Compliance - A Movie Review for Journalism Diploma

.    Compliance

.    Production year: 2012

.    Country: USA

.    Cert (UK): 15

.    Runtime: 90 mins

.    Directors: Craig Zobel

.    Cast: Ann Dowd, Dreama Walker, Pat Healy

When a film is based on true events it often has a tenuous grip on reality. Plotlines are embellished to add tension to what would otherwise be a straightforward narrative. This has become such a standard practice in the film industry that in the case of Argo, the truth is seen as that unimportant it doesn’t prevent an Oscar victory. Compliance is refreshing, as it never strays far from actuality, because the absurdity of the story doesn’t need any enhancement.

For a period of ten years from the mid-Nineties a hoax caller posing as a police officer targeted fast food restaurants in rural America, persuading staff to perform various tasks for his own perverse pleasure. Compliance tells the story of the most successful of these hoaxes that occurred in Ohio in 2004.

Sandra (played by the excellent Ann Dowd) is the middle-aged, harassed, manager of ChickWich, struggling to gain authority over her young, uninterested staff, one of which is the blonde and pretty, Becky (Dreama Walker). At the beginning of a shift Sandra receives the hoax call informing her that a customer has complained of a theft and Becky is the only suspect.

It is from this point that Sandra becomes compliant to all the demands from the fake officer, with Becky the hopeless victim. The desires of the hoax caller start off tame and then over the course of the three and a half hour ordeal, get increasingly sadistic.

The attractiveness and vulnerability of Becky could have lead to some directors taking advantage, in order to produce a gruesome and exploitative film. It is credit to Craig Zobel that exactly what does happen to Becky is conveyed in a subtle way, meaning that we are completely aware but do not end up feeling like voyeurs ourselves.

In Zobel’s hands Compliance becomes a terrifying, unusual and absorbing film, which uses the fast food industry - where the nature of the work is repetitive, unthinking and unquestioned - as a backdrop to examine how society is reluctant to challenge authority.

END

A Cricketing Passage to India - Travel Feature for Journalism Diploma

A Cricketing Passage to India: Watching and playing the national sport

“Woooosshhhh” goes the sound of the red painted tennis ball as it flies past my head. The laughter from the boys standing nearby, when I swing my arms round and try to hit the ball that has already passed me, is thunderous. Welcome to Indian cricket. Street style.

I had come to India to watch England play two Test matches and then, in an effort to gain an understanding of the country, to see a few of its sights. Street cricket wasn't on the agenda. But the sights, though beautiful, had left me empty and the freneticism of Indian life bewildered me. I needed to connect with India in another way, and found cricket was the answer.

You can forget the Taj Mahal anyway, if you are a fan of cricket. The sight you want to see is Eden Gardens, Kolkata; cricket’s answer to that great palace. I was there for the third Test against England and it was from the upper tier of the pavilion end that I could appreciate its splendour. The panorama of Kolkata lay before me, visible through a misty sunset, creating a spectacular backdrop for the serenity of the game itself, which England won easily.

Next stop was Nagpur. "Nagpur. Where is that?" Not even the travel expert in London giving me my jabs knew where it was. Having now visited I am not surprised. It is called the city of oranges on account of it being a major trader of the fruit. Unfortunately, I only saw one. And that was concrete.

I was here for the fourth Test, which, sadly, was as dull as the city itself. But the lack of visual treats meant that I sought more conversational ones. This came in the form of a steward called Rahul whose seat was beside mine for the full five days of the game. In-between him unsuccesfully preventing people drinking bottled water – an example of crazy Indian bureaucracy - we were able to discuss an array of topics. Subjects like the Indian approach to life (don’t worry, chicken curry), the installations of ATM’s (his job) and the best vegetarian restaurants in town (his uncle’s) all passed the time as England won the series.

After the Tests were over, I moved on to the golden triangle (Agra, Jaipur, and Delhi) to take in the sights. It was at one of these, Fatehpur Sikri Palace, in Agra, where I came across a group of boys playing cricket. With a cardboard box for a wicket, the foundations of an old fort as a boundary line and a pitch that resembled the surface of the moon, it was time for my first game of street cricket.

Regrettably, I never managed to get my bat to connect with the ball. I was never much of a batsman anyway. Unhappily, as it turns out, I am not much of a bowler either. My bowling was despatched around the ground by a boy not much bigger than the bat he carried. This was my cue to leave, using an old back injury - which flares up when humiliation is close - as an excuse to shake hands.

After spending a curious day in Jaipur being bullied by rickshaw drivers into visiting sights I didn't want to see, I craved more cricket. I now realised that only when watching or playing cricket did I feel a kinship with this perplexing country. I scoured the local papers. The only game nearby was in the Ranji Trophy, India’s domestic competition. Finding the ground involved talking to several rickshaw drivers who had made me so miserable the day before. They all assured me they knew the way. I plumped for a driver who “1000 percent knows this place.” He drove off confidently before doing a three-point turn and coming back to his starting point, albeit on the other side of the road, to ask other drivers for directions.

