Marcel Desailly has abandoned all pretense of being neutral, wearing a France shirt
while being interviewed by Ray Stubbs ("The shirt looks cool, man!").We
then go to a feature specifically designed to wind me up - the dull-as-fuck Leonardo
interviewing Gianluca Vialli. Grrrrrr. Still, no Ian Wright on the panel, which
is always nice. The fact the BBC have a whole hour to kill before kickoff produces
the most inexplicable feature of this or any other World Cup - Adrian Chiles narrating
a history of the Olympic Stadium in Berlin from the stadium's point of view.
"I have bathed in the fires of madness, I have blinked in the light of the
dawn..." Um....
Germany 3-1 Portugal Rather than waste your time and mine commenting
on the glorified friendly that is the World Diving Championships being held this
evening in Stuttgart, let's instead turn our attention to something more worthwhile.
Namely, the unveiling of the Blue Man Sings The Whites Team Of The Tournament!
Gerard Gnanhouan – (CIV) (Doo-doo de-do-do! Gnanhouan! Do-do do do! Incidentally,
the Ivory Coast's other two goalies are Jean-Jacques "I'm All In A" Tizie
and Boubacar Barry. Outstanding effort!)
Ouro-Nimini Tchagnirou (TOG) (I'd have paid good money to hear David Pleat
trying to pronounce that one)
Per Mertesacker (GER) (A I the only person who sees that name and thinks
“As in Bag O’Shite”?)
Simone Barone (ITA) (Underrated. Not only do you have the groovy rhyme,
but there's also a little nod to Stiletto out of Dangermouse there)
Gilles Yapi Yapo (CIV) (Yapi, Yapo, Yapas, Yapat, Yapamus, Yapatis, Yapant.
You probably have to have been to a Grammar school to find that funny. Sorry.)
Torsten Frings (GER) (An oldie but a goodie)
Andre Titi Buengo (ANG) (Angola are definitely the squad with the highest
number of great names per head. Most years, Jamba, Love, Lebo Lebo or reserve keeper
"Hey, it's-a me!" Mario would each be worthy of a place on the
bench. But they just miss out, because of the strength of the competition and because
none of their names sound like they might be a service you'd pay two hundred quid
for in certain clubs in Soho)
Piotr Giza (POL) (Polish for “Pete The Bloke”)
Tranquillo Barnetta (SWI) (Sheer class)
Razak Pimpong (GHA) (Even better because his first name sounds a bit hard.
Razak – ooooooh. Pimpong – tee hee hee. Was somewhat controversially picked for
the Ghanaian squad ahead of Boris Tabletennis and Olaf Barbilliards)
Jan Vennegoor Of Hesselink (NED) (Natch)
Subs: Hakan Yakin (SWI) (They were two cartoon mice, weren't they?),
Cherif Toure Mamam (TOG) (Just got a ring to it), John Pantsil
(GHA) (He said "pants"... *snigger*), Aldo("Up
From The Depths, Thirty Stories High, Breathing Fire, His Head Hits The Sky...")Bobadilla (PAR) ("Bobadilla! Bobadilla! And Bobazuki..."), Sebastian
Schweinsteiger (GER) ("SCHWEINSTEIGER!!"), Kaka (BRA)
(He said "kaka"... *snigger*).
5. The bit where the actress who played Madame du Pompadour in the awesome Girl
In The Fireplace episode of Doctor Who breaks Kate Beckinsale out of the room
she was locked in. When asked "Why are you helping me?", Madame
du Pompadour replies "I’m not. I’m helping myself.". It’s the sole
moment in the entire movie that you got a hint that these characters might just
be cold, calculating, bloodless immortal beings as opposed to humans with too much
eyeliner. Kindred
– sorry, Vampyre – politics, eh? Got to love it..
4. The head Garou
– sorry, Lychan – was quite Shadow
Lord-y for the first half of the movie. I have a sneaking soft spot for the
Shadow Lords.
