Somnopolis

Very amusing video up above. For one it reveals just how often we’re expected to support the careers of talentless husks in today’s culture, but talented creators often have to fight and claw their way to achieve a decent measure of success.

Joss Whedon is an example of this. He is not the Messiah, but he is a decent enough writer. What’s more he actually (prepare to roll your eyes at me) cares about the issues he raises in his stories.

In addition, as the video points out, he has created some notable female leads. Man ten years go by with no one but Sarah Connor, or Ellen Ripley and then out of the blue we’re knee-deep in Buffys, Willows, Faiths, Inaras, Kaylees, Echos and Sierras.

Now that’s all well and good as far as having a collection of poster-girls for that feminist edition of Loaded that you’ll never see….but feminism isn’t just about women. It’s about men too. I’ve always thought the real goal of feminism is not only to empower women, but to change the way men think about their roles also.

In that line of thinking, Joss has also introduced us to a number of male characters that were a refreshing change from the morbid machismo of the cartoonish action hero (see here for example). The chicks kicked ass, despite being dainty size zeros, but the male leads had a tendency to be goofballs, or wry adventurers instead of emotionless Austrian hardmen.

Hardly a copernican revolution in terms of what a male action hero can be, but lets call it a sly inversion anyway. Remember when we first met John McClane? Bruce Willis lent a certain degree of wit to that performance as a beat cop trapped on the roof of Nakatomi Plaza taking out well-armed terrorists. Then the sequelitis killed off whatever trace of that there was, so that by Die Hard 4.0 (ugh!)  he was jumping on top of jets and self-censoring bad language with gun shots. Anyway my point is, Joss took an aspect of that action hero as comic persona and refined it so that John McClane turned into ….Xander Harris of all people! The muscleman learned to feel emotion, act like an idiot and yes, fuck up every now and then. It’s not too much of a stretch, there’s even a Buffy the Vampire Slayer parody of Die Hard, titled School Hard of course. Xander is that everyman hero that McClane could not be allowed to remain. He survives desperate situations by a combination of luck and plucky determination. Plus he makes you laugh.

Remember ‘bitca’?

Here’s a few other male characters that Joss created, with a little twist on the familiar format.

Rupert Giles

Buffy fangirls have their Spike and their Angel shipper fantasies, but to my mind it was the librarian-cum-Watcher Giles who was always the most interesting character. Introduced in the first season as an obvious paternalistic figure to the rebellious Buffy Summers, a child of divorce looking for direction and guidance in her bizarre life of dating boys and vampire kung fu, he seemed so….well British for one. Anthony Stewart Head claims to have based his performance on Alan Rickman and Hugh Grant and there’s a certain colonial condescension there that fits in with the male authority figure he appears to represent.

Then Buffy started to challenge his authority and guess what? He backed down. When he did disagree with her it was often as an equal. This had a double effect – it led into the empowering of Buffy as a young woman, but also freed up Giles to be a more amusing, offhand character, noticeably more relaxed than the subsequent Watchers that appeared on the show. It is made clear that his relationship with the Slayer is considered shocking, despite their successes as a team. The Watcher order is greatly disturbed that Giles has abandoned the controlling behaviour used to bend the supernaturally empowered Slayers, who are always young women, to their will. Furthermore Rupert, or ‘Ripper’, as he is nicknamed by former associates, is discovered to have something of a past. He was the Sid Vicious of the magic scene it would appear, dabbling in the dark arts for thrills and excitement. So when we meet the buttoned down librarian in the first season of Buffy, we are actually seeing someone who has spent a lifetime repressing his wilder instincts.

It’s a fascinating evolution of a character.

Malcolm Reynolds

When Joss cast Nathan Fillion as Mal, former rebel fighter and smuggler by trade, captain of the star-freighter Serenity, he really struck gold. Firefly fans are notorious for their devotion to the prematurely cancelled show and I would argue that that is due in no small part to Fillion’s performance as the rakish Mal.

Here’s the high concept. He’s Han Solo, but better written and morally complex. He would always shoot Greedo first and then afterwards, quip about it.

What’s more, buried beneath the bluster and career criminal pragmatism, he also cares about desperate causes, much like Joss. There’s a sense that having been on the wrong side of a civil war has broken him badly and it is not until his encounter with the Tam siblings, fugitives from the law and in need of shelter, that he rediscovers a cause worth fighting for, or indeed a purpose to life beyond putting food on the table for his crew.