Having gladly arrived at the ground, it took a few seconds to sink in that this was actually a cricket stadium. It wasn’t like the Test match grounds I had seen or the, razzmatazz of the IPL grounds. My arrival was greeted with bewilderment from the spectators like the scene in American Werewolf in London when the American backpackers enter a Yorkshire country pub. My lack of Hindi and the rudimentary English of the crowd wasn’t important though. We all talked cricket. My knowledge of the nicknames of the Indian players (Sachin ‘Little Master’ Tendulkar, Rahul ‘The Wall’ Dravid) brought smiles and meant I spent a happy afternoon altering my negative thoughts of the city.

When I checked into my hotel in Mumbai I realised that when Pakistan are playing cricket in India, everything stops. I was shown to my hotel room, and four people were sat on my bed watching the end of the Twenty20 international. When I informed the manager I was told they were cleaning the room and was sent elsewhere to wait. Coincidentally, when the cricket finished, so did the cleaning, and the manager showed me back to my room with a smile and a “very clean now, sir."

It is at Mumbai, at the Oval Maidan, where hundreds of games crisscross with each other within a confined space in front of the High Court. This is where I had my encounter with the red tennis ball and my battle with the blessed thing wasn't over. I was determined to hit it at least once on this trip. With the laughter subsiding from my first attempt, the moment the next ball was bowled I ran after it and got a great contact, sending the ball skywards. As I turned round truimphantly to face the hysterical boys, another boy, who I thought was playing on a different pitch, caught the ball near the boundary. The laughter of the boys then reached a crescendo.

I didn’t mind though. Cricket had proved to be a way of joining in with a country that had mystified me. And with games to watch almost all-year round and street cricket everywhere; it is the perfect destination for any fan of the game. Just try to get some practice in before you leave.

Travel Essentials

Getting there

The writer flew with Jet Airways (0808 101 1199; jetairways.com), which flies from Heathrow to Mumbai and Delhi.

Virgin Atlantic (0844 209 7310; virgin-atlantic.com) operates the same routes.

Air India (0871 781 3706; airindia.in) operates the same routes.

More information

The Board of Control for Cricket in India (for Indian national team fixtures and domestic fixtures): Bcci.tv

The IPL (for T20 fixtures): Ipl20.com

A Five Point Guide to Street Cricket

1.    Always keep your eyes on the ball (the pitches are awful so the ball will deviate from its path after it bounces).

2.   Expect a high bounce (they will be using tennis balls).

3.   Get to the pitch of the ball (to negate that dodgy bounce).

4.   Make sure you know where the fielders are (this is especially useful at the Oval Maidan, as several games intermingle).

5.   Play with a smile on your face (particularly if you are rubbish. It makes it look as though you are very casual about the whole thing).

END

Fashion Feature for Journalism Diploma

Style Column

Just Say No: An Alternative to Jeans

Everybody may wear them but it doesn’t mean to say they’re right

I am going to start this column with a confession. I own no jeans. Sure, as revelations go it’s not going to be as famous as George Washington’s “I cannot tell a lie”. But, in a world where denim is worn with religious-like devotion, it is a far braver admission than little George’s. Before I get lynched by the “oh, but why? It’s both stylish, and comfortable” mob, let me explain my reason. I am in my mid-thirties, and no one over the age of 30 looks good in denim.

To begin, I will write a couple of words that will have you nodding in agreement. Mitt Romney. There you go, point proved. This feature should end now, as I feel as though I have made my case, but for your sake, I will continue. Thankfully, Mitt wasn’t able to follow in the footsteps of George Washington – become president of the USA, not confess to cutting down a cherry tree – and we should all be grateful for those who voted against him. It had nothing to do with his policies; it was all about his trouser choice. If you haven’t seen the photos, type ‘Mitt Romney wearing jeans’ into your search engine now. What. A. Site.

I know, I know, Mitt Romney isn’t in his thirties, he is in his sixties, but the point remains the same. Jeans are a young mans game. The day you turn 30 should be the day you take those faded, distressed, ugly shade of blue, boot cut monstrosities to your local charity shop. The game is up. Let it go.

There is nothing wrong with being a slave to trouser fashion in your teens and twenties; I have gone through that stage myself. Wearing baggy flared jeans when the whole Madchester scene was happening. Check. Buying (yes, buying) jeans with stains already on them. Check. Wearing black jeans as an alternative to black trousers at weddings, christenings, funerals etc. as I didn’t want to look too ‘square’. Check.

