Here We Go Again

Regular members of The Readership will recall my posts late last year on the Criminal Justice and Immigration Bill, and it’s attack on free speech as pertaining so called “violent pornography”.

Well, as expected, that bill passed and is now being used to protect us against something else that isn’t a threat.

And this time it’s really personal.

The fuckers are going after comics.

The problem arises around this Bill used in conjunction with Section 49 of the Coroners And Justice Bill, currently being reviewed before making it’s way to the Lords. Take a look:

(1)
It is an offence for a person to be in possession of a prohibited image of a child.

(2)
A prohibited image is an image which—
(a)
is pornographic,
(b)
falls within subsection (6), and
(c)
is grossly offensive, disgusting or otherwise of an obscene character.

(3) An image is “pornographic” if it is of such a nature that it must reasonably be assumed to have been produced solely or principally for the purpose of sexual arousal.

(4) Where (as found in the person’s possession) an image forms part of a series of images, the question whether the image is of such a nature as is mentioned in

subsection (3) is to be determined by reference to—
(a) the image itself, and
(b) (if the series of images is such as to be capable of providing a context for the image) the context in which it occurs in the series of images.

(5) So, for example, where—
(a) an image forms an integral part of a narrative constituted by a series of images, and
(b) having regard to those images as a whole, they are not of such a nature that they must reasonably be assumed to have been produced solely or principally for the purpose of sexual arousal, the image may, by virtue of being part of that narrative, be found not to be pornographic, even though it might have been found to be pornographic if taken by itself.

(6) An image falls within this subsection if it—
(a) is an image which focuses solely or principally on a child’s genitals or anal region, or
(b) portrays any of the acts mentioned in subsection (7).

(7) Those acts are—
(a) the performance by a person of an act of intercourse or oral sex with or in the presence of a child;
(b) an act of masturbation by, of, involving or in the presence of a child;
(c) an act which involves penetration of the vagina or anus of a child with a part of a person’s body or with anything else;
(d) an act of penetration, in the presence of a child, of the vagina or anus of a person with a part of a person’s body or with anything else;
(e) the performance by a child of an act of intercourse or oral sex with an animal (whether dead or alive or imaginary);
(f) the performance by a person of an act of intercourse or oral sex with an animal (whether dead or alive or imaginary) in the presence of a child.

Got all that? Anyone see the problem yet?
Well, as with the CJIB last year, the issue is with the distressingly vague terms with which the terms are couched. That old chestnut “must reasonably be assumed to” creeps into the text on more than one occasion. And of course “grossly offensive, disgusting or otherwise of an obscene character.” That really ties it down, don’t it? My idea of grossly offensive is, I will bet you anything you like, different to my neighbour, the nice lady at the petrol station or the average copper who has to try and make sense out of this lax, lazy attempt at anti-child porn legislation.

In fact, it gets almost surreal. Please, reread section 7, subsection (e) and (f). And then shed a tear for the unicorns.

Let me make it simple for you. A drawing of a child is not a child. A drawing of a character that looks child-like is not a child. A drawing of that character engaged in pursuits and endeavours of an adult nature is still not a child. Tell you what, you tell me. How old is Astro Boy?

F0D6D49F-FF03-4701-8310-813AFDB7D612.jpg

How about Princess from Battle of The Planets?

2B8880E5-4A3F-4FAD-AB19-E4BF4E5369C0.jpg
(incidentally, this pic was hosted on the BBC Cult website, which described it as… oh, see for yourself).

One more, as noted on the Comic Shop Voice website when mentioning the even more bothersome Section 52, which states:

(6) Where an image shows a person the image is to be treated as an image of a child if the impression conveyed by the image is that the person is shown as a child.

B6248BD4-FF91-4FD3-ABE0-7259ABB75B0A.jpg

and for comparison…

A8C3F15D-B3E1-4655-A2D3-157965D4C523.jpg

(which I ganked from the Daily Mail website, who seem more than happy to print this kind of pic. Actually, linky to the whole page for more pics with kid actors underneath, which viewed out of context could be seen to be highly inappropriate.)

So, yet again, another piece of badly thought out, poorly examined and potentially ruinous legislation from a government that is passing laws that seek to criminalise me with every passing month.

Seriously. I own a copy of Lost Girls. Under the new laws, that makes me a criminal. God only knows what that makes Alan Moore.

