Revisiting the Amazing Spider-Man with Emma Stone

It’s very difficult to try and 2012's Spiderman reboot objectively. Aside from the obvious “too soon” statement upon every audience member’s lips, there is something so very iconic about Sam Raimi’s Spiderman that it was always going to be difficult to beat. Uncle Ben’s “With Great Power…” speech. The Spidey kiss. Even the infamous Saturday Night Fever-esque struts of Spiderman 3 are such a notable part of so many people’s growing up, that no matter what director Marc Webb brought to the table in his allegedly darker retelling, it was never going to be enough for most die-hard fans.

So let’s not dwell too much on what was, and look instead at what is.

In The Amazing Spiderman we are once again taken back to the beginning on a journey that ticks all of the boxes in Spiderman mythology; bitten by a radioactive spider, Peter Parker (played by could-be One Direction member Andrew Garfield) falls for high school sweetheart Mary Jane… Check that, Gwen Stacey (sultry and husky Emma Stone), loses his beloved Uncle Ben at the hands of a petty crook after some stupid decisions, and goes on to battle a mutated mentor, all the while getting to grips with his newfound spider-senses.

On paper, it ticks all of the right boxes, and indeed there is some good to be found here; a couple of touching scenes, most notably for this jaded Spidey fan, the moment when school bully Flash Thompson (a rather pathetically unthreatening Chris Zylka… in fact, I can’t of a less convincing school hard-ass save for Kiefer Sutherland in Stand By Me) actually sympathises with Parker’s lost uncle, and a wonderful scene in which Spidey saves a young boy from a car moments before it plummets into the Hudson. Rhys Ifans’ performance as teacher-turned-nemesis Curt Connors is also at times touching, if somewhat underdeveloped, and Martin Sheen does a nice job as the tragic Uncle Ben.

Where the film truly falls short however, is in its attempts to be a darker, more brooding Spiderman. The attempts to echo the success of Batman Begins are evident throughout, but whereas Nolan’s films worked by bringing the Dark Knight into a reality, the Marvel Universe is flawed in its own supernatural elements. When your hero is empowered by a modified spider and your villains are giant lizard men, it’s a little difficult to imagine this really happening in downtown New York.

Of course, if the story is strong, we, as an audience, will buy it. Unfortunately, the script is so clunky and jumpy it feels like it has been written by a first-year script-writing student with a little too much time on his hands. The exposition is so heavy-handed that one scene in particular will remain in my head for years to come as the most ridiculous foretelling-of-a-baddie’s-plan moment of all time… Not quite word for word, but;

INT: OSCORP LABS

A large, ominous-looking machine. Enter DR CURT CONNORS.

CONNORS: Hello, I’m Dr Curt Connors. I want to rid the world of weakness. This is a machine that can cover an entire city with a cloud of toxic gas.

Obviously, not quite verbatim, but I swear, not far off. And how does the Lizard discover that Spiderman is actually Peter Parker? Spidey drops his camera during a scuffle, and conveniently on it is a sticker stating “Property of Peter Parker”. Come on people! At times, the writing honestly feels like a poorly plotted episode from Spiderman The Animated Series. The intrepid soul-searching and “quest for answers” promised by the marketing campaign is also completely non-existent. Having a brooding lead does not automatically mean that there are answers to be found; one does have to ask some questions in the first place!

But, the question is, is it enjoyable? And yes, I have to admit, I had a good time. Though not a patch on its predecessors, there is fun to be had here. Quite simply put, it’s Spidey for the Beiber generation. I’m already fully aware of the tweenage (and worryingly older) Garfield fans this end of the globe, and can only imagine the starry eyed young girls swooning over the far-too-attractive-to-be-Peter-Parker young fellow in the est of the world. I guess the only way to properly gauge this film as a success would be to wait until this year’s twelve year-olds are subjected to the next reboot in 2024 and see how they react. But for me? Spiderman? Not quite… Amazing? Far from it.

So what can we expect when the much-publicised sequel hits the big screen next week? Well, there's at least three baddies (with speculation that Venom may also pop in for a cameo in anticipation of his upcoming spin-off film) which, if Spidey 3 is anything to go by, may not end well, there'll be some brooding from Mr. Garfield, and there will be plenty of vertigo-inducing 3D sequences.

And Emma Stone. There'll be plenty of that...

Who Needs Sleep? with Lorne

Sleep is something I have a pretty love/hate relationship with. Not that I hate sleep at all; indeed in the strangest of ways slumber time is my favourite part of the day. 

When we sleep, suddenly the stresses of the day dissipate. No longer do we worry about money or work, but instead there's a distinct possibility we'll find ourselves on desert islands with Katy Perry or, for some reason, acting as an undercover reporter at a Bruno Mars gig (it's been a funny old week for dreams...).

