in buns, he makes a meta comment on how you have to tone down the masculinity these days. Unfortunately, too many do. Where did all this bland eccentricity come from that’s now become so boring? Bland eccentricity should be an oxymoron right? Make villains sinister again! Where did all the dodgy Russian accents go? See this is why I defended Nolan's Tenet. You were all getting distracted by its abstract unusually complicated plot and wining about how it lacks the typical Nolan exposition. I was getting high off Kenneth Brannagh's Bond villain. Checkmate. I win.

Out of all the cast, it is John Cena as my namesake, Jacob, who adapts best to Leterrier's Europacorp style filmmaking. He makes a stunning entrance by taking out an entire army of bad guys sent in to kill Dom's son. I could have happily had an entire movie on John Cena and Dom's son's road trip across the country in a shitty Subaru thing. Cena reliving his glory days of the '90s by blaring Marky Mark and The Pharcyde. A clear attempt at getting back to the series roots of decades gone by. Don't know whether to be charmed or depressed by the fact the culture I grew up with is now something Dad characters have nostalgia for. I'm after all, a father myself but it isn't pretty. We're getting older fellas, it's happening.

Later, Cena drops from the skies in a Batman style canoe contraption. His entire subplot is pure gold and nailed on what I be wanting. His arc is rounded off with some homo buddy cop antics. He rides on the highway with Dom and sacrifices himself with his final line being, "go save your son", before clearing the way by crashing his cannon car in to a bunch of bad guys and blowing them all up. Perfection. Ladies and gentlemen, Fast and Furious. I see some aren't buying Cena's characters transformation from magnet manipulating mad man in to cool uncle. All I can say is... who cares? Isn't that in every actors contract in this series too? Introduce you as the bad guy for your debut and then in the next film you join the team of the good guys?

Perhaps the most infuriating aspect of Fast X is how badly they botch the penultimate cliffhanger ending. All the Cena/Diesel buddy cop cowboy shit delivers a treat and then you get the choppy editing of the climax after that. Roman arriving in last minute and crashing the squad plane. Dom and his son surviving their fall. They go for the down and out all hope is lost ending but ruin it with this really abysmal editing and that fails to linger on the characters lows long enough or generate any kind of emotional response. Yet, I can almost allow it just on how much of a laughable shambles it is, especially in Roman pulling a Dick Halloran. What I'm going to call heroic black failure in their epic rescue mission being squandered the moment they arrive.

We need to move past the token black characters early death and even past such falsely progressive notions of black excellence. No, we need to make that a thing of the past. I'm all about heroic black failure. Need more of whatever that absurd and mildly racist business is in Hollywood. Big budget black catastrophe. That's the kind of questionable dumb spectacle the studios could really deliver on in their attempts to bring us this thing we call entertainment. Before, I get in to trouble, do I need to explain that was a joke and that Funeralopolis does not promote racism or intolerance?

What I can't allow here is the killing of the question of how do they get out of this mess, thereby destroying the whole nature of the down and out all hope is lost ending. I can forgive all the Deus Ex Machinas and avant-garde escaping of all the situations but was there any need to suggest where the next film would go by adding a layer of hope? Or maybe it's not the optimism that irked me, it was the inclusion of that IDF child killing cunt who I previously happily believed to be deceased in this series. Fuck off Gal Gadot. All the way through I'd defend this and say I'm happy for more Fast and Furious films but if you're bringing back shits like that then I'm checking out the Overlook. Put your cocks back in your pants gearheads because this franchise could soon be over.

When you've got Jason Momoa making jokes now every time someone dies about how they won't be coming to the barbecues any more, you know it can't be far from over. We're more than in self-awareness and parody stage. Time could well be up for the barbecue and beers gang. The end is nigh. We've fallen on hard times and they're shutting us down. Probably deservedly so but we can't disrespect the barbecue and beers gang. We've got 1 more movie. Roar them engines. My gearheads. My Psycho-Schradists. My Kustom Kar Kommandos (RIP Anger). Pimp those rides, put the speakers in the back and install those Playstation 2s. We can't go out without a fight! Ride them Subaru's straight in to the cinema. Don't care if you don't have a Drive-In. Park it in your local Odeon in Row C. Let's see the neon glaring. Let's hear the Joe Budden blaring. Pump. Pump. Pump it up! One last ride? Who will be there? I'll be there. We're 2 Fast! We're 2 Furious!