Links for you to read include Comic Shop Voice who have a more detailed and much angrier version of the argument, and The Comic Book Alliance, a force for good in the industry. The Register have a very good (ie effing terrifying) version of events here.

There’s a big meet in Brighton about the whole situation this Monday. Bleeding Cool have the details. Worth lending your support.

Considering the iPhone, briefly

There’s already been plenty of guff about the update to iPhone software that will be announced next week, and how it will finally address issues that have been waved in the faces of owners of said phones as fairly basic weaknesses.
I’ll try not to spend too long on the subject, then. There are just a couple of things I wanted to briefly discuss.

So, we finally get MMS. So what. If I want to send someone a photo from the phone, I email it. I’ve had perhaps three MMS links sent to me in the 18 months or so that I’ve owned an iPhone. Don’t miss that bit of functionality, but then I’ve not been 15 for a very long time.

Cut and paste is of course desperately important. Since I moved to WordPress last year, more and more posts on the blog have been at least first draft generated on the phone, using the excellent free app. And I use SyncBook as a form of jotter now almost daily, dropping notes back to the Mac as .rtf files with no fuss at all.

So, it’s become a writing tool, and the announcement that iPhone 3.0 would allow Bluetooth sync with devices other than earphones is the most important bit of news for me. If I could use the phone with a small wireless keyboard, then it suddenly becomes my go-to portable writing tool, and I don’t have to lug the laptop around with me.

This kind of functionality has been around for smartphones for a while, (Warren Ellis used a Palm attached to a fold-out for quite a while, as I recall, as did an august member of my writing group – an arrangement he called the Economy Laptop) so it’s about darn time that Apple stepped up and offered it to me. After all, it’s not like they don’t already make a Bluetooth-equipped keyboard that would fit very snugly in a small rucky or *ahem* manbag.

I’ve been considering a netbook as a mobile writing solution for a little while, but this would seem a cheaper option that integrates much more snugly with the way I work now.

I don’t have a problem with the touch keyboard that lives in the phone, per se. I’ve learnt that it’s best to relax and let error correction take care of a lot of the bumpy bits, and it’s right a lot more often than it’s wrong. Although I have to admit, proofing is even more vital for the occasional fubar. And of course, I’m not as fast as I would be on a regular keyboard, although not by as wide a margin as you might imagine.

A seperate keyboard would sort me out nicely for writing on the train, which is quickly becoming my principal chunk of thinking time. Who knows, if that arrangement works out I might even contemplate doing chunks of this years NaNoWriMo on it.

Roll on next week, then…

A couple of scary toons

Leading on from the previous post, these two prime examples of the form are both beautifully made and deeply, wrongly disturbing.

The last shot of this one has stayed with me for a very long time. Lazy critics will call this Burtonesque, but I think it’s a lot darker-hearted than that. Burton always goes for the happy ending. There’s none of that in this.

I remember watching Harpya as part of a late night animation season on Channel Four years ago, and being so freaked out by it that it gave me bad dreams for weeks. Even now, I have no intention of watching it again. But I thought you might appreciate it, my brave Readership.

You want a constitutional crisis? You’ll have to do better than this.

© Martin Rowson 2009
© Martin Rowson 2009

label_20090520095402_91204

I do not write about politics very much, for reasons that will become blatantly obvious below. Wrongheadedness, unfocussed ranting and eye-watering naiveté are part of the territory, I’se afraid.

You have been warned.

So, Michael Martin becomes the latest high-profile victim of an expenses row that seems to be fuelling itself on it’s own rhetoric. (Insert hot air joke here). The punishment hardly seems to fit the crime. A million pound pension and a seat in the House Of Lords? Cruel and unusual, eh?

I’m still not entirely sure why he’s been hounded from office. The inference seems to be that somehow the rampant fiddling of expenses in the most self-righteous house in the country is either his fault, or that he did not do enough to prevent or rein it back. (Or, if one was to be especially critical, that he didn’t do enough to hush it up.)

Well, hang on. If that’s the case, then why is it Martin’s fault? That’s surely making the accusation that the whole situation is limited to this speaker, to this set of MPs, to this government. And that’s obviously not the case.

And why is it such a surprise that they can? Any politician that claims that their life is one of poverty and sacrifice would be laughed out of the room. The ability to claw back expenses is a perk that every executive of a certain level enjoys. If it wasn’t taxpayers money that was being so gleefully squandered, and the timing of the revelations of said creative accountancy wasn’t so lousy, then I doubt we’d give a monkeys. It’s hardly corruption or mismanagement on the scale of the global banking crisis, is it? In fact, it’s almost laughably petty in the grand scheme of things. Putting in claims for TV licences and dry cleaning? I frankly wish more MPs had the balls to really abuse the system, rather than being witness to this tawdry penny-ante fiddling.

