The real Superstars of Wrestling: Vindicated about the Ventura

The only time I ever truly gave a damn about wrestling was when I was 13 years old, which is the way the world works. That was the late 1980s, and the era of Superstars of Wrestling, where the big wrestlers of the day would beat the crap out of a bunch of no names every week. Occasionally, somebody would get a fourth-generation video copy of Wrestlemania 3 or something, but it was mainly just Superstars.

I know the recent Mr McMahon documentary glosses over a lot of shit, and does have the gross veneer of the sanctioned product (the whole 'no, we really do care about the wellbeing of our employees now' feels particularly corporate). But I do feel vindicated that I never liked McMahon or Hulk Hogan back in that day, and was always more partial to Jesse the Body.

Which was weird, because during that period, with Ventura and McMahon on the commentary desk, the Body was the guy sticking up for the heels, while McMahon was clearly the cheerleader for the good guys.

I mean, I hated the heels as much as anybody, unless they were outside the usual black/white paradigm, like Demolition of the Ultimate Warrior. But I never fell for Hulkamania, and still remember that the first time I realised I was over wrestling was when Hogan won the 1990 Royal Rumble because he was winning fucking everything, and had a big old nothing of a personality, compared to the wonderful freaks like hacksaw Jim Duggan or Randy Savage

And then I get through the McMahon doco, and while a heck of lot of it was familiar, I hadn't heard the details of Ventura trying to set up a union for the wrestlers, and Hogan scabbing him out to the boss, so, you know, screw that guy. All this time, and the real heroes were the ones who acted the meanest, but I think I always knew that.

Lost Highway: 'You'll never have me'

I swear, the way Patricia Arquette tells Balthazar Getty that he will never have her, after they've just fucked in the dust, towards the end of David Lynch's magnificent fever dream of a movie, is genuinely one of my top five line readings in any film ever made. It would be just for the way she draws out the 'never' in a deeply unsettling way, but in the context of the entire movie, it's the point of the whole damn thing.

Grendel versus the vampires

Matt Wagner's Grendel saga has gone to some very strange places over the years of publication. It's gone far into the future and deep within the darkest psyches, but one thing has been a constant for decades and decades - it's that vampires fucking suck.

Grendel started out as the anti-Batman, but had something else in common with the very earliest versions of the Dark Knight - they both hate bloodsuckers. To be fair, original Grendel Hunter Rose's main nemesis was more of a werewolf, but ever since Christine Spar picked up the forks, vampires have been Grendel's bane.

And far in the future world, where Grendel has metamorphized into something strange and honourable, vampires became a society-threatening scourge, and almost wiped out the sun with the power of bananas before all getting locked up in Vegas (it got complicated).

And the vampires have been there ever since, simpering in the dark before launching into slaughter, throughout the Grendel Tales, and hiding in the arctic snow in War Child.

Wagner's return to Grendel Prime and his fucked-up future world in recent years have seen Prime shot off into the great beyond, and there are no nosferatu in space, although there were plenty of other monstrosities, (the Trump stuff was so on the nose, I'm a little surprised it wasn't commented on more, although that might be because we're all just fucking sick of that guy).

But Prime is back on earth in the most recent series, and the first few issues of Devils Crucible have revealed that the vampires have finally won. Their longevity and animal ruthlessness have conquered the world, with the only technologically advanced part of the planet in a society built on cruelty and base servitude, while gross naked hags wandering the wasteland, all beautifully rendered by Wagner with his typically unflinching line.

The story of Grendel does get very complicated, but can also be utterly direct, and Grendel Prime's latest foe is the oldest of enemies. The demonic influence of Grendel might have blown up the world, but it's also the only thing left standing against the leeches.

Twists, cameos and the benefits of shutting the fuck up

It wasn't easy, watching the latest series of Slow Horses with the lovely wife. I'm seven books into the series, and am hooked on its vibe of a bunch of useless cunts in a world that demands never-ending competence. So the big twist in the new episodes is old news in the books, and even with the smll changes of adaptation, I had to answer all of her 'does this mean...?' questions with a stony silence that just felt mean.

But it was worth it, because I don't want to ruin the fun for everyone, especially the love of my life. 