Talking of last rides, this month is actually my final one living in Sheffield before the big move to Liverpool. So to mark the occasion, we threw a big barbecue ourselves in the tradition of our heroes Jesus Christ and Dominic Toretto. But before that, I spent the day visiting the B29 crash site. Something I'd always wanted to do since arriving in Sheffield. This is no ordinary tourist spot. Back in 1948 a Boeing RB-29A Superfortress descended too early in low cloud and crashed in to the Peak District. They called her Over Exposed. She was headed to Burtonwood. Her mission: photograph nuclear testing at Bikini Atoll. This would also include the dropping of an atomic bomb by B29 Superfortress Dave's Dream. But fate would have other ideas.

Captain Tanner thought he'd cleared the hills and began his descent. Over Exposed hit the ground and burst in to flames. All 13 passengers died in the crash. Like Pearl Harbour, they never cleared the wreckage and the damaged aircraft equipment forms its own graveyard. Getting there though was no easy task. We started the day with a stabbing. We love stabbings in Sheffield. We can't get enough of them. It makes sense really, cause after all, this is the city of sex and steel. And what is a knife but a phallic metallic item used to penetrate people. What better symbol of this city than the blade? I was just glad this one hadn't happened on my street. Last time, this absolute joker of a cop tried to tell me I couldn't go in to my own flat because the area was (James) cordoned off. Told him whatever happens I'm going home. When a man gets it into his head that he's going home, he's going home. Just ask Michael Myers. Eventually the no good cop caved in and I was escorted by a couple of pesky piggies through the crime scene like I was DCI John Luther.

Google informed me that the bus that would take me to where I wanted to go could be caught on West Street. That was a lie. This made me miss the 1pm'er. It was a Sunday. There couldn't be many more buses. I checked, okay there was two more, this could be done. Show me destroyed planes. The next bus would be at 3pm. All I needed to do was find the actual spot. Rockingham Street. Fuck sake that was right by The Moor where the stabbing had gone down this morning. The bus stop better not be (James) cordoned off too. The forces were fucking with me.

I headed down there hoping not to see the dreaded blue and white strip. Nope, all clear. The bus arrives on schedule and I hop on. Still capped at £2. Window seat. Talking Heads Television Man blaring through the ears. A true Kelly anthem. I'm feeling it. Mashallah and all that. It's going to be a good day. He has willed it.

The bus comes to a screeching halt. Every car in front is Tokyo Drifting and pulling u-turns in the middle of the street. What is going on? Windows go down. Information relayed vehicle to vehicle. There's been a crash up ahead. 2 bikers thought they were Mad Max and collided with some cars. "What's it like?", asks the bus driver. "Well these things are never pretty, are they?", throws back a menacing onlooker as he laughs to himself and drives away like he's in some David Lynch movie. And a good day to you, sir. Wait, we can't pull a u-turn, we're a fucking bus on Snakes Pass. There's no room for that shit. This could take some time. How we getting out of this one?

We don't. For the next 150 minutes we are stranded. Has anyone read the short story The Southern Thruway? Has anyone seen the Godard movie Weekend? We form a little temporary society in the apocalypse. Our driver announces that this is the first time he's done this route and he doesn't have a clue what he's doing. He also does not think he can reverse the mile or two back to a spot where he could u-turn. He has two assistants with him that seem younger but are somehow his boss. One of them still tries hard to put on a low gravelly voice to tell you he's going through puberty and uses work acronyms and jargon on the general public to appear intelligent. The other has long greasy hair and looks like he's well and truly in his first relationship with Monster energy drinks. What's he doing working for the buses, hasn't he got a school to shoot up? Christ, he stinks.