3. It isn't as rampantly sexist as you suspect and fear it's going to be, given
the whole "The-Film's-Main-Selling-Point-Seems-To-Be-A-Lead-Character-Who's-A-Kung-Fu-Goth-Vampire-Babe-Dressed-In-Entirely-Gratuitous-Skin-Tight-PVC"
thing.
2. Um... Er...
1. That’s it.
-
Top 5 Worst Things About Underworld:
5. Not a single decent performance in the entire movie. Even from Bill Nighy.
4. The fight scenes, particularly the final showdown which is less well-choreographed
and much less convincing than the vast majority of the action sequences in, say,
Buffy.
3.. While we’re on the subject of this film comparing badly to TV shows with a fraction
of its budget, the Lychan looked utterly shit. Much, much, much, much worse than,
for example, the werewolf who chased
Rose, the Doctor and Queen Victoria around Torchwood House.
2. The names. “Kraven”. “Selene”. “Viktor”. “Lucien”. “Singe”. Fuck’s sake. Did
I blink and end up back on the White Wolf chatsite? Don’t vampires ever Sire – sorry,
Dark Father – anyone called Dave?
1. And for that matter, don’t they ever bite anyone who isn’t a bloody goth?
Errr... 0? The unrelenting po-facedness of it all. There’s not a moment in the film
that isn’t played completely straight. There’re exactly no wisecracks or funny lines.
There’s zero indication that this ludicrous movie takes itself less than totally
seriously. This flick has exactly one tone, one mood throughout so if you don’t
like things grim, dour and portentous for every single second of this movie's
soul-destroyingly long running-time then you’re shit out of luck.
-1, then. Not meaning to labour the point, but cross my heart there are honestly
more laughs in Schindler’s List than here. I wish that were an exaggeration. I can
and will go further – Hyperdrive
raised a smile more often than Underworld did. While this is obviously a massive
waste of (for example) Bill Nighy’s understated comic talent, there's just the faintest
chance that the movie might have overcome this and still had something to offer
were it not for...
-2. The quite staggeringly stupid story and the way that the film confuses
"tedious nonsensical background detail and foetid lumps of exposition"
with "a plot". If the filmmakers expect us to take this ridiculous storyline
at face value, then they really have to pull out all the stops to engage the fuck
out of us. We really, really, really have to care about the characters, their
place in the world and what's going on around them. Bit of a shame then, that...
-3. At no point in the entire film are we given reason one to give a shit about
what's happening to any of its characters, who are almost without exception either
entirely unsympathetic or entirely wooden. So far as I can tell, for the first two-thirds
of the movie we’re supposed to be rooting for Kate Beckinsale purely because she
looks good in black PVC.
-4. And then we find out her entire family were killed by Lychan. Which in a sane
and sensible world would see the screenwriter's door kicked down and a brutal shoeing
handed out by the Cliché Police.
-5. Yeah, they were murdered by Lychan. Or were they? Or WERE they? OR WERE THEY?
Oh, is that the Cliché SWAT team I can hear pulling up outside?
-6. The vampires are fucking morons. Kraven the vampire goes into a castle to fight
the head of the werewolves on his own. He later emerges with a piece of skin from
the werewolf’s shoulder that bears a brand to proof that the werewolf was dead.
Apparently, not one other vampire bothered to ask, "hang on a minute. Couldn’t
a werewolf conceivably have survived a slight graze to his upper arm? Given that
he was dead and all, and you had a choice of any body part you liked to prove the
fella was a goner, why didn’t you bring out oooh, I don’t know, picking an example
out of the air, his head?" Oh, and when this is brought to the attention of
Viktor, aka The Oldest And Wisest Of All The Vampires, he decides that the ideal
person to investigate whether Kraven was lying is... um. Kraven. Tony Blair would
be proud. Viktor is plainly a magna cum laude graduate of the General
Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett Leadership Academy. "The first rule
of counter-espionage is to suspect everyone, Darling. Believe me, I shall be asking
myself some pretty searching questions later."
