A long session of internet poker can be an extremely dull experience, akin to a traffic jam lacking a colour-in book, a full bladder or a passenger that is ready to row.
To prevent myself randomly typing abusive comments at largely blameless avatars, there are times I need something to stimulate the senses.
Usually it is Radio 2. Other times I try to achieve a snore rate of 93 decibels – that, fact fans, is the equivalent of an underground train. My life is, actually, that rock ‘n roll
I have always taken issue with gender assumptions about certain capabilities – if men are such skilled map-readers, why doesn’t Burt Baccarach find his own way to San Jose – and so I often try to leaven flat-lining poker play by adding a DVD in the background and testing my multi tasking capabilities
Some films help this process but they tend towards uncomplicated plots, explosions and Adam Sandler. The interest level raises a notch but it is far from an edifying experience. The trick is to combine intelligence and straightforward narrative. I’ve flirted with foreign language flicks but usually, due to the subtitles, the story reaches the third act watershed and I’m still identifying with the Art Deco lamp shade.
On Tuesday I tried to absorb Syriana, Stephen Gaghen’s 2005 film about corruption in the oil world. It was an English language narrative too far and during its two hour length, it comes close to the world record of “Who the hell is that?” moments.
A bearded George Clooney plays CIA man Bob Barnes, a character inspired by ex real agent Robert Baer, on whose non-fiction book “See No Evil” the story is based. The book covers twenty-five years of the life of a CIA operative in the Middle East starting in the late seventies and the film is a bold attempt to form a narrative for the screen. However, the material is inherently so complicated that it resists the fictionalised cinematic shoehorning and it resembles the experience of viewing a collage lacking a central theme.
Barnes is the fall guy when the agency fails in an attempt to assassinate an Emir apparent, whilst Matt Damon, in a pre Team America level of articulation, plays an energy analyst who has a murky association with a powerful figure in Iran. Chris Cooper provides strong support as an energy executive who combines a desire for land-raping wealth with a Texas accent.
Like Gaghen’s 2000 screenplay for Traffic, it is multi stranded and interweaving but it lacks Soderbergh’s confident touch in skilfully bringing it all together and although it remains interesting, and contains some great acting, it is an oddly numbing experience. At no stage is there any emotional engagement with the players. It is as though the filmmakers’ commendable desire to make an apolitical picture has also resulted in a still life production of the oil world’s complex landscape.
Whilst accepting that trying to watch the growing radicalisation of a young Pakistani immigration worker and simultaneously attempting to monitor the poker play of Bostonhitman does not position me in the ideal critical frame of mind, it was gratifying to hear that my flatmate, a man whose attention was solely directed to untangling the film’s web, was also left comparably confused and unimpressed.
The combination of the tedious poker game and the emotionally deadening film led to some terrible decisions at the hold ‘em table. In the future, when I feel like swearing at fellow players, I’ll stick to car chase movies or ones with a Wizard of Oz narrative.
Or maybe I should just try anger management.
To prevent myself randomly typing abusive comments at largely blameless avatars, there are times I need something to stimulate the senses.
Usually it is Radio 2. Other times I try to achieve a snore rate of 93 decibels – that, fact fans, is the equivalent of an underground train. My life is, actually, that rock ‘n roll
I have always taken issue with gender assumptions about certain capabilities – if men are such skilled map-readers, why doesn’t Burt Baccarach find his own way to San Jose – and so I often try to leaven flat-lining poker play by adding a DVD in the background and testing my multi tasking capabilities
Some films help this process but they tend towards uncomplicated plots, explosions and Adam Sandler. The interest level raises a notch but it is far from an edifying experience. The trick is to combine intelligence and straightforward narrative. I’ve flirted with foreign language flicks but usually, due to the subtitles, the story reaches the third act watershed and I’m still identifying with the Art Deco lamp shade.
On Tuesday I tried to absorb Syriana, Stephen Gaghen’s 2005 film about corruption in the oil world. It was an English language narrative too far and during its two hour length, it comes close to the world record of “Who the hell is that?” moments.
A bearded George Clooney plays CIA man Bob Barnes, a character inspired by ex real agent Robert Baer, on whose non-fiction book “See No Evil” the story is based. The book covers twenty-five years of the life of a CIA operative in the Middle East starting in the late seventies and the film is a bold attempt to form a narrative for the screen. However, the material is inherently so complicated that it resists the fictionalised cinematic shoehorning and it resembles the experience of viewing a collage lacking a central theme.
Barnes is the fall guy when the agency fails in an attempt to assassinate an Emir apparent, whilst Matt Damon, in a pre Team America level of articulation, plays an energy analyst who has a murky association with a powerful figure in Iran. Chris Cooper provides strong support as an energy executive who combines a desire for land-raping wealth with a Texas accent.
Like Gaghen’s 2000 screenplay for Traffic, it is multi stranded and interweaving but it lacks Soderbergh’s confident touch in skilfully bringing it all together and although it remains interesting, and contains some great acting, it is an oddly numbing experience. At no stage is there any emotional engagement with the players. It is as though the filmmakers’ commendable desire to make an apolitical picture has also resulted in a still life production of the oil world’s complex landscape.
Whilst accepting that trying to watch the growing radicalisation of a young Pakistani immigration worker and simultaneously attempting to monitor the poker play of Bostonhitman does not position me in the ideal critical frame of mind, it was gratifying to hear that my flatmate, a man whose attention was solely directed to untangling the film’s web, was also left comparably confused and unimpressed.
The combination of the tedious poker game and the emotionally deadening film led to some terrible decisions at the hold ‘em table. In the future, when I feel like swearing at fellow players, I’ll stick to car chase movies or ones with a Wizard of Oz narrative.
Or maybe I should just try anger management.
After all, it has Adam Sandler.
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