If we are to survive, we have to put our faith in these three representatives of the Hulleys of Baslow bus service. Two passengers can't hack another minute and decide to get off and walk to next bus stop. Who can blame them? Jargon man smooths out his high vis and lays down the law, "It's a 50 mile an hour road. You're putting your life in your hands" "We'll take our chances", say the 2 passengers and they abandon ship.

Monster energy man was stinking up the bus. We'd hit 30 degrees and this bus had become a sweatbox that could well become our grave if we weren't careful. If we have to start eating people, I'm eating this bastard first. Kelly has chosen. I sat at the back of the bus smacking my tongue against my lips like Ronaldinho. Every second warming to the idea. Somebody's getting fucking eaten. Anything to get rid of that pungent smell. Yes, this act of cannibalism would be a public service. Perhaps the first in history. They were going to give me medals for this. Whilst this was going on, Jargon guy was on the exit options, doing the maths calculating the size of the bus and the roads. Eventually, he realised what we all realised when we first stopped, the bus was too big. In the end, the Jargoner and the Monster Man jogged to the nearest town to get signal so we could update the Hulleys of Baslow head office. Whatever good that would do. Anything to get the sweaty one off the bus. Now I realised I had another problem, my phone battery was dying and so too were my headphones. Had to switch off to preserve the juice and so filled my time speaking with my fellow passengers.

There were only 2 others left excluding the driver and his useless assistants. A green haired female on her way back to see her family for a Sunday roast. Our other co-passenger was an old biddy who was near completely deaf. Something we soon figured out. Somehow she didn't have a clue the bus had even stopped, despite being held up for about an hour by this point. An ostrich with its head so far in the fucking sand it saw the Three Gorges Dam get built. Bless her. In raised volumes, we gave a break down as to what had happened. We hear the sirens roar past us as an ambulance zooms ahead. Eventually, rancid and gravel voice return to pass on the information they have received. This just in. They're going to close the road. That much is clear. But they haven't decided what they're going to do with us yet. So we're just going to "hang tight" until the road is back open. Could be a couple of hours. Could be a couple of days.

Right, need to get my head screwed on and keep cannibalism off the brain. Cool it, Armie Hammer. The assistants ask us our destinations, working out potential new routes if we have to detour. I hold my nose as I speak to avoid taking in the smell. It's gonna take a lot not to kill this kid. Keep it together. When they get to the deaf biddy, they look around at us confused as to why she doesn't answer them. "YOU HAVE TO SHOUT. SHE'S DEAF!", cry out greeny and myself in unison. A policeman on a bike rides up to the driver's window and asks, "Why can't you move? We've closed the road you know". SYPD's finest, as sharp as ever. The bus driver had to be the one to tell him we're in a giant oblong on a bendy road, there's nowhere to spin it round. Buses weren't made to go on Snakes Pass and cops weren't made to be cops. He still isn't getting it, the bus driver draws him a diagram. He finally gets it. Doofus on the bike tells us he'll speak to his superiors and see what he can do about getting us out of here. "Just hang tight in the meantime", he says and speeds off on his bike like Count Dooku.

The next vehicle to approach is a van to clear up the damages. We see the bashed in remains from Fury Road. 2 cars. 2 bikes. The menacing onlooker was right, it wasn't pretty. Greeny winces at the sight. In a surreal and still unexplained moment, 5 minutes later the clean-up van returns in the opposite direction back to crash site with the written off vehicles still attached. "What? What was that?", said greeny. "I have no words", I added. Noone did. Some things just happen. Greeny recommends I go all the way to Glossop and get the train all the way to Manchester so I can get a train from there back to Sheffield. Going backwards to go forwards. This was the logic we were operating on now. There was no alternative. She says forget my hike. Jargon guy agrees. It had become too risky. I told them I couldn't abandon my mission. It had some purpose, although I wasn't sure what yet.