-7. The werewolves are somehow even stupider. Despite the fact that they have access
to seemingly limitless amounts of military hardware and know exactly which house
ALL the vampires hang out in ALL the time, it’s obviously never occurred to them
to, say, mortar the mansion to rubble at noon on the sunniest day of the year. Or
indeed to just ATTACK THE VAMPIRES DURING FUCKING DAYLIGHT.
-8. Don’t want to bang on about this, but seriously. It's criminal to hire someone
with the wit and charm of a Bill Nighy then hand him lines like "I loved
my daughter. But the abomination growing in her womb was a betrayal of me and the
coven. I did what was necessary to protect the species!" You useless,
cretinous morons.
-9. The whole thing really, really felt like a Vampire
campaign being run by a twelve-year-old. Just loads of kewl things (vampire-werewolf
punch-ups, ancient prophecies, mass firefights involving pseudo-scientific bullets
filled with "liquid sunlight" or that "inject silver nitrate into
the bloodstream", a Chosen One, sports cars, the aforementioned kung-fu babe
in PVC, a mansion full of decadent vampires who fop around the joint in black lace
and velvet etc, etc and so on and so fucking on) piled on top of each other with
no thought whatsoever. You’re then dropped into the middle of it and left to flail
around until you make your excuses and piss off to play Settlers Of Catan instead.
-10. Oh, and every so often it’d throw in an explicit or damn-near reference to
the World
Of Darkness (the werewolf-vampire crossbreed being referred to a couple of times
as an "Abomination" and the torporised vampire elders, for example), just
to remind you of the premise's wasted potential and that there are people out there
with even less idea of what made White Wolf’s gameworld interesting than White Wolf
had.
-11. Underworld goes on for fucking ever. Two fucking hours without a single laugh,
a single surprise, a single compelling character, a single original or even especially
striking visual image or a single fucking point. It's the cinematic equivalent of
listening to a Yes album. One of the longest, most tedious, joyless experiences
of my life, and I've seen The Two Towers.
Portugal 0-1 France Unfortunately there was company at Blue Man Towers
last night, so no real chance to write the game up as it was going along or indeed
to take notes. So, gentle reader, this report may be sketchier than you've learned
to expect. Portugal marginally shade the first half, which makes it all the more
amusing that they're one down. Sideshow Ricardo Carvalho giving away a spot-kick
that provokes heated - okay, lukewarm - debate in the Towers. "I thought
it was a soft penalty," says Rob. "Eh? What? Look at it!"
splutters your humble correspondent. "The defender goes for the ball with
his right foot, completely misses it so on his way down he has the brilliant idea
of trying to trip Henry up with his left foot! Okay, Henry makes the most of it,
but either Carvalho is deliberately trying to impede, or else he's the clumsiest
player in the history of professional football." "I've watched
him at Chelsea all year. He's the clumsiest player in the history of professional
football." "Oh. Okay. Fair enough, then." Portugal's only
plan for victory, goalie Ricardo, tries to stare out Zinedine Zidane, but the old
fella steps up off a short run-up and places his penalty just beyond the keeper's
outstretched arm. The crowd have been booing long-time Blue Man favourite and jawlineophobic
he just can't, he just can't, he just can't control his feet dastardly skullduggery-merchant
Crap Ronaldo throughout the first half, which while massively entertaining seems
to have given the little git motivation - he was probably the best player on the
pitch over that 45 minutes. Midway through the second half, Scolari makes the same
inexplicable move he did against England - removing his only forward (Pauleta) to
throw on an extra winger. This has precisely the effect that any idiot would suspect
it was going to have - lots of nice play on the edge of the penalty area, lots of
balls being crossed into the box, absolutely nobody being in the middle to get on
the end of them. But you're never out of a game when Fabien Barthez is in goal for
the opposition, and the useless slaphead does his best to give the Geese an equaliser
when he somehow manages to spoon a completely unthreatening Ronaldo free-kick up
into the air right in front of two Portuguese players. Fortunately for all right-thinking
people they can't force it home, and the game settles back into of the French defending
deep and Portugal throwing themselves to the floor with increasing frequency and
desperation. The most they can craft are a couple of half-chances, though, and despite
a couple of moments of excitement as Ricardo comes up out of his goal for two corners
in injury time France eventually see it out fairly comfortably. The German director
obligingly cuts away from Scolari having a stand-up row with the referee to give
us a couple of nice shots of Shit Ronaldo snivelling, which raises merry cheers
from all assembled at Blue Man Towers (bitter? Us?). Thank fuck this horrible Portugal
team isn't going to the World Cup final.