The problem is, there never seems to be enough time for sleep. No matter what time we intend to get to bed, it never turns out as planned, and despite my recent attempts to combat insomnia (bath before bed, a little light reading, no caffeine after three pm) my sleep pattern is still utterly erratic, leavi me still exhausted when my alarm sounds just after seven. It probably doesn't help that every other night or morning of late has been interrupted by some problem or another from around the country. There are times I hate being so reliable...

So with too little sleep, we find ourselves groggy, needing caffeine and a general grumpus for the rest of the day, longing that we could have tapped the snooze button just one more time. But then win too much sleep, for some bizarre reason, the exact same thing seems to occur. Sleep for more than eight hours and we wake up with a storming headache, just as moody as if we were equally deprived and just as much use to the world that lies ahead.

So what, therefore, is the answer? How do we find that perfect amount of sleep? How do we capture that rare feeling that only happens once in a blue moon when we awaken wonderfully rested and ready to take on the day with a skip and a smile?

I honestly don't think we can. So the answer? Rid ourselves of sleep altogether. Sure, we would sacrifice some pretty awesome dreamtime, and with it those fleeting memories of dates with Taylor Swift, and if the Whedonverse is anything to go by, there's also a strong possibility of unleashing a maddened Hyde-like version of ourselves, but in the end it'll be worth it. We'll be happier, more focused and never filled with that hump day fatigue. And also we'll drink an awful lot less coffee, so we might just topple the evil that is Starbucks. Unless of course they start serving seabreezes for elevenses...

¡Hola Dora, soy backpack! with Ariel Winter

I've always managed to bluff Spanish to some degree; eight years of Latin at school coupled with various childhood trips to España during my childhood has led to some pretty solid listening skills, and my ever-confident persona when it comes to my international friends has meant that nodding my head and repeatedly saying "sí" creates a delightfully multilingual illusion.

When it comes to actually speaking Spanish, however, I've managed to limit myself to a few key, useful phrases. Beyond Beck lyrics and the always chipper adventures of everyone's favourite pre-school explorer, these are the Spanglish snippets that have managed to get me by  over the last few years...

¿Hablas inglés? (Do you speak English)

An obvious place to start; simply bypass your own ignorance by exploiting the fact that education on the continent is a heck of a lot better than ours. We may not speak their language, but they most certainly speak ours.

Dos cervezas por favor (two beers please)

In any language, being able to ask for a drink is vital. Once your new found friend at the bar has a few drinks in her, you probably won't have to worry too much about the language barrier anymore.

¡Fosters! (Fosters!)

As my friends and I discovered on our last trip to Catalonia, sometimes all you need is one word. Apparently, sometimes that word is simply the name of the worst beer in the world. Point and shout.

Ester hombre pagorá por todo (this man will pay for everything)

Useful in many situations, but mainly at a bar at that embarrassing moment when you realise you've misplaced your wallet, or simply want to drop your non-Spanish speaking friend in the shit.

¡Váminos! (that means "let's go!")

One for all you Dora fans, use it at your pleasure, more often than not to be directed at talking monkeys.

¿Que el queso me recomiendan? (Which cheese would you recommend?)

After a couple of beers, you may fancy some nibbles. Or you may simply take a fancy to your local cheesemonger. Or fancy some cheese. The opportunities are endless!

¡Que es un muy hermoso toro! (What a beautiful bull!)

Let's face it, Spaniards love their bovines, and what better way to garner favour with the locals than to compliment them in their choice of livestock. Also good small talk at a bullfight or the annual running of the bulls.

¿Dónde estoy? (Where am I?)

After your night on the tiles drinking Fosters and scoffing cheese, memory loss is highly likely. Use this to get yourself home. Or simply if you're lost.

Necesito unos pantalones nuevos (I need new pants)

Self explanatory really.

Lo siento, este no es mi sombrero (Sorry, this is not my sombrero)

Believe me, misunderstandings with headwear are more common than you'd think, use this to get out of any hat-based scrapes.

There you have it. Any other problems, go talk to Dora. And make sure you pack your map!

The Mamma Mia Effect with Amanda Seyfried

I've always thought of music as being a universal unifier; something that brings the world together through the emotive power of harmony. Harmony through harmony in fact. Whether it be the joy of dancing to samba in Rio, or caterwauling some karaoke in an Osakan bar, music has always seemed to bring people together of every creed and culture,

As such, it has been something of a surprise to me over the past few weeks as I have come to learn more and more about the Islamic faith that many practising Muslims are under the belief that listening to pop music is an affront to God. 

At first, I thought that it was simply a culture clash; during my time in Japan I found it occasionally frustrating that my students did not know of Springsteen or Bon Jovi, but put this down simply to my personal heroes not yet infiltrating the masses of Asia. As such I figured that my Arabian students' utter disinterest in British and American music was down to artists having not yet conquered the wavelengths of the Middle East.