Greeny manages to get a signal and informs me she's messaged her Dad about Glossop train times. He thinks the last one could be about 8pm. We were half 5 now. This was going to be incredibly tight. As soon as were back up and running I could check to confirm Greeny's Dad's suspicions. There would be 20 minutes before my stop. In the meantime, I checked possible routes on my phone. Thank God for offline saved maps. Originally, I was going to walk from the bus stop along Devil's Dike to the plane crash site and then walk straight back the way I came and get the next bus in to Sheffield. That's about an hour 20 walk. Nothing too serious. Nice little cure for the hangover from the night before. Now look at me. Since there was now no bus that would be heading back to Sheffield, all I could do was pick up Doctor's Gate and walk all the way to fucking Glossop. Adding an extra 140 minutes to the walk. So 3 hours in total and I had to make it in time for the final bus supposedly at 8pm. This was becoming near impossible.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I had to stay on this bus and get off in Glossop. Abandon the hike. Could I just come back another weekend? No. No. I couldn't do that. I refused to accept that. There wasn't another free weekend between now and the move. It was now or never. I had to do this. Even if it meant being late to work tomorrow, spending hundreds of pounds on B and Bs in God damn Glossop and forking out on taxis to escape my situation. Something in my heart felt like I had to do this. I had to keep going. I had to see that B29 scattered across the hills. What meaning that would have, if there was to be any, it would soon reveal itself, I was sure of it.

Judge Dredd comes back on his little bike. Pulls up driver's window side. Says, "Road is nearly clear now. Should be about 5 more minutes and we can escort you through". Greeny, Jargoner, Monster Man and I heard just fine. Our resident elder, the poor old biddy, put down her Jeremy Clarkson magazine and sat up looking for answers. Everyone laughed and shouted back at her, "SHOULD BE FIVE MORE MINUTES NOW!". Times up. We're moving again. Judge Dredd lights up the way. Just 20 minutes until my stop to decide whether to get off or give up on my mission. I had my eye on the signal strength. Once I saw a pathetic 3G in the corner, I was searching train times. My stop was approaching. My fingers flickered faster.

Last train is 8.20pm giving me 2 hours and 20 to walk what Google had told me is a 2 hour 50 walk. Well, as had been proven that day, Google could be wrong and I had faith in my own pace to shave off half an hour. Fuck it, I was going for it. The game was on. We were going all the way. You want to live life, you have to gamble. I smacked that stop button so hard and drive came to an abrupt stop.

The B-52s Love Shack fired me up and put a spring in my step. I bid my fellow passengers good night and good luck. It was every man for themself now. We'd survived an ordeal together and I would almost definitely never see them again. I finally understood the meaning of The Southern Thruways hectic ending. There wasn't time to think about that. I had planes on the brain. None of this moderate 3 miles an hour business, this isn't amateur hour, it was brisky 4.5 miles an hour or spend the night in Glossop. Devil's Dike was flat. Totally flat. What we liked. Call Meat Loaf because Jacob Kelly was zooming along like a Bat out of Hell!

All was splendid again until the hills arrives. Who put those there? There is no understating how painful they were. Especially, when you'd been operating at peak pace the last 20 minutes. Might have tripped a couple of times on the way, leading to a re-think of the entire strategy. Surplus items out the pockets and in to the bag. Shoelaces properly tied. One ear linking me straight to George Harrison, the other open to the world's ambiance. "If not for you Babe, I couldn't even find the door. I couldn't even see the floor. I'd be sad and blue, if not for you", spoke George softly. The usual fear settled in that if you rock up alone out here, then fuck up and slip on uneven ground, you might just stay out here forever. That's the deal. You saw what happened to Julian Sands. Taken before his time, cut short by the very thing he sought to please him. Rest in peace, you beautiful man. Hard to care though about the darker consequences when you've got George's words of encouragement in your ear. That's the walker's code. The pact you make. Soon as you step out the house and on to the green, you have to accept these things may happen. Not the worst place to lay your head either. Nature's a cruel mistress.

