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Space Jam (1996)

(DISCLAIMER: This blog is not for profit. All images and footage used below are property of their respective companies unless stated otherwise. I do not claim ownership of this material. New to the blog? Start at the start with Snow White.)

So I have a confession to make.

For the longest time, I thought it was “Looney Toons” and not “Looney Tunes”.

Alright fine, but in my defence it makes sense, right? I mean, they’re cartoons. Why would they be called “Tunes”?

Well, why indeed.

The reason the early series of cartoon shorts have names like “Looney Tunes”, “Merrie Melodies” and “Silly Symphonies” is because that’s what they were selling. Film studios like Warner Brothers did a tidy side business off their movie soundtracks by selling phonograph records and sheet music for playin’ on the ol’ pianey.

The idea was, you go to a movie and see, say, I Love to Singa’, and say to yourself “smartass owl thinks he’s so big, I could do that.” and before you know it you’ve gone down to the local music shop and blown the money you were saving in case you got tuberculosis (spoiler, you got tuberculosis). The unpleasant truth that I’m tip-toeing around here is that the Looney Tunes were, at least in their early days, basically advertisements.

Ergo, if you hate Space Jam because you don’t like to see your favourite characters schilling, I got bad news for you friends; They were schilling when your grandparents were throwing toys out of the pram.

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The Hangman’s Daughter Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36: A MAN WALKS INTO A BAR

Picture it now.

Above, the great dome of the stone sky.

Beneath; tents, shanties, caravans and the like stretching like an ocean as far as the eye can see. Closer to the centre they harden, tents become huts, huts become inns and cabins, which become tenement buildings.

This is his army.

To the west, the medical tower, a jagged stone nightmare clawing upwards like a demon’s paw. That is Groethuis’ kingdom, where he patched up Thomas and countless others like him.

To the east, the combat tower, a perfectly rectangular slab; two thousand stories of arenas, armories, sparring rings, training rooms and shooting ranges. Where every brick stinks of sweat and blood. This is where Mabus’ army trains every day. This is where they keep their brutal skills at their peak, ready for the day Mabus will call on them to be used.

To the south, Xanadu, the pleasure dome. Like nothing so much as the great shell of a turtle a mile across, this is where the troops go to unwind. Pretty much any entertainment you can think of is provided for here.

And the elegant black needle in the very centre. It is known as the Chamber. And the soldiers do not speak of it in hushed tones. They simply do not speak of it at all. This is where Mabus floats in his emerald pool. It is where any soldier who has displeased him is taken. It is not spoken of.

Picture it now. Mabus’ great army, the medical tower, the combat tower, the pleasure dome and the Chamber. The great stone sky and the endless tenements, tents and huts.

This is his kingdom.

This is New Gomorrah.

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The Hangman’s Daughter- Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35: SAFE HOME

Marie woke up, safe and sound in bed.

Lazily, she kicked her sister in the ribs.

No reaction. Again.

“Marie. Kick me again and I will rip off your legs and…something…sleepy. Go away.” Isabella murmured.

“Stop snoring then.”

“‘M not snoring.”

“You are.”

“Am I? Am I really? Am I snoring right now?”

“No, you’re talking.”

“Then shut up.”

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You’re making a sitcom about what now?

When it comes to comedy, I always feel that “You can’t make jokes about X.” is a non-starter. As long as X is a part of our shared experience as human beings it’s something that humour can and should be drawn from.

Even if X is something awful?

No, not even.

Especially.

Our ability to mock and make light of life’s many horrors is often all we have to keep us from going insane. Now, that’s not to say that some jokes can’t be cruel, tasteless, despicable or flat out evil. Of course they can. But if you look at the reasons why those jokes are offensive it’s never the subject matter in and of itself. It’s a question of presentation, delivery, target (are we laughing at the Nazis or the people they killed?) and most importantly of all, whether or not the joke is funny. A comedian who makes a joke about shocking subject matter because it’s genuinely funny is doing his job. A comedian who makes a joke about shocking subject matter because it’s shocking is a hack.

I firmly believe this, that it’s not what you’re writing about but how you write about it that matters most in comedy.

You can make good comedy about anything…is a principle that I have never had reason to doubt until now.

Ohhhhhhhh Lord.

So there’s been a storm brewing here since the Irish Times interviewed Dublin writer Hugh Travers who casually let slip that he is working on a new sitcom called Hungry with British broadcaster Channel 4 set during the Irish Famine of 1845. My Facebook feed right now is half people calling for petitions and boycotts and the forcible retaking of the six counties and the other half calling for everyone to lighten up or at least wait until the damn thing has aired before getting in a lather. Now normally, I would absolutely be in the lather/latter camp. Don’t judge the work until you’ve actually had a chance to see it, and I suppose I still am in that camp. But on the other hand, I absolutely get why people are angry or at least, very, very worried about this.

Okay, so a little background.

By the middle of the nineteenth century around two thirds of Irish people were farmers, most of them tending tiny plots of land that were barely large enough to feed them and their families (whole host of political and historical reasons for this, no time to go into here). As a result, the vast majority of the peasantry lived almost exclusively on potatoes because you get more calories per acre from them than just about any other crop that was available at the time. So everything was fine (barring the crippling poverty, awful living standards, cultural erasure, and brutally incompetent foreign rule) as long as the potato crop didn’t fail.

Who, apart from 175 ignored governmental inquiries, could have foreseen this!?

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The Hangman’s Daughter- Chapter 34

Oh please let me dead.

Because if I’m not, I have the distinct impression I shall be in quite a lot of pain when I wake up.

“…Mariana!?…Mariana?! Can you hear me?”

Ah. There it is.

“Thank God, she’s alive!”

Yes. Not unlike being ground through a strainer and set on fire. This may in fact be the most pain I have ever been in.

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happy new fear

2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 310,000 times in 2014. If it were an exhibit at the Louvre Museum, it would take about 13 days for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Hangman’s Daughter- Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33: LION IN A CAGE

He lay in the cell, naked except for a lattice of cuts and scabs that covered his flesh like old dry paint.

His ribs strained at his taught skin, and his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. He lay in the corner, curled up in his stick thin arms and legs.

Thomas and Groethuis watched him through the glass.

“What did he do?” Thomas asked.

“Nothing.” said Groethuis “He’s not being punished.”

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A Christmas message from Mouse

Hi guys,

Since this will probably be my last post before the New Year I’d like to wish you all a very happy Christmas and to say thank you for a pretty incredible year. Doing this blog for you remains my pleasure and ~~privilidge, privilige, priviledge~~ thing that I am very lucky to be able to do.

On a slightly less happy note, you may have noticed that the blog has been hacked a few times in the last month with threatening messages appearing in some articles and in the comments section. Not fun, but having consulted with WordPress and upgraded security we’ve hopefully seen the last of it, especially now the culprit has been identified.