Firefly and Buffy share the theme of choosing your own family and in many ways Mal’s character arc over the meagre half season that was broadcast, as well as the spin-off movie Serenity, describes his acceptace of the role of father to this motley band of criminals and outcasts.

Possibly my favourite scene that illustrates Mal’s nature is this moment from the conclusion of the episode Shindig. Having just defeated the conceited fop Atherton in a fencing match, Reynolds stands over his rival’s prone body:

Sir Warrick: You have to finish it, lad. [Mal doesn't move] You have to finish it. For a man to lay beaten, yet breathing? It makes him a coward.

Inara: It’s humiliation.

Mal: It would be humiliating, having to lie there while the better man refuses to spill your blood. Mercy is the mark of a great man.

[He lightly stabs Atherton.]

Mal: Guess I’m just a good man.

[He repeats the poking.]

Mal: Well, I’m all right.

Victor

Ah Victor, Victor, Victor, Victor. The thinking woman’s crumpet this one. See here Joss was covering his bases quite nicely. Try explaining the concept behind Dollhouse to the average person and they’ll probably (and with just cause) react with horror. Isn’t this a show about institutionalised rape and human trafficking?

Well yes. Yes it is. That is the point Joss is making, that there are those in society who exploit and use the poor and defenceless without scruples. That frequently this will be justified as legitimate ‘business’, or a mere commercial exchange. After all, isn’t the customer always right? When the vendor in question is a prostitute, even a high-class one, their rights are not really all that important.

Which is what the Dollhouse is, an exclusive and very sophisticated brothel for the captains of industry. It hires out ‘Dolls’, men and women whose memories of their former lives have been erased and can quite easily be programmed to be whomever you want them to be. Now if this were anyone else but Joss, I imagine that previous sentence would end ‘….with sexy results’.

But this is Joss and frankly, he seems angry. Victor is a product of that anger. At times the most innocent of the Dolls, in his wiped state he is childlike and troubled by the pain exhibited by others. When on assignment, all traces of doubt and unworldliness disappear and we are treated to a series of fantastic performances by actor Enver Gjokaj. In one episode he essays an David Niven-esque British lover to Olivia Williams’ Adelle DeWitt. In another an Italian art agent. He also takes on the role of a blank-faced intelligence agent, but then blink and he’ll become desperate low-level Russian mobster. It’s a showcase to the talent of actor Gjokaj and Joss gives him every opportunity to display his range. In keeping with the theme of my post, Victor is a broad canvas of male behaviour, running the gamut from sheltered boy to amorous lover and then switch to shell-shocked veteran, or crazed genius.

Victor is in a sense the best example of Joss’ challenge to broadcast television. In keeping with his feminist principles, he demands that character come first, not product, themes that matter, not cliches.

The girls kick arse, but the guys are pretty awesome too.

I was going to add Doc Horrible, but frankly that’s a whole other post.

Last night I heard a table of people discussing the forthcoming Robin Hood film. What was interesting to me was that the conversation avoided the topic of Ridley Scott’s new film, but revolved about previous ‘Robins’. Poor Michael Praed didn’t get a look in and I think someone mentioned Robin Williams, but the consensus was the Russell Crowe’s effort comes too soon on the heels of both Kevin Costner and the recent BBC series that tried to modernise the Merry Men of Sherwood by playing on ‘hoodie’, culture.

So why make another Robin Hood? The trailer above eschews the campness of Costner’s Hollywood summer blockbuster of  1991. No Bryan Adams, or Christian Slater on show here. Instead we have scenes of Crusades era combat, cavalry versus ambushes, a more liberated Marian and Mark Strong as the villain, avoiding the scenestealing antics of Alan Rickman or Nickolas Grace.

I still have a niggling feeling at the back of my head and the cause is this. I can see no other reason to make this film on Ridley Scott’s part, other than to recapture the success of Gladiator. Every poster screams it and placing Crowe front and centre makes the intent clear. This is an unofficial sequel to his previous hit. There was talk of a sequel for a few years and Gone Elsewhere carries a summation of Nick Cave’s script. However, it never came to fruition and I have to wonder if Robin Hood is little more than second prize for the team of Scott and Crowe.