The BBC's post-England-getting-knocked-out musical montages are normally pretty
good. This year's was especially ace, and if you're interested in experiencing twenty
years as an England supporter condensed into three minutes twenty seconds, you could
do a lot worse than
to check it out (a tip of the hat to the fab and groovy BrokenTV,
by the way).
What? Is there a game on today? Oh, alright then.
Germany 0-2 Italy (AET) Last game on ITV, thank fuck. Nothing makes
you appreciate the blandness of, say, Mark Lawrenson or Leonardo like having to
put up with Andy Townsend and David Pleat for two hours. "Now the national
side face a contest as raw and pure as football can provide!" gibbers anchorcreature
Steve Rider of the Italians, by which I think he means they're, um, going to play
a game of football. Without having paid off the referee. Today's lower-league flag
of St. George, as seen over the shoulder of Terry Venables in the ITV Commentary
Cupboard, is Stockport County. Bad news for Germany, as clueless wingnut David Pleat
states that they will "surely make it though to the final". Not
convinced, personally. This Italian team hasn't really fired yet but you have to
feel they're clever enough up front and mean enough at the back to have a good chance
of beating a German team that are still decidedly iffy in defence. Of course, if
the officiating here is as lopsided as it was in the Argentina game then the Italians
are fucked. First dive of the match is after two minutes which is annoying because
I had thirty seconds in the sweepstake. But surprise surprise - it's a German. Podolski
has his ankle tapped by pantomime villain Gennaro Gattuso, takes a couple of steps,
realises he's not going to catch up with the ball and promptly hurls himself to
the floor. Pathetic. Hardworking right wing Mauro Camoranesi is sporting the sort
of high ponytail / topknot affair most commonly seen in Kurosawa movies and mystifyingly
complex kiddie anime whose plot seems to involve two people standing in the desert
shouting at each other for hours at a time. "The strolling Ballack..."
- Clive Tyldesley, describing a pretty uncomfortable medical condition. Fifteen
minutes gone, and Italy should be one up as a nice pass from Totti puts Simone Perotta
though on goal, but his first touch is a bit heavy and gives Jens Lehman a chance
to get out and smother the shot. Italian striker Luca Toni is "a very tall,
wooden-looking player" according to David Pleat. You mean... like Pinocchio?
After Camoranesi - whose name David Pleat has given up trying to pronounce after
three or four abortive attempts - is hacked down by Lahm, both commentators express
approval that no yellow card has been shown. Despite, y'know. The fact that the
offence was the very definition of the professional foul and all. So basically,
we've gone from a situation where any hint of trying to win the ball was a booking
offence to defenders being allowed to do whatever the fuck they like with no comeback.
And this is meant to be an improvement, is it? German left wing Bernd Schneider
has a haircut that wouldn't look out of place on a member of A-Ha. Reason 2317 why
the Blue Man couldn't be an international footballer - if you're in a pub, and it's
got a TV with the sound turned off, your attention's going to be stuck on Silent
Eastenders for the rest of the evening, right? So what chance does a fella have
with those giant Jumbotron things in football stadia? You'd be lining up to defend
a corner, catch a glimpse of the screen in the corner of your eye, go "Oh look!
