Catfish – The Facebook Film You Didn’t See Coming.

I’d heard about this film a while back.  A couple of years ago, as it happens.  Having read a non-spoiler review, I was intrigued by the concept, as I’m sure any other Facebook user (read: a third of the world’s population) would.  The basic synopsis is as high-concept as they come: twenty four-year-old Yaniv ‘Nev’ Schulman, a talented photographer based in New York, has a photograph of two ballet dancers published in a newspaper. Several weeks later, Nev receives a beautiful painting of the picture in the post, purported to be the work of eight-year-old child prodigy, Abby Pierce. Nev strikes up an online relationship with Abby and her family, in particular garnering the attentions of Abby’s attractive older half-sister, Megan.

Over time, the relationship between Nev and Megan grows, with countless Facebook and text messages, phone calls and sharing of thoughts and feelings.  Eventually, they decide to meet, with Nev, his brother Ariel and friend, Henry (co-directors) documenting the events leading up to and after the meeting.

Shortly before they meet, Nev is chatting to Megan online.  Megan claims to be a musician and offers to record a song for the boys to play online.  They pick a song, and a little later they hear a beautiful cover version, recorded online for them.

SPOILER ALERT!

The boys are very impressed with the rendition and seek out the original version of the song on YouTube.  They’re suddenly taken aback by the obvious similarities between the ‘rendition’ they were sent by Megan online, and what they had just heard on YouTube; so much so, they convince themselves that it is one and the same singer.  At this point, things start to unravel, quickly.  Amongst other things, Nev recounts that he has never actually spoken to Abby on the phone and the gallery where Abby had apparently been selling her paintings for thousands of dollars at a time had actually, upon checking the building’s details, been in a state of disuse for four years.  The boys decide their next move, with all unanimously agreeing that they should see this tale out and confront Angela et al at her address.

Upon arriving unannounced, Angela, bemused by the visit and looking distinctively different to her Facebook profile picture, welcomes the boys into her home, shared by her husband Vince (also incongruous in appearance), Vince’s handicapped twin boys, and their daughter Abby, with the notably absent Megan.  Angela mentions that she has uterine cancer and has recently begun receiving chemotherapy.  Nev questions Abby about her paintings, to which she seems very uneasy and hesitant.

Shortly thereafter, Nev calls Angela on her stories and she begins to admit the truth.  To give away the confessions and the reasons why on this simple little blog would be a disservice to some exceptional film-making and the story of a person that had to make sacrifices in their life, striving to keep their dreams alive, but ultimately knowing where their chosen responsibilities lie.

The third act (if you will) of the documentary could easily have demonised Angela and her family, with the boys leaving abruptly and casting a shroud of dismissive fanaticism over the whole encounter; but instead, the roots of Angela’s fantasies are movingly captured on camera.  This is the film’s ace card, in effect illustrating how simply technology allows us to create false parallels in our own lives, personalities and identities at the simple click of a mouse, and how easily others can be persuaded to believe in them.

On differing levels, at what point does our true personality end and our online one begin?  Is the line opaque?  Is there always a difference?  These are points the brilliant Charlie Brooker has illustrated with the never-more-relevant Black Mirror series.  If you haven’t seen any of them yet, check them out – they’re fantastic.

I’d also recommend you watch the film – an unflinching, objective look at human behaviour and how it can be modified to extraordinary degrees with the Facebook revolution.

I’ll leave you with the meaning behind the film’s title, as told by Vince:

They used to tank cod from Alaska all the way to China.  They’d keep them in vats in the ship.  By the time the codfish reached China, the flesh was mush and tasteless.  So this guy came up with the idea that if you put these cods in these big vats, put some catfish in with them and the catfish will keep the cod agile.  And there are those people who are catfish in life.  And they keep you on your toes.  They keep you guessing, they keep you thinking, they keep you fresh.  And I thank god for the catfish because we would be droll, boring and dull if we didn’t have somebody nipping at our fin.

Latest Article, Just For You

Hello. I braved a revisiting of my favourite scary film and wrote an article about it on the onemetal.com website:

http://www.onemetal.com/2011/09/21/the-horror-back-on-board-the-event-horizon/

Enjoy!