Initial reports revealed a more interesting story hook for the project. Apparently Scott intended for the Sheriff to be the hero of the piece, with the brutal outlaw Robin Hood being falsely revered. Now that’s something I could get behind. After all the Sheriff has all the best lines, is almost the archetypal villain character. Making him the focus was a brilliant notion.

It would be the perfect revenge, for after all, didn’t Costner have additional footage of Rickman removed from Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, because he had been so outdistanced by the British thesp?

What we will be seeing when Scott’s film is released, sadly, seems so much more vanilla as a result.

Oh and did someone say…..Alien prequel?

Ridley Scott what are you trying to prove! You’ve made some amazing movies…..and some not so amazing ones, but never mind. You don’t see James Cameron trying to recapture former glories, do you? He let Alien and Terminator franchises wallow in failed attempts to recapture his successes. Now weirdos are dressing up as blue people and trying to live up to his half-baked nativist yarn Avatar. But everyone sure does like 3D now. Follow his example, move on! Sure they took your picture and spun off a series of increasingly more terrible films from it, but hey. You confused stoners for most of the 80s with Commander Adama’s origami skillz. Also – you don’t need Crowe. He’s a dick.

I don’t give a toss where the Space Jockey came from!

Alex Cox (RepoMan) once expressed a theory about Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can. He described it as aviation propaganda, designed to reassure American citizens that it was safe to fly again post-9/11. So we had lush scenes with Leonardo Di Caprio living it up with air-hostesses, realizing his dreams as he criss-crosses the country.

I wonder what Mr. Cox would make of Die Hard 4.0

It’s like the 80’s all over again and that’s why McClane is back. To remind us how it was, before the world got all confused on us (speak for yourself mister!). There’s some line in the film about how McClane is now living in a digital age. Even the villains are faster this time. We have Maggie Q attempting some ‘kung fu’, and one of the stars from District 13 shows off his parkour skills to great effect. McClane’s a dinosaur, a thing from the past, a broken man.

But it’s like being in a panto – “Oh no he isn’t!” And with methodical, almost robotic persistence, he takes the computer hacker/terrorist/thieves-whatever! down.

Oh sorry was that a spoiler? See my problem with this movie is I love Die Hard. I love it like I love snow and frosted doughnuts and taking a day off work in September on a sunny day while schoolkids trudge past in their sweaty uniforms. I love it! It was a smart little film about a desperate man fighting against enemies who were smarter than him, more cultured than him (once again this film fails to find an equal for Alan Rickman) and also had a lot more guns than him. Unfortunately diminishing returns kicked in and the sequels focused on exploding more….objects.

As the movies have progressed McClane has become more and more irritating. He taunts the villain in Die Hard 2 into killing over 200 people! That’s just psychotic. By the third film his mania is infectious as Sam Jackson gets sucked into his maelstrom of madness. This film he’s stalking his teenage daughter while she’s on dates. The guy’s got a screw loose.

Despite all this McClane’s a patriot. Yes the broke-down embittered man from the first film gives an impassioned speech to the uncomprehending Justin Long on how they are fighting for the country, for ordinary men and women. See the villains are evil hackers seeking to cripple the US using new fangled technology. Justin Long’s character Matthew Farrell unwittingly aided them and now they want him dead to ensure no one can stop them. He mentions to McClane that the thought of setting everything to zero (note this is the same plot idea as Fight Club) seemed ‘cool’, to him. But now confronted with the reality he understands what it really means.

Here’s the thing – this is a complete turnaround from the first film. Die Hard’s villains used the fear of terrorism to organise an elaborate heist. McClane’s opposition to them is instinctual, they unfortunately managed to hold his wife hostage, but the official forces arrayed against them are shown to be completely ineffectual. The city police are secure in their own strength and play right into the ‘terrorists’, hands. The ‘FBI guys’, are crippled by arrogance. McClane’s resentment of his wife’s career is even justified by the pampered smugness of her colleagues (there’s an unfortunate comment made by her Japanese superior about Pearl Harbour). The gold watch given to her as a Christmas bonus is even made to symbolise the rift between McClane and his wife.