Of more concern, there are still pertinent questions that have not been asked about this whole grubby little affair. For how long have MPs been able to claim back their moat-cleaning and phantom mortgages? (Actually, there’s a simple answer to that, and as usual, it’s all the Tory’s fault.)If it’s so constitutionally dodgy, why is no-one asking questions of the House Of Lords, whose members for the most part must have benefited from exactly the same perks and privileges as the sorry bunch squinting up at the spotlight now? The Lords seem very slow to condemn, which is unusual in the current climate. Is this indicative of a claim culture in government as a whole, and if so do we need to be looking more closely at the accounts of every senior civil servant?

In short, this is a system that has been poised to fail for years, based on a false assumption on the innate honesty of our elected officials.

Let’s be frank. If you were introduced into a culture that positively encouraged you to claim back your mortgage, your car loan, your cleaning bills, then could you honestly tell me that you wouldn’t take that opportunity? Because, as the reports are starting to show, you’d be in the distinct minority if you refused.

Even now, the reforms that are being so loudly praised as root and branch reforms do little more than put a cap on the spending, and that’s just a temporary measure. I’d be very interested to see what a supposedly independent panel comes up with in the autumn to replace it. And who, incidentally, will be voting it onto the books.

Private Eye, as usual, have the right take on things.

Most worryingly, though, is the way the comedy parties like the BNP and UKIP are making heavy gains out of this sorry mess. There’s nothing more sickening than watching a toad like Nick Griffin gleefully grabbing the moral high ground, and my fear is that voters will fall for his rhetoric of honesty and the power of the protest vote, without actually considering the end result.

With local elections coming up, the whole political spectrum in Britain is poised on the edge of a paradigm shift. When Gordon Brown talks about root and branch change in government. I wonder if he realises just what that could mean.

Straight 8 at Cannes


A quicky from Nick Scott, super 8 film-maker extraordinare:

This could be appallingly premature given that I haven’t actually seen the film myself (!) but tomorrow night, at the same time as the straight8 films screen in Cannes, they are also posting them on-line for a hour at 9pm UK time. I made one of them, called ‘Visions of Jack’, and this will be the first time that anyone, including the filmmakers, has seen them.

Twelve of the films that the Straight 8 judging panel consider the best of the bunch are screened in a tent on the Croisette every year. It’s the prime goal for all Straight8ers, and I’m chuffed to bits for Nick, especially as he wasn’t planning on doing a film this year!

The link, if you fancy checking out innovative low budget film-making at it’s rawest and most exciting, is HERE.

Sadly, Nick can’t be there, but I’m issuing a shout out to the Friends of X&HT who are there and waving the banner high for low-budget British film-making. Brownlie, Aitken, Coppack and Booth, go forth and spread the word!

Meanwhile, the wait continues for the other Straight8ers who haven’t heard about potential screenings yet. Nervous? Moi? I didn’t need these fingernails, anyway…

Daily Bread

BDDA2F02-E437-47F0-860E-749FF0D33D82.jpgI love making bread. I’m a sucker for the fug of a fresh-baked loaf, especially when I’m together enough to get the breadmaker going overnight, to be woken by the warm, yeasy scent drifting up the stairs. Regardless of what the day has in store, that has to be a good start. Experimentation has led me to create my own loaf, a white/wholemeal mix that, while not especially innovative, is entirely delicious and exceedingly versatile.

There are those, of course, who claim that I’m not really making bread at all. By using a breadmaker I’m simply replicating at home scale the worst excesses of commercial bread production. If I truly cared about the holy loaf, I’d be getting my hands mucky in a bowl.

And I do, on occasion. And it is incredibly rewarding. I get a real sense of pride from sliding a cracly-warm dome of deliciousness out of the oven, just holding off from tearing into it with my bare hands until it’s cooled enough to eat safely. I haven’t bought bread from a bakers or supermarket in years, and I’m thinking locally in terms of ingredients as well. My favourite flour is ground at the watermill at Mapledurham, five miles down the road, which is the last working waterdriven corn and grist mill on the planet.