It's me! On the telly!" and be in the middle of waving to yourself as the bloke
you're supposed to be marking went shooting by. That's the break, and Italy have
edged a decent first half despite a good spell of German pressure late on, which
is another of these "a surprise to anyone who hasn't seen either of these teams
play" gigs. Five minutes gone in the second half, and Germany have their best
chance of the game, Miroslav Klose gets the ball at his feet and runs right at the
heart of the Italian defence, but is just about bundled off the ball before he can
get his shot away. Twenty-five minutes gone, and Fabio Grosso's interpretation of
the ever popular "Get Kicked In The Leg, Fall Over Holding Your Head"
routine provokes, of all things, a Mr.
Gumby impression from Clive Tyldesley - "My brain hurts!" Yes,
it's every bit as ghastly as you suspect it might be. Come back Lawro, all is forgiven.
Might be a bit early to mention this, but after everything that's been said and
written over the last few days about how l33t the Germans are at penalties, doesn't
irony dictate that that they're destined to lost this game in a shootout? "It
just goes to disprove the prejudices we have about other nations." says
Tyldesley, shining a spotlight of Truth on our shameful xenophobia. "Before
this tournament, you might have thought 'a Mexican referee? For Germany vs. Italy?'
Well, he's been fantastic!" Um. a) Is the stereotype really that all Mexican
referees are shit? If so, it's the first I've heard of it. b) The worst referee
at the tournament by some distance was, well, the English guy. c) Am I the only
person that thinks this says a bit more about Clive, the smug patronising fuck,
than it does about the rest of the nation? Full time, and the deadlock's still not
broken, the Two Stooges insisting that this has been a game for the ages, one of
the "library of great nil-nils." Um? I mean, it's been enjoyable
enough, there's been some decent football played, it's not another Switzerland-Ukraine,
but come on. Let's not get overexcited. That said, extra time starts in pretty lively
fashion, Italy hitting the woodwork twice in the opening couple of minutes. One
interesting subplot of this game has been how ineffective Michael Ballack has looked
- largely, you have to think, because Gattuso has been breathing down his neck all
game. Is that a hint to how Premiership teams should try and handle him next season?
'Course, it probably helps if you've got the best back five in international football,
but still. In the second half of extra time, it suddenly turns into the great game
that the Idiot Twins have been telling us it's been all night - flowing passing
moves from end to end, goalmouth scrabbles, nicely-crafted attacks and desperate
defending. Totti, Iaquinta and Del Piero run the German backline absolutely ragged
while the men in white try to make a goal on the counterattack. A minute from time,
and the breakthrough finally comes, an Italian corner being cleared only as far
as Pirlo on the edge of the box. He tries to make space for a shot but instead feeds
Grosso who picks his spot and curls a shot past Lehman's outstretched fingers that
bulges the side-netting. A minute later, Alessandro Del Piero puts the gloss on
the score that the balance of play deserves, and the hosts are out.
[ So Catch Me If You Can, Cause I'm The England Man ]
England 0-0 Portugal (1-3 on penalties) Is everybody psyched for the
Steve McLaren era? Still, Doctor Who was good this week.
Brazil 0-1 France In a result that's a massive surprise to anyone who
hasn't, y'know, seen them play at all this tournament, Brazil crash out to the first
football team worthy of the name that they encounter. In a move that's spectacularly
moronic even by the standards of Brazilian defending, they somehow neglect to bother
marking arguably the best forward on the face of the planet from a set-piece that's
being taken by arguably the best striker of the dead ball on the face of the planet
with, as sitcom writers would have it, Hilarious Consequences. The Springfield Retirement
Castle goes on to hopefully hammer the Portugeezers, Brazil fuck off back to their
Nike adverts.