There’s an intelligence to all of the above. I even find it satirical and fairly biting for an 80’s action movie. But Die Hard 4.0, lumbered with that awful title, is gasping for air. We have gone from Hans Gruber, who reads Forbes, Time Magazine and can quote the histories of Alexander the Great to a perma-moisturized computer hacker with one facial expression. It’s a long fall. McClane saves the day, but he is aided by the FBI this time. The country is safe, we can sleep safely at night. Only hints of criticism can be detected in the appearance of feckless NSA agents (at the order of the President). There’s a line about FEMA. And Creedance Clearwater’s “Fortunate Son” a song transformed into a diatribe on Bush by J. H. Hatfield is used liberally. This comes across as little more than lip-service to those critics of the current administration. We must buckle down and pull together – even disaffected computer nerds

Now what this film reminded me most of? The Blob. Steve McQueen pushing 30 plays a teen who leads his friends to join forces with the police to defeat an unstoppable alien force. The status quo is preserved. The boy wins the girl. We can go home happy.

Man I miss Alan Rickman.

Waking once again in a strange place, with the smell of a sweet liquor and tobacco in the air, I raised my head to see a Swiss person guzzling redbull. Ah Sunday.

The only thing for it was to scalp my good friend’s dole money for the drinks I paid for last night (in fairness he insisted) totter out onto some strange street (all streets north of the Liffey are strange to me. And parts of Ballyfermot), and wander into the morning.

Yesterday evening I was at a going away do for a recently made acquaintance. I went to the bar and in quick succession met two former school mates from Colaiste Mhuire serving pints. There was the usual exchange of reminiscences, though even more abrupt due to the drinkers about us screeching their orders. The cruel grey hairs between the three of us were all the more apparent for the ten year since last we met. The quick verbal shorthand we use to crisscross these sudden encounters is really handy. Unfortunately I had seen a girl from school there on Friday, but I hadn’t spoken to her in so long, I had no idea what the given etiquette should be. “Oh hi haven’t seen you in ages!” and slowly there’s the dawning realization as to why. Is it polite to suddenly panic and run away? These things I wonders.

One last thing about yesterday evening. We found ourselves in the Viper Room. I haven’t returned there in five years, ever since an incident involving Rob Turner Kerr, some sambucca and an overweight lounge singer performing Chuck Baker standards. It’s small, cramped and it costs €15 to get in to enjoy its dubious charms. We found ourselves in the basement, round the dance area (though no one, to my recollection, danced). Unfortunately a hen party decided to pick a fight with the girls in our group. This continued for some time, an interminable stand-off, punctuating with threats like ‘My uncle is the manager here!’ Whatever that’s supposed to mean. After the dust had settled, thanks mostly to the doe-eyed diplomacy of Deirdre, one of the girls tried a line on me. It was bewildering. Only moments before she’d been threatening a friend of mine and now she was trying it on? I…hurm.

Anyhoo, all of this bled back into my brain this afternoon as I desperately searched for last nights episode of Doctor Who. Every site I tried failed me. They’re usually quicker with this kind of thing. Course then I tried youtube and surprisingly it worked. Perhaps BBC are being more lenient than Viacom as they’re attempting their own online programming.

The finale itself was more than adequate. Course the idea of Martha Jones being a one-woman saviour of humanity was a bit strange to take, but they explained it well enough. All of this seems to have been some way of justifying her presence in the show after the departure of Billie Piper. It seemed excessive throughout the series, but it finally fit when we discover this was Martha’s incentive for the lost year: to prove herself and live up to the Doctor’s expectations. The mystery of the Toclafane was neatly explained – swerving in a completely different direction from the predictions on various fan forums. Instead of being baby timelords or dalek hybrids, they turned out to be the ultimate fate for humanity. Plus a coda reveals the identity of the Face of Boe, which came out of nowhere.

But the most enjoyable aspect of the episode for me was the interaction between the Master and the Doctor. John Simm was running rings around the rest of the cast, but he was still generous in his scenes. Dancing to the Scissor Sisters as he tortures the Doctor and Martha’s family. He made being evil fun! Someone finally able to live up to Alan Rickman’s malevolence Once again we were treated to the Doctor’s sadness at being the last of the Timelords, his feelings of responsibility for their deaths and the destruction of Gallifrey. Even a psychopath like the Master is welcome company to him, as he’s desperately lonely. I really liked that touch and it excuses any of RTD’s usual deus ex machina plotting. Golum Doctor looked a bit odd though.