And so to today; having planned a delightful lesson on The Mamma Mia effect, that being the boom in tourism in the Greek Islands that has been a result of that ruddy ABBA musical, I was knocked back somewhat to discover that in a class of seventeen Middle Eastern gentlemen, not a single one had heard of ABBA, let alone their delightfully cheesy musical extravaganza. Believing this to be some kind of well-planned joke, I whipped out my iPhone and played them the eponymous song. Genuinely, they had never heard it before. So much for that meticulously planned class...

So I decided to look into this a little more; surely a group that have been polluting our radios for the last forty years had at some point got some airplay in the Arabian subcontinent? 

But this is when I discovered the source of my students' somewhat endearing naivety; according to the  Qu'ran, any music that could inspire sinful acts such as drug use, fornication or adultery is prohibited in the eyes of Allah.

In many ways, I'm down with this idea; indeed a lot of the world's subcultural violence has inspired the debate into the influence of rap and hip hop. Drug abuse and sexual promiscuity is perpetually glorified in both genres, as is violence to those of different ways of thinking. Punk music has links in rebellion, and reggae in revolution (and again the glorification of drug use). Techno and dance music are linked with the hedonism of the Balearics, and screamo, death metal, and whatever bizarre names they're giving to that shouty music the goths are listening to these days lead to, well, goths.

And then of course there's Ke$ha... I really cannot defend her this time round...

But where would we be without love songs? Do they inspire fornication? Well, possibly... But is there anything evil about Barry White crooning a little seduction? It's an interesting debate that I would really like to get into with some of my more open-minded higher-level students. 

Pop music isn't all about sex after all; more often than not it's simply about bringing a bit of musical joy into our everyday lives. I personally couldn't live without my daily dose of Taylor Swift, and I'm pretty sure that "We Are The World" never meant anything but a message of peace and unity.

I do my best to respect all religious beliefs; as a teacher of English as an International Language, I have to be prepared to understand anyone and everyone's ways of life, but this aspect of Islam has befuddled me. I can see both sides of the dispute, and would probably prefer a world without Puff Daddy, One Direction and Slipknot. But no Counting Crows? No Beatles even? I'm not sure I could deal with that.

Of course ABBA might not be the most innocent of examples... After all, does your mother know that you're out? Here's Mamma Mia star Amanda Seyfried to prove my point...

Finding a New Fortress with Sheldon Cooper

Being a nerd in the modern world is perhaps not as difficult as it was once upon a time. Indeed, looking back to my teenage years, the advent of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, coupled with the astounding popularity of The Big Bang Theory has at least allowed us to come out of the shadows and show a little pride in our geeky selves. That said, the next time I see a muscle-bound douche-canoe in a "Bazinga!" T-shirt I will not take responsibility for my actions.

The problem is, despite cultural awareness in our lifestyle choice, it is still ruddy difficult to come by that all too precious commodity that fuels our existence; the lowly comic book.

Comics have brought joy into our hearts, and filled the coffers of movie producers, Robert Downey Jr, and of course, Stan Lee for the past few decades, but even though our cinema screens are perpetually playing the celluloid exploits of our favourite heroes (this year alone we have Robocop, 300 2, Captain America 2, Spider-Man 2, a Turtles reboot, Transformers 4, the new X-men, Guardians of the Galaxy and Sin City 2 all hitting the box-office), trying to find the source material on the high street is no easy task. To be frank, I often feel it'd be easy hunting down heroin than heroines on the UK streets.

And so, moving to a new town, giving up my former fortress of solitude in Newcastle's Forbidden Planet, I have been searching for a new supplier of my drug of choice. 

Being told that the nearest FP was a forty minute train ride away at first seemed like a small hurdle, but factor in the £15 return ticket, and an already expensive habit becomes that little bit too rich for this geek's blood.

Fortunately, a little iPhone-based research uncovered a delightful little indie store about twenty minutes' walk from the flat. Not only that, but it's about twenty percent cheaper than my erstwhile dealer. 

So congratulations Frog Brothers of Boscombe, you have usurped the Jotun frost giants of Forbidden Planet and will now be taking my money from me on a monthly basis. Now all I need is a coffee merchants and a purveyor of fine waistcoats and I can say goodbye to that house fund for the next few decades...

Condominium Life with Joey Tribbiani

I always envied the cast of Friends. For a group of twenty-somethings that rarely seem to go to work (yes we all know they all have jobs that suit their characters and whatnot), they lead a pretty cushty life. Lovely downtown apartment, partying hard at weekends, going to trendy coffee shops, and generally doing what TV has always told us we should be doing in our mid-twenties; enjoying life to the max.

Unfortunately, TV, as much as I love you, this evening I'm calling your bluff. You sir, are a downright liar.