By the time Bob Dylan's Knocking on Heaven's Door came on, I felt like I couldn't be far off myself. I'd reached my peak but had I reached hers? "Mama Take this badge off me, I can't use it any more. It's getting dark, too dark to see". You get old. You get useless. Had I suddenly found myself in a Peckinpah movie? Just a fading, frail man with a once plausible dream. The fate of the plains had been decided without me. There was no place for me now. Every step carried the weight of my mission. All pursuits were futile and only prolonging the inevitable. Was there any point continuing?

The skies clear. The sun shines down on 3 goats lying on top of a rock. Van Morrison dances over a few piano keys to bring me in to his finest piece. "And the caravan is on the its way. I can hear the merry gypsies play. Mama, mama look at Emma Rose. She's a-playin' with the radio. La la la la la la la la la la la la la la!". I find the strength to make it over the final ridge. The goats guide me home. They walk off into the distance and I follow close behind. That is when I notice the loose strip of metal. More and more obstruct the path like breadcrumbs. Until there it is, Over Exposed in all her glory. Tarnished beyond belief, she'd seen better days but her power still undeniable. She lured me in.

Laying eyes on the endless destruction, all I could think was one thing. Ballardian. Strictly Ballardian. It reminded me of when we were kids at school and people would unzip each other's bags, rock them up and down, launch the contents across the floor with a big mischievous grin across their face and scream, "Scatter!". We were animals. Only this time, the contents were never re-collected and the pieces weren't put back together. They would lie forever where they were left. The youthful yesterday had been immortalised like a dream for all to see. Apparently, in the '70s, Captain Tanner's wedding ring was finally found in the rubble and given back to his daughter. One more answer to the riddle. Who knows what other treasures this mysterious site holds?

The playlist had now conveniently got up to Neutral Milk Hotels In The Aeroplane Over the Sea. A rather fitting tribute, I hoped Captain Tanner and the boys would have approved. Whilst not approving of the crews nuclear activities, I did form a sort of kinship with them when I read about how they probably never knew they hit the ground as it states on the memorial plaque. Die like you live. For what else can you do? Ah Captain Tanner, ever a man with his head in the clouds. "Never want to come down. Never want to put my feet back down on the ground" That's the motto for these guys. Their death would be like the ending of Runaway Train, meeting their demise at the perfect moment. One frame more and the poetry, the celebration, the immortalisation of the act would be lost. One more frame and they would be idiots. But the cut fell perfectly and they went out as Kings. Respect it, firmly respect it. Samurais were often criticised for resorting to death too quickly. Maybe they did. But they were right about one aspect. A person should regularly marinate over their own death. This is a good death.

I'd brushed up close with morbid curiosity. Gotten way closer than I intended. It dawned on me, why had I chosen to come here as my final hike across the peaks before my departure? What hadn't I turned back at every opportunity when disaster struck? When all signs pointed to endangerment, why had I continued? Why did I want to see the pieces of a crashed plane so badly that I'd put myself on the line constantly? The wreckage before me had all the answers I'd ever need. Each piece of machinery told the story a thousand times over. I finally knew why I was here. I couldn't think of a better symbol of my time in Sheffield. A total plane crash from start to finish. A failure in just about every regard. But it was beautiful, bloody beautiful. 8 years. That's not nothing. I have hated her, I have loved her and I have hated her again. I have lived here. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It is what it is. All things good and bad should be drank to and celebrated, period. I raised my Sprite bottle in to the air and cried out to the heavens, "ARRIVERDERCI!".

Burial site completed, it was now a mad rush to race the last train home. They threw everything at me. Hills so steep you had to go arse down, lightning and thunder storms. Nothing could take the smile of my face. I'd tried my fair share of drink and drugs in my time but nothing can match the endorphins released during a hike. The great outdoors. A high nobody can take from you. It's your right. Your gift that cares not for your background. Open to all who dare. You just have to be willing to overcome the initial hurdles but once you do, there's nothing quite like it. To see what was here before you and what will be here long after you. Green for miles around that cannot be bought and sold or passed around from business to business. You would never see a student accommodation out here. They couldn't touch her. She is what she always was. Her heart and soul could not be taken.