However, the geek moment of choice, the scene which warmed the cockles of my twisted nerd heart – was definitely the Flash Gordon send off. Shot exactly the same way, with a familiar hand coming into the camera’s view, plucking an abandoned ring and raising out of the shot to the sound of laughter. All I could think of was Max Von Sydow’s delightful creation – camp, perverse and almost permanently bemused.

So a fine send-off, complete with a call back to last year’s Xmas episode. Though if I’ve to put up with more Titanic, Celine Dion crap someone’s going to be hurting Christmas Day.

From this rough material I shall fashion an article suitable for civil servants nationwide! This I vow.

Though I returned from the northernmost city of culture a week ago, I’m only now attempting to put my thoughts on the trip in order. First I should probably start with how a lowly deskjockey like myself wrangled a free festival media pass. A month or two back the lovely Melinda txted to ask if I was free to attend the premiere of her father Basil Gelpke’s film A Crude Awakening in Edinburgh. Of course I jumped at the chance. As the weeks pass I got to thinking though. I work for a magazine – more or less – the festival offers passes to journalists – more or less – and there was no reason, no real reason, why I couldn’t apply myself. So I did. I sent off a copy of the magazine, a completed application form and a sample of my writing. Several days pass and I receive notice that I will indeed qualify to attend all industry screenings for the festival.

So we were off. The first day was typically sleep deprived thanks to an early flight from Dublin Airport with Ryanair (which in turn meant an even earlier start – queues stretched right round the ticket area and proved a complete nightmare). It’s still amazing that we two travellers mangaged to stand on our own feet for the duration of the day. But once we arrived back in my favourite city everything fell into place. We met Basil at a screening of Colour Me Kubrick (a comedy starring John Malkovich about a Kubrick impersonator ligging his way about the country during the filming of Eyes Wide Shut). The screening was held in the Cameo cinema on Lothian road, which had flatscreens dotting the walls displaying interviews that had already been held with the likes of Kevin Smith & Charlize Theron. During the afternoon we caught Al Gore’s film An Inconvenient Truth, which hopefully may startle some special interests into pursuing some action on environmental controls, but which I found overall condescending and simplistic. Animated sequences involving a sad polar bear and a jocular frog reminded me of the Troy McClure public information shorts from the Simpsons. Gore himself was in town that weekend and the red carpet was duly rolled out. What a strange figure to be transformed from failed presidential candidate to festival carpet padder, numbered now among the ranks of celebrity.

Basil’s own film A Crude Awakening I found far better. Hopefully the picture will acquire adequate distribution, but it is far worthier, as it features interviews with actual experts on the oil crisis, who can articulate the attendant problems with peak oil, alternative energy sources and the current international political climate. Together with fellow film maker Ray McCormack, the director answered questions afterwards from an audience of mostly expat Americans. It’s striking just how little the issues involved in this situation are discussed publicly or in the media, yet so many are aware, only choosing to speak out at cinema q & a sessions.

Finally I claimed my journalist pass and discovered it entitled me to more than free screenings. I was also able to view films that had already screened which I had missed. There were a number of pictures available, but I tried to choose ones less likely to get distribution in Ireland, so nix to Wristcutters A Romance (based on a novel by an Israeli writer, which I’d already read serialised in Bi-Polar and starred Will Arnett – GOB from Arrested Development – Tom Waits and Sharon Sossamon); LoudquietLoudetc. the Pixies doc (out soon in the IFI, so why bother); An Unexpected Guest (a fantastic looking Spanish Hitchcock style thriller about a man haunted in his own house by an intruder). So in went the dvd titled Al Franken – God Spoke.

I have beheld the face of evil. Ann Coulter. Brrr. She’s tall, leggy, blond and hasn’t a frickin’ clue what she’s talking about. Along with Bill O’Reilly, Franken has selected her to be his nemesis in his book Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them. The film tracks Franken’s progress from the publication of the book to the disspiriting second successful Bush election. Among the highlights is his encounter with Henry Kissinger at a crowded party, were he chooses to treat the Nobel Peace Prize awarded warmonger to his ‘Kissinger bit’. Priceless. It’s also a very affecting film, as we witness Franken’s deep personal politicial convictions be tested at every turn, pushed further and further into the political fray each time he chooses to open his mouth. Well worth seeing if you have the chance.