The years of being a twenty-something a far from perk-filled (central or otherwise). Throughout the previous decade, we were told that if we worked hard at school, we'd go to a good university. If we worked hard there we would automatically find ourselves in a good job and living the life of the Gellars and the Bings in no time.

The reality is, however, that unless you have been born into a thriving family business, or you know a guy that knows a guy, no amount of striving will get you anywhere in this post-credit crunch world. I myself have a double bachelors degree, a masters, a teaching certificate and enough brownie points on my CV to open a bakery, not to mention fifteen years in private education with all the top grades to prove it, and yet I still find myself losing sleep as to how I'm going to be able to pay next week's rent.

Don't get me wrong, I don't kid myself that my experiences have any worth nowadays; indeed in the post-Blair regime, a degree is worth about the same as a roll of Andrex (and probably cheaper too judging by my shopping bills!), but I have single-handedly fought my way into a decent teaching post, and on paper the pay isn't all that bad.

And yet here I am on a Saturday night, just back from the laundrette, sitting in a "condominium" flat that would still have looked dated in the nineteen seventies, the floral carpet and brown bathroom suite quite honestly an affront to four out of five senses. My "treat" for this week, save for an after work pint with my colleagues (during which an old man decided to inform me that I looked like a child molester... Great ego boost for a teacher, I can tell you!) has been an M&S spinach and ricotta cannelloni. And a reduced to clear one at that. Paid for with gift vouchers.

I don't begrudge my life at all; I've always said as long as you're happy in what you're doing the rest will follow thereafter. But a few extra pennies here and there might be nice... The ability to order out pizza, to go for lunch with a friend without wondering whether I'll still have enough change for the washing machine... Perhaps one day I might even get a lazy boy. Or a play station, 'cause I hear play station is whack...

Birthday Shenanigans with Alfie Moon

I love my birthday. Continuing my quest to maintain my childlike demeanour, I like to look on the annual celebration of getting older as an excuse to rekindle a little more of my ever-fading youth. Whether it be holding a Disney themed fancy dress party, or dragging all of my dearest friends into the woods for a giant game of hide-and-seek, my quest for eternal youth through the quite trivial yearly ritual always leads me on some bizarre adventure or another.

This year has been no different. Indeed, as I rapidly approach the end of my late twenties, I have had arguably one of the most childish weekends of my last two decades.

Kicking off with a trip to London on Saturday, courtesy of my father-in-law-to-be, I spent the morning in Hamleys toy store, the largest toy shop in the world, and a place that never fails to fill me with the utmost joy. Spanning seven floors, Hamleys houses every kind of plaything one could imagine, and even more that one could never imagine in the wildest of dreams. Staffed by a motley crew of magicians and toy enthusiasts, Hamleys is like a real life Wonka factory, and although at least half of our visit was spent admiring the intricate Lego sculptures, I still find myself feeling like I did at age six when my parents would take me out for the pre-Christmas shopping spree.

After a trip down the river of chocolate, I received another piece of my childhood; a box of Lucky Charms from one of my dearest friends, a cereal that I have not eaten since primary school, since it was banned in the UK for having more sugar than the unhealthiest of desserts.

After the mandatory trip to Hard Rock Cafe, wherein I was treated to a free birthday boy sundae and a highly embarrassing (yet somehow satisfying) musical rendition, we returned home. Thereafter, my other childhood obsession was indulged with a trip to the cinema to see none other than the new Muppets movie.

Now, despite my lifelong love of the Muppets, it dawned on me this evening that I have not actually seen a Muppets movie at the pictures since The Muppet Christmas Carol in 1992. After their last outing, however, I had high hopes for Muppets Most Wanted, our fuzzy friends' latest global escapade. In 2011, The Muppets shone as a heartwarming yet hilarious addition to the Henson legacy. Alas, for me at least, Most Wanted was something of a disappointment. Funny, yes, but lacking in story, in music and most importantly, in Muppets. When writing a Muppet movie, one needs to balance between the calvacade of characters that we so dearly love. Unfortunately, this time round, the only characters to get more than a line (and flippant words of agreement at that) are Kermit, Piggy, Fozzie and Kermit's evil doppelgänger Constantine. Ironically, Rizzo the Rat (in his only line) sums it up beautifully when he points out that favourite characters aren't getting a word in edge ways. It's a shame, as the opening number brought so much promise, only for it to be pasted over with a Ricky Gervais coloured wallpaper. And if I wanted to watch him being dull for an hour and a half, I'd rent Ghost Town again.

So that was this year's birthday, or, as I like to think of it, "I'm still a kid, so shut up" Day. Of course it's not all child's play. My favourite presents this year were the delightful array of shirts I received. Enough, in fact, to make Shane Ritchie jealous. Maybe this time next year I'll have enough to put down a deposit on a pub. 

By which, of course, I mean flat.

No. I mean pub.