Cory Doctorow: ‘Pirate Cinema’ book review
Remember that awful anti-piracy ad from a few years ago? The one The IT Crowd mercilessly parodied, and which still blares at you when you set any 2006-era DVD a-whirring…
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Remember that awful anti-piracy ad from a few years ago? The one The IT Crowd mercilessly parodied, and which still blares at you when you set any 2006-era DVD a-whirring…
Set two years on from their separation in last week’s opening episode of Series 3, the four men – Baxter (John Simm), Quinn (Philip Glenister), Woody (Max Beesley) and Rick (Marc Warren) – have been exiled to South Africa under new names, and out of touch with their friends and family.
Ben Wheatley (Sightseers) continues on his winning streak with period psychological horror A Field in England.
So now we know why the BBC was so quick to announce a second series. It was a warning shot, to prepare us for the idea that the momentum of The Fall would carry on past 5 episodes, and that we’d all be left craving some more of that sweet sweet darkness like the Monday night drama masochists we are.
For want of a less tenuous way to link some of this month’s films, let’s call this first of two June horror blogs Part I of a two-parter focusing on the faded careers of once-stellar individuals now slumming it at the lower end of the Hollywood scale.
Episode 9 of Game of Thrones has traditionally been the episode where – for want of a better phrase – shit goes down. The first season’s ‘Baelor’ saw the show’s central character and biggest star lose his head, while Season 2’s ‘Blackwater’ saw the astonishingly mounted battle of the Blackwater. This season’s ninth episode is titled ‘The Rains of Castamere’, and, well, with pun well and truly intended; this might be the most significant Game-changer yet!
Who-ology is fundamentally a giant book of lists and, as such, is ideally suited to the Doctor Who fan market. Face it guys, this is what we do.
Regret resonates across the fourth episode of The Fall like the sound of a gunshot down the corridors of Belfast’s police station.
A terrified dame, like a wide-eyed escapee from a 1950s B-movie poster, stares out from the evocative vintage cover that adorns Stephen King’s Joyland.
French zombie drama. The words trip off the tongue like Gauloises smoke. Go on, say it again and try to resist a Parisian inflection and a nonchalant shrug. It’s alright.