I thought of the recently deceased Cormac Mccarthy who once wrote possibly my favourite passage of literature, "Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence". Pavement's In The Mouth A Desert began pumping through my ears and I'd never felt so uncaring of a downpour. Standing tall and undefeated, "The King of Id". Did I make it back for the final train? Of course I did. With 15 minutes to spare!

Skip to the weekend after and I am invited to a barbecue. Most annoyingly, all the way in Featherbed Moss, which is right opposite the B29 crash site. So had I been invited the week before, I wouldn't have had the hassle of going to Manchester to get back to Sheffield. Oh well. In attendance is Fabian Barthez, Mike Delaney, The Goshima (who we're back on good terms with), Long Tall Sally, Warwick Tumley, Nathaniel Rourke, Shelley Porter and none other than Bonehead Bill. Warwick Tumley is the owner of the fine establishment. A former acid head with a love for Indian culture. Catch him at gaffs with his four foot sitar. It's either that or his pool cue. He carries both everywhere. One in each hand.

Let's go to about 18:06 on this one. Warwick is lighting the stove with his toes. A new trick he'd learnt from God knows where. He looks up at the sky, unable to comprehend just how hot this weather has been of late. "Will it end in fire or ice?", says his girlfriend Shelley who wonders on over and opens and umbrella. "I seem to have forgotten my disguises", replies Warwick. I have no idea what this means. Probably some sex thing knowing these two horn dogs. Before I can think too much about what he meant by the comment, a dove circles past for about the fifth time today distracting my attention.

"Do you think it knows something we don't?", says The Goshima, noticing me noticing the bird. I shrugged and stroked my chin. During all this, Long Tall Sally is weaving in and out, filming everyone on her new camcorder like its 2004. Full of that manic energy, Livin' La Vida La Loca, life of the party and here was me birdwatching at the barbecue again. When did I become so fatherised? I'd fallen on hard times, it was clear to see. "They say before a storm birds take refuge by the sea. The scientists believe they use infrasound to detect when it's coming", continues The Goshima "Didn't have you down for a bird guy, Goshima?", I say. "And thou treble-dated cow. That thy sable gender mak'st. With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st. 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go", adds The Goshima unpoetically whilst sipping on a beer. "Who the fuck said that?", I question. "Just some nob head", he replies, taking another sip of his drink.

I'd never been more grateful to see Bonehead Bill, The Goshima had clearly gone doolally. Maybe it was the weather. This heat will do that to a man. I prayed for rain. Anything to not see a man stoop so low again. "Any new developments on the JFK assassination front, Kelly?", asks Bonehead. "Well I'm working on my grand theory for this", I answer. "Oh, I see, go on then", says Bonehead mockingly nodding his head with his arms folded. He was provoking me to say more nonsense, knowing full well what he was doing and I fell for the bait like a rookie on his first day of school. "Well erm...", I start to say before coughing to clear my throat. "My theory is that JFK's assassination was pure cinema. Pure uncut unadulterated cinema", I declare.

"For fuck sake. what is it with you guys and the JFK assassination? Let the man rest", says The Goshima. "Sir, November 22nd 1963 is the day democracy died", I jokingly interject. "Do not forget your dying King", throws in Bonehead in his best Kevin Costner voice, bringing on a case of the giggles in myself. "He was better than Trump I guess. America's best president, you think?", inquires The Goshima. "Fuck no. That would be Richard Millhouse Nixon", I announce, barely able to keep a straight face. "I mean you're forgetting the fact Kennedy goes down in history for being the president to turn the white house in to his own personal brothel. So that makes him rank pretty highly. But you're right there's no beating the King", says Bonehead.