So, “what is the alternative”, I hear you ask? Well, the alternatives are many you will be pleased to know. There are chinos, cords, smart cotton trousers (my legwear of choice) and tweed. Do not, and I will repeat this, do not wear jeggngs. They are not a compromise, they are two fashion disasters combined. Combat trousers? Get out of here, GI Joe. I will credit you with some common sense and presume that you aren’t wearing jogging bottoms unless you are actually jogging. No, you can’t wear them when lazing on the sofa. Smarten yourself up.

If you are still not convinced by my anti-denim manifesto, then try an example closer to home and input ‘Jeremy Clarkson wearing jeans’ into your search engine. You will now recognise that he wears the same trousers as you. And they may be comfortable, but he proves that they are certainly not stylish.

END

Chicken Shop - Restaurant Review for Journalism Diploma

‘Thwack, thwack, thwack.” This is the sound that keeps interjecting the conversation between my girlfriend and me, as the butcher in front of us chops whole chickens into quarters.

I am at Chicken Shop the latest restaurant to try to update the classic high-street takeaway of chicken and chips.

The fact that I found this place at all owes everything to my girlfriend being able to spot a Chicken Shop bag hanging over a doorknob on the Highgate Road.

Once inside it becomes obvious that we are not the only ones to spot the bag as the place is packed and we are told that a 45-minute wait is to be expected. We decline the wonderfully polite option of going elsewhere and waiting for a phone call to bring us back and decide to wait with a pint of Camden Ale and a glass of traditional lemonade.

Before we even have time to count how many clientele are wearing thick-rimmed glasses – it appears popular with people who work in the media - we were told that a space was ready, at the front counter.

This is where we encounter the butcher chopping away as several free-range chickens roast behind him. From this vantage point we get to see the simplicity of the operation, as once the chicken is quartered it is chucked on a plate with a sprinkling of salt added and two lemon wedges placed on the side.

In the 10 minutes it took us to get a seat we had already decided our order, as much like a famous Monty Python sketch, the choice is limited.

We had heard that the servings were generous – and they very much are - so we opted to share half a chicken and a serving of crinkle-cut chips.

The service was as fast as the butcher and we were soon chomping on the avalanche of food in front of us.

The chicken is the type of chicken you would travel miles for, with a crispy skin and a tender texture, the chips likewise. If this is too bland for some tastes then there are also a choice of four sauces to add more variety; ketchup, garlic butter, hot sauce and smoky sauce.

We then decided on dessert and plumped for the apple pie and ice cream. The generosity of the restaurant even extends to allowing customers to choose the size of their portion. We went large and were not disappointed, as the Chicken Shop must have attended a special workshop on crispiness, because the pastry was perfectly crisp, just like the chicken and chips.

I perused the restaurant’s wooden benches and fifties rockabilly vibe as my girlfriend finished off the apple pie. At the end of the meal I even checked out the toilets – lovely, since you asked - and came back to see my girlfriend wiping her dress with a napkin. The splattering’s of the butcher’s chopper had caught her. ”Never mind,” I said “I will lick it off when I get home.” It really is that lovely.

Score: 4.5/5 



A shared meal for two with drinks and service costs about £25. 79 Highgate Road.

www.chickenshop.com 

Skyfall - Movie Review for Journalism Diploma

Skyfall (12A)

For a film franchise to successfully run for 50 years it must seek ways of keeping the films relevant, while seldom straying from the reasons that have made the franchise so popular.

Bond movies are kept pertinent by the changing of directors and of actors taking the lead role. This is Daniel Craig’s third outing as Bond and Mendes’ first as director. What Mendes has brought is a new angle to the Bond franchise; he has introduced a chink of vulnerability to Bond, which is played with splendid subtlety by Craig.

An exhilarating opening sequence establishes Bond’s vulnerability as he struggles with an enemy for a computer hard drive on top of a train in Istanbul. Bond falls from the train after being shot accidently on M’s [Judi Dench] orders, as the hard drive being hunted is deemed more important to M than Bond himself, highlighting Bond’s expendability to the country he serves.

It is when Bond is missing, presumed dead, we see him as a man and not an MI6 agent, with alcohol replacing his work as the purpose for living.

A terrorist attack on headquarters prompts Bond’s eventual return to MI6. It is not met with warmth, and his subsequent physical and psychological testing exposes his susceptibility further. Bond is now not only fighting the enemy he is fighting to maintain his true purpose for living.

Only once does Mendes let the vulnerability spill into sentimentally. The inclusion in the climax of a belligerent old gamekeeper, remembered by Bond from his childhood, fighting against the modern weaponry of the enemy armed only with a rifle, is overly nostalgic. 

What Mendes has achieved with this movie is significant. He has maintained all the factors that make a great Bond movie but also updated the franchise for this age, and in doing so, given Bond more substance.

Running time: 140 minutes.

END