And I’m trying to branch out a little too, as summer creeps closer and I feel the urge for flatbreads and pizzas outside. One of my dreams for the refurbished back end of the garden is a wee wood-fired oven I can use to indulge my artesian fantasies. Pizza All Hallows will be a wonderful thing. I can already taste it.

A fascinating article in The Atlantic has just popped up online, regarding the intellectual property of recipes, and what happens after bakers break up. It’s got some interesting things to say about the often complicated machinations and relationships that go on behind the creation of something as simple as the daily loaf.

I promise success will not change me…

A sunny Friday afternoon in Cambridge. Thinking Girl’s Crumpet Clive and I are in town for the Super 8 festival, where for reasons that remain pleasingly unclear, Code Grey is in competition.

Always up for a party if nothing else, we’ve met up with Doco Domsy and set ourselves up with booze and grub. It’s the perfect afternoon for slightly beery chat about films and film-making, and the three of us indulge fully. At the back of my mind, the thought that there is a Q&A at the end of our screening that I maybe should not be head-dribblingly drunk for raises a tentative hand before getting shouted down. I’m far more eloquent after three pints or so. I’m a goddamn raconteur after five.

We wander through Cambridge, Dom taking photos for an imaginary press kit. I feel a little bit like a rock star, and a lot like a drunken twat. I can’t really give the camera love, but I do a mean growl. Which’ll do, apparently.

One last beer by the Cam, and I start to get the giggles. And I don’t feel drunk at all. Just nervous. But ready. This isn’t like a Straight 8 screening. I know exactly what’s being presented. There’s no fall back now. This is a film that’s had some hard work and a lot of heart and soul poured into it. It’s grown up now, and it’s ready to strut like a player.

I poke my head into the screening room a half-hour beforehand to announce my presence (resisting the urge to bellow “L’auteur est arrive” – alright, it was six pints by now) to be greeted by Simon, one of the organisers, who was so pleased to see me that he did a little dance. More people should do that. I might have to insist on it.

The room fills, and we settle in for the programme. Fifteen films, a strong European presence, and a fearsome sense of the quirky and surreal. Code Grey feels positively mainstream amongst the art pieces, documentaries and animation on display. We’re just a dumb little shuck and jive show with a neat little idea at it’s heart. We’re on last, and don’t quite get the reaction I was hoping for. Chuckles rather than belly laughs. That’s the problem if you make a comedy. There’s no such thing as an appreciative silence.

After the films, the Q&As. It’s a room full of directors, and they’re all erudite, amusing and interesting. I, on the other hand, have had six pints and am a twitchy mess. I gabble through my questions, pointing out Clive and trying to namecheck everyone, trying to crack a few funnies, and doing the one thing I really didn’t want to which was to out myself as a colourist. I don’t like to talk about the day job when I’m being a film-maker. Especially as I knew at least one person afterwards would make the joke about a colourist making a black and white film.

This did indeed happen, and the smile I gave was indeed as thin as you’re imagining.

Two minutes or an hour and a half later, depending on where you were standing, I sat back down. I was shaking faintly. But I was assured by Clive and Dom that I had indeed been charming, witty and erudite, and that people had laughed at my jokes. However, in a headrush of unprovoked egotism I’d given myself full credit for the idea behind Code Grey, which was all Clive’s.

I took shit for that for the rest of the night, and deservedly so.

Unfortunately, there seemed little opportunity to meet with the other directors after the screening, as the other bar at the University Student Union was hosting a members-only darts night, and seemed unwilling to let us stick around. Shame, as I’d genuinely wanted to congratulate the guys that made it down to Cambridge on a job well done. I’ll try and dig out some links to my faves over the next few days.

After the screening, there was little to do but eat and drink more, and chat about films and film-making until the early hours, which we did at the very excellent Cambridge Chop House, and our digs for the night, The Portland Arms. These places are both most worthy of your patronage.

We left Cambridge the following morning, Clive to his acting classes, me to the Reading Beer Festival, which was another afternoon of beer, food, and yakking. Really, I’m going to need a diet and a vow of silence after this weekend. Twitter has documented my feelings on that one, so check the status bar off to the right.

Turns out if we’d stuck around for the final night, we would have been around to receive our award for best UK film. I had the email with that nugget of good news while starting this post. It’s a result far above and beyond what I could have expected, and proof that there is life after Straight 8. I’m sending massive hugs out to everyone involved in the making of Code Grey, and urge you if you’ve not watched the film yet to check it out.

It’s officially worth your while.