The Goshima sighs heavily and having had enough of the juvenile conversation taking place, walks away to start a more meaningful discussion with Nathaniel Rourke about Hou Hsiao-Hsien's The Assassin. Leaving us idiots to continue babbling. "I think we wound him up again", says Bonehead. "We need to stop doing that", I reply. My eyes drift again back to my dove who is now perched on top of the disused washing line. "So, you're grand theory on JFK's assassination being pure cinema, can you expand on that, please?", demands Bonehead. "Alright, so this came to me the other day watching Brian De Palma's Blow Out", I state. "Oh, I get all my ideas from Brian De Palma movies", mocks Bonehead. "Shut up, do you want to hear my theory or not?", I ask. Bonehead composes himself and finally utters, "continue"

"So, I think we can assume that political assassinations have taken place since the dawn of time, right? There's one thing for me that separates JFK assassination from the rest. The one thing no-one counted on", I ramble.

"You're talking about the Zapruder film?", interjects Bonehead. "Correct. The best director in movie history. You have to wonder then is the main thing that separates the last two centuries from the rest then cinema? The Zapruder film would have never happened before. Assassinations and cover ups have always taken place but now we can prove it. You wanna try that shit, we got you. We can't be fooled any more. But that has its consequences. There's a fallout effect".

"We can't hide from the truth any more. The effect that's gotta have on the public conscious is insane. There's the entire opposite too. The whole cover up involving fake photo after fake photo. Cinema to expose and cinema to lie. Movies, the most amazing art form of the last 2 centuries. The greatest achievement since the Egyptians started scribbling on papyrus. But also in many ways our downfall. It's in its nature. It is the celebration of the death of a moment. You've seen Peeping Tom, right? All this filming isn't healthy. Morbidity and cinema have always been so closely connected. And so is JFK and cinema. We never knew the man but we can watch his final moments in a loop over and over like a ghost in the machine. His final image is engrained forever in celluloid like with Blow Out, when he puts Sally's scream in those slashers. His death isn't his own to keep. It's for all to see. His grave is in the 8 millimetres. 12.29. The first shot fires. The last shot fires. It'll just keep bouncing on and on. Forwards and backwards. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive. A snake eating its own tail. Basinski shit. Hence why JFK's murder was pure cinema. They're synonymous. It's the only way I can explain my increasing fascination with it...", I ramble some more.

Before I even finish, I hear Bonehead's chair screech back and he walks away as if caught in a trance, his eyes focused on something in the distance. I'm left alone. Nobody is speaking. Louis Armstrong's Struttin' with some Barbecue is all that can be heard over some tinny speakers. "Listen, fucknuts, don't fucking ask me for my big JFK theory and then walk off like that", I shout, falling on death ears. I notice Long Tall Sally filming me again, sensing that intrusive camcorder of hers in my face once more and I wave her away with my hand. She doesn't get the message and so I scream, "Sally, fuck off". That's when I look up and realise she isn't filming me but something behind me. Something everybody at the barbecue is now staring at with terrified looks on their faces, "what are you filming?", I ask.

Director: Louis Leterrier

Screenplay: Justin Lin, Dan Mazeau, Zach Dean

Starring: Barbecue and Beers gang

Cinematography: Stephen F. Windon

Music: Brian Tyler

Production company: Universal

Distribution: Universal

Country: USA

Run Time: 141 Mins

Budget: $340 million

Plot Synopsis: The Barbecue and Beers gang are threatened once more. This time by Jason Momoa. Roman Pearce for no good reason at all is elected to lead this mission. It goes without saying that there are some pretty calamitous results.

Bonus Points:

-Playing football with a burning bomb across Rome

-Cena's initial entrance

-Cena's canoe contraption

-Cena reliving the '90s travelling across the country in a shitty banger with Marky Mark and The Pharcyde on the tape deck

-Vin Diesel landing a bunch of cars from a helicopter in the sky as if a superhero pose

-Cena's canon car

-Cena/Diesel buddy cop action

-Roman Pearce's rescue attempt at the end

Overall Score: 3.5/5