Double Bill: Stranger Than Fiction and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Double Bill: 

Stranger Than Fiction and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

I had every reason to suspect that I would hate Stranger Than Fiction (Marc Forster, 2006) and The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller, 2013 – the remake better suits my purposes!): both star actors that I go from not really minding to actively disliking, depending upon he direction of the wind; both appeared to be deliberately faux-indie major studio releases, striving to be cool with hipster soundtracks and muted colour schemes; both are about stuff that I didn't think I'd find interesting. I have rarely been more delighted to be proved wrong! These are two surprisingly good low-key comedies starring two of today's biggest stars of comedy, who, love them or hate them, turn in sterling against-type performances in films about how the little things can reveal the big picture. Together, they'd also make a fine evening's viewing.

Both films revel in their metaphysical leanings, carefree tinkering with film form and playful double entendre titles that become clear as the stories progress. Mitty shows Ben Stiller's titular hero's flights of fancy writ large onscreen, playing out his fantasies and mixing them with his actual adventures which are often just as fantastical, the effect being that you are often swept along with how joyfully ridiculous the story gets, without ever really questioning it. Fiction opts for a more structured conceit, where Will Ferrell's dull tax auditor Harold Crick's life is interrupted by its own narration, which only he can hear, and describes incidents varying from his morning routine to his untimely death. This creates an interesting dramatic tension: is Crick imagining the voice narrating his life (personified by Emma Thompson's troubled author), or is he the product of the narrator's imagination and bound to her every whim, even if it means his death? This is a film that is a Freudian slip away from being a Charlie Kaufman/Spike Jonze collaboration.

Despite my misgivings about the stars, Ferrell and Stiller play against type and in doing so make their characters hugely likeable. I am not a fan of their more slapstick tendencies and it's refreshing to see them stretch their other comedy muscles with deadpan and fantastic timing. Both play dull-but-likeable men stuck in loveless routines of jobs but over the course to the films, both learn to grab life by the scruff of the neck and write their own script or live out their fantasies respectively. Both are played out at a satisfying pace, allowing the characters to evolve naturally despite the more fantastical aspects at work. The one exception to this is Maggie Gylenhaal's love interest for Ferrell. She does good work with an interesting-if-underused character but the softening of her spiky exterior is too fast and smells a little of narrative convenience.

These are two films that are directed affectionately and with a quirky indie sensibility. Stiller throws in bizarro moments like an entire sequence set in Greenland culminating in Kristen Wiig's eminently loveable love interest Cheryl singing Bowie's 'Space Oddity'. Fiction director Marc Forster, the man responsible for the one recent Bond film that nobody liked, fills his film with keenly observed details (a couple lie in bed, his face lying nose-to-nose with the silhouette of hers), thoughtful framing and almost expressionistic scenery (the IRS records room is something from an unmade Kubrick film about taxation). If you look for them, there are nuggets of cinematic gold in two fairly understated films.

As the narratives deal with blurred lines between fiction/fantasy and reality, ultimately setting on the real, the here and the now, these are films you can get lost in; films that you can sit back and smile at. As each reaches its final denouement, the 'reveals' (the end of Crick's story, the reveal of Mitty's lost photograph) we feel like we've been on the same journey as the character, feel more positive about life, more passionate, more willing to do stuff; we just feel more. Ultimately, these films are thoroughly enjoyable marriages of major stars playing against type but totally on form, with directors (in Stiller's case, himself) who 'get' the material and know how to make it sing. Do yourself a favour and set aside a few hours to get lost in the narrative.

Gig Review: Slayer - Leeds Academy, 28/11/15

Extend your index finger.

Now hold down your middle and ring fingers with your thumb.

Extend your little finger.

Repeat with your other hand, if you so desire.

Now hold your hand in the air and scream like you mean it. You are now 'Throwing The Horns', and shows like this are why it's still done.

Despite the theatrics of tonight's headliners, Slayer are about as satanic as The Horns themselves (originally a sign of defence against evil, appropriated in the name of heavy metal by Ronnie James Dio) and their 35-year performance as a satanic band goes on with no signs of stopping. In the immortal words of Henry Rollins, Slayer are a band who are 'sticking to their story', and doing so with an incredible level of commitment. Playing such fast, intense music to the standard they do, at the age they have now reached is no mean feat: Metallica, while rarely as fast as Slayer, don't seem to be able to do it any longer. So when Slayer announced a show just down the road in Leeds, supported by the just-as-legendary Anthrax, I had no choice but to go.