Later after dinner (oh god – I’m a man who likes his food, but oh my sweet lord that was good) I went to see Micky and Nicky, Elaine May’s second film starring John Cassavetes and Peter Falk. Difficult to find, I’m glad I got to see it with an audience as taken with the picture as I came to be. It’s a film about male friendship and the destructive nature of relationships in general. It’s very funny and brutal. If I can track it down on dvd it’s on my lend-to-friends list.

Then I wound up at a Diesel Jeans party. Now guys who bring their girlfriends to a party are always running a risk. Maybe she’ll meet someone else, someone more attentive (at least for that evening), someone more attractive and funny. It goes both ways of course. Introducing your significant other into a social gathering always carries with it the attendant pressures of a new dynamic. But think of the guy who brings his girlfriend from the movie industry to a party filled with well-to-do directors and producers, who could well advance her career. Feel sorry for that guy. I witnessed such a man get crushed right in front of me on the balcony of a penthouse suite, smoke fogging the air and booze clouding the brain. Poor fecker. And then came sleep.

The next morning brought us a neat lil sugar rush (hmmm aniseed. The Scots may have very unhealthy food, but feck it, I want my childhood sweet shops back!) a cholesterol raising fry and a return trip to the videoteque to watch first Clerks II and a documentary on the recent elections in Iraq: My Country, My Country. Clerks lifted us up before the sadness of the Iraqi film, directed by a fearless female film-maker who managed to acquire footage from both the Sunni community and the US military. Excellent picture.

Clerks II has so many class lines in it. Randall’s diatribe on LOTR is a laugh out loud moment, as well as his campaign to redeem ‘Porch Monkey’. Overall it’s a very sweet movie with a dirty mouth. And Jay’s homage to Silence of the Lambs proves to be possibly the best scene ever performed by the addled Mr. Mewes. See it with friends. Kevin Smith’s pic went on to win the audience award at the festival – hopefully enough to reward a man brave enough to cast his own wife as a controlling bitca.

Now Melinda had never seen a stand-up comedian before, so I in my wisdom took her to see Doug Stanhope. Y’know, the man who was chased out of Kilkenny for suggesting that Ireland has so many paedophile priests because Irish women are so ugly. He’s a pretty brave man too. He opened his increasingly drunken set by trying to set the record straight on media accusations of anti-semitism. Now this was a hot topic at the festival, as two comedians were accused this year of anti-semitism based on their performances. Somehow Stanhope got lumped in with this group. So his opening remarks on the night went as follows: ‘I never said I hated the Jews…I said if Mel Gibson can get so much free press by saying he does, well than why can’t I get a piece.’ Nervous laughter followed. He’s not Bill Hicks, or Lenny Bruce, or Richard Pryor, as some of the trades have it. But he can be funny. Like so:

“If marriage didn’t exist, would you invent it? Would you be like ‘hey baby, this love we got is too big for just the two of us. Lets get the government involved! Lets federalise this! Do you know any lawyers?”

Of course Mel hated it.

Afterwards we were invited to attend the festival Best Documentary awards. Unfortunately A Crude Awakening did not win (that honour went to a picture on Osaka rentboys), but a fine time – and some fine wine – was had nonetheless. Brian De Palma was in attendance, as was a drunken Sean Connery (though honestly how could one tell?) as chair of the festival and a personal highlight Marc Cousins, the former head of the festival committee and host of the long lamented Videodrome. Ten years ago he summarised the appeal of Dazed and Confused in an introduction to the movie as follows:

Adolescence is that time in one’s life when one is sure that someone, somewhere else is having more fun than you.

On the last days we ran to get tickets for the final showing of Aurora, by the director of Nine Queens Fabian Bielinsky, who recently passed away. Before that we caught a showing of My Name is Rachel Corrie, adapted from the diaries and e-mails of a student activist from the States who went to protest the incursion on Palestinian settlements by the Israeli military and was shortly thereafter murdered, crushed beneath a bull-dozer. Adapted and directed by Alan Rickman, it’s simply the best piece of theatre I’ve seen. Doubtless it’ll never make it to Dublin, but if you get a chance to catch it in London do. Aurora afterwards proved to be a slow moving heist movie concerning an Argentinian epileptic taxidermist prone to fantasising about robbing banks. After his wife leaves him he goes on a hunting trip and through a series of accidents, becomes involved in a casino robbery.

And that was it. A final day’s shopping around the city followed and then the 10pm flight back to ol’ Dublin. I’ll be back next year of course. But not with Ryanair. Feckers.