So all I could do is literally bite my lip when an obvious clue to a main character's parentage flashed across the plot, and let her figure it out for herself. And she did! She absolutely fucking nailed it, two weeks before it was confirmed on screen. Right down to the question of why the doppelganger looked so familiar. It was very, very sexy to see her work it out.

The same thing happened with Beetlejuice, where my sheer fucking delight at the use of the climactic song had me aching to bellow it out around the house, but I didn't want to ruin it for the wife, and I sorted it out by taking her to another screening.

That worked too, because then she started singing it around the house in moments of high melodrama, and all is well in the home. Except for the poor kids, they think that song is fucking awful and visibly cringe every time we launch into it. 

They are still pre-schoolers, and they really have no idea of the cringe to come.

I'm still keeping my mouth fucking shut on something else - the beautifully gratuitous cameos in Deadpool/Wolverine. She's relatively offline and still has no idea who shows up in that wasteland, or what actors are playing what parts, and I'm pretty sure she'll remain oblivious until she actually sees the film, somewhere down the line.

Maybe she'll see something on some other website, but she won't see it here. I ain't ruining anything for anyone anymore.

This is a house of McMahon: Bat, man.

I still maintain that the one thing than McMahon's typically gorgeous and gonzo art on an early 90s Batman book, and that's reading the letter column four issues later, which is 99 percent 'what the fuck is this shit?'.

Looking for the light in the Story of Film again

I've been running out of things to play in the background for my worknight triple features, so have been going through Mark Cousins excellent Story of Film documentary again - that's 15 hours right there.

It's worth going through to find out about things like the wildly innovate Brazilian films of the 1930s, but mainly I just like the way Cousins keeps saying 'look at the light' in his outrageously soft accent. Considering he is talking about a medium entirely composed of lights, he says things like that a lot.

I really do need to check out his women in film update to his story. There is always more light. 

Inside the Majestic

While most of my day job as a journalist is spent dealing with breaking news and putting active language into other peoples' stories, sometimes I get to write about other stuff that I'm interested in. So of course the only significant thing I have done so far this year is a feature about the current state of the first movie theatre I ever remember going to.

If I can't write about that, what am I even doing here?

So here is my story about The Majestic Theatre. I might never hear those voices echoing off those vast walls anymore, but at least it's not dead yet.

Spider-Man doesn't really need a dead body

The last animated Spider-Man movie was a wonderful overload of the sense, with incredibly kinetic cartooning, outrageous style choices and some great character work.

But while it really cements Miles as the future of all things Spider, the big spider-society multi-versal thing was already feeling stale and unwashed, and they are all, quite frankly, a bunch of unimaginative losers, not worthy of the Spider-Man name.

The rabidness with which Miguel O'Hara and the hundreds of other Spider-Men chase after Miles is so obviously villainous, because they, more than anybody, should know that the ends do not justify the means, but still insist that somebody has to die before anybody can really be a proper Spider-Man. It's the rules, man.

This requirement, that Spider-Man has to stand over a dead body before he becomes a true hero, just bugs me, in the same way it's always annoying to se religious people express their bafflement that atheists aren't murdering their way through life, because they don't believe in divine retribution.

Because it's the obviously right thing to do, maybe?

Peter Parker is a goddamn genius, but his origin story is so selfish, like he can't see this obviousness in doing the right thing. And extending that to the vast, vast majority of Spider-Men throughout existence,  degrades the whole idea of Spider-Man

If so many of them can't transcend this strict requirement, what good are they? If they don't even try to save the day, regardless of fate or destiny, then they're not fucking Spider-Men, they're just cosplaying.

Miles is the hero of these films, so we're obviously not meant to be on the side of the mob, but when so many wear a spider mask and don't even try to buck the system, they're all just terribly ordinary.

Namor is in the pool

It's widely accepted that Namor absolutely rocked the power suit in the John Byrne series from the early 90s, but this little sequence from the fourth issue of the run also lingers in my mind, long after the padded shoulders faded from fashion. 

It's just a simple scene that advances the greater plot slightly, but the way the ripples of the water reflect around the room sell the aquatic nature of our hero in a way few other Sub-Mariner comics ever bother with, and the casual way Namorita is just lying there with her face submerged show that Byrne (and, of course, colorist extraordinaire Glynis Oliver) are putting some real thought into the depiction of Namor's wet life.