As far as I understand it, it's always raining in Leeds so I can't really complain about the weather but the city was fucking drab that day. We found a nearby pub beside an incongruously lovely Christmas market and commenced drinking with some serious anticipation.

First up were Kvelertak. Hailing from Stavanger, they arrived on stage to a barrage of riffs and hair, with singer Erland Hjelvik wearing what appears to be a stuffed bird as a hat. Yes, really. Seamlessly moving between black metal, hardcore and bluesy hard rock, their three-guitar lineup makes them a fine visual and sonic experience. Lots of heads start to nod. Alas, there is no justice in the world or these guys would already be huge.

Quite unfairly the least well known of the 'Big Four', Anthrax don't have the status of Slayer or the sales of Megadeth but are more a lot more fun than either. While all four bands went through some strange musical times in the 90s, Anthrax have survived changes to both lead guitarist and singer and come up smiling. This mostly comes down to the sheer unrelenting commitment of core members Scott Ian, Frank Bello and Charlie Benante. These guys are metal to the core. Scott Ian takes stage-right and spends the set, from the opening 'Caught In A Mosh' to the closing 'Among The Living', tossing out riff after riff as if he had a suitcase full of them to spare. I wish that I enjoyed anything as much as Frank Bello appears to enjoy playing bass for Anthrax. It is hard not to get on board with his enthusiasm. 'Indians' is as brilliant and anthemic as ever and new track 'Evil Twin' shows that there's plenty left in the tank yet.

Topping it all off is singer Joey Belladonna, whose high-end vocals cut through the riffs like a knife. He's one hell of a showman, too; pointing out audience members to cheer on, never still for a moment. His Freddie Mercury-style mic stand is apt. If there's a problem, and it is a minor one, it's that their recent troubles finding a lead guitarist are telling. Not that former Shadows Fall member Jonathan Donais isn't up to the task – he's a fine guitar player – he just looks a little like a hired hand, appearing nervous while the rest of the band go for it. That said, Anthrax were comfortably the band of the night and deserve much more attention.

The sold out Academy is then treated to a 20-song set by the band who personify heavy metal perhaps more than any other except Iron Maiden. Slayer are the kind of band who inspire such loyalty that more than a few people were wandering around with prominent Slayer tattoos (I was a little concerned that my Pearl Jam and Biffy Clyro tats would make me the target of a glassing, but I survived unscathed). I suppose it's easy to get on board with their sheer naked aggression, speed and ferocity; a healthy outlet for angry young men like myself and my friends.

A curtain screen drops, revealing inverted crucifix lighting rigs (sticking to their story...) and the band themselves, no frills, just riffs. Opening with recent single 'Repentless', their set takes in most of their 35-year career, including early songs 'Chemical Warfare' and 'Black Magic' and recent numbers 'Vices' and 'Take Control'. Despite projecting a fuck you attitude for most of their career, thanks largely to guitarist Kerry King, Slayer are not above overt crowd pleasing, playing the likes of 'Dead Skin Mask' and set highlight 'War Ensemble' before ending with 'Reign In Blood' and the thrash masterpiece that is 'Angel Of Death'.

A combination of tragedy and personality clashes has robbed Slayer of the late Jeff Hanneman and the ousted Dave Lombardo. While the latter remains one of the planet's more talented drummers, it's probably not speaking ill of the dead to say that Hanneman was starting to struggle with the pace at times. Paul Bostaph put in a fine display on drums but recruitment of Gary Holt, formerly of Exodus, has been a masterstroke. Clearly playing within his level of ability and comfort zone with crowds of this size and ferocity, he sounded incredible all night. So much so that the sound man appeared to favour his guitar above that of Kerry King for the whole show. This became somewhat distracting, bordering on annoying whenever King played an almost inaudible solo. It's a shame to be let down by poor sound because the fact that anyone, let alone 4 guys in their 50s, could play that fast, that well, and stay that tight is nothing short of amazing.

Singer Tom Araya, strangely the world's calmest man despite what he does for a living, bids us farewell and they fuck off with no encore. Not really their style I suppose. This was a triumphant night for thrash metal; a maligned genre that they tried (and failed) to kill with introspection and then rap in the 1990s, but one that has never been stronger. This was metal in its purest form and a room full of people who love it like it was family. Rob Zombie once said in a documentary, “I don't know a casual Slayer fan. I only know the guy with Slayer carved into his chest.” You might want to stop short of that but go on, be one of us, throw the horns. You won't regret it.