Dan

Hangovers – A Guide

Not even the baby noticed their b.o.

I’ll take an educated (sober) guess – most of us like a drink.  Perhaps a nice glass of red wine with your meal in the week, but especially at the weekend.  If you’re lucky enough to have a full-time job, a release is required at this time.  Some can attain this release through spiritualism and outdoor pursuits, some can … get pissed.

The key point is ‘release’ though.  Alcohol gives you a high, a de-pressurising high; like slowly deflating a balloon after a week’s wheezing and puffing in the office.  Great fun…

At the time.

But before we examine the inevitable after-effects after a night on the loopy juice, what about this scenario, that I’m sure we’ve all been privy to: being the only sober person out?

I’ve been a designated driver before.  I’ve also driven to the pub to meet people briefly having been broken from events past and unable to subsist around other humans for anything longer than an hour.  And I’ll tell you this – it’s weirdly liberating and liberatingly weird.  You turn up, fresh as a daisy, but the people surrounding you are on an entirely different plane.  Attempting to talk to someone under the influence is like trying to communicate with someone the other side of the country using only a pair of scissors, a beer mat and a pigeon corpse.  Or perhaps Skype, when your PC’s switched off.  Speech is louder, personal space no longer exists, sentences are broken and mostly incomprehensible, likely to go off in all directions, topics, maybe even languages.

But of course, when you’re also ‘on the sauce’, there’s nothing odd at all, not a soupçon out of the ordinary.  It’s as if you’ve all contracted a virus and mutated into staggering inebriated zombies.  It’d make quite a good zombie film actually: 28 Shots Later.

Oh, and have you tried texting drunk?  Or reading a text?  The experience resembles this:

However, as we waddle around babbling and gurgling to each other, blissfully unaware of anything occurring around us, there is one danger that can snap us out of our comaboozed state – The Chunder.

Unless you’re a masochist and actually enjoy vomiting, the prospect of, or having someone near you, chucking up, is a matter of life and death.  If someone looks like they’re about to blow, it can easily clear an area quicker than Peter Stringfellow entering a steam room without a towel.  It doesn’t just work for us though:

I may write to the Home Secretary actually – a high concept crime prevention proposal – The Chunder Cops.  The Chunder Cops would be a tactical unit sent into any areas of disarray, shortly beforehand drinking salt water and oysters.  With the re-introduction of their gastric contents to the offending masses clearly evident by the expressions on the cops’ faces, the crowd would swiftly subside and go about their business.

But let’s get down to the real offender here – the hangover.

Yes, you’ve seen the film, and possibly thrown up on the t-shirt, but the experience itself is darker than what the (admittedly sensationalised but hilarious) films have shown us.

If you’re anything like me, you don’t just wake up after a heavy session and think ‘oh, my head hurts.  Well, time for breakfast.’  No no no, it’s worse than that.  If you’re an anxiety addict, a terminally worrying tremourbot, the hangover is ten times worse.  Psychologically anyway.  If I’ve had a heavy session, albeit a condensed, concentrated one over a few hours (I prefer afternoon jaunts with well-paced real ale sippings), my hangover routine plays out thus:

• Where am I?
• What did I say/do last night?
• Who did I speak to?
• About what?
• Was I being silly?
• Was I too loud?

But questioning yourself hung over is like questioning a puppy in an interrogation room: it won’t answer you back, it’ll just paw at your face drooling, occasionally barking, and the room you’re in appears deathly quiet and uncomfortable.

Then, unfortunately, horrifically, and unprompted, you do start to get answers off people.  ‘Hey, Dan, why were you charging at so-and-so like a bull?’  Ouch!  Your mind is being pelted with sharp pieces of a jigsaw you truly don’t want to piece together.  And let’s not forget the terrifying chill that runs down your spine when you get ‘tagged’ in a Facebook photo from the night before.  Brrrrr.  Ignorance is bliss as far as I’m concerned.  Any night you can walk away from is a successful one.

Of course, all these fears and anxieties are always unfounded.  Nights out on the pop are great fun and enjoyable as long as you know your limits.  With me it’s around 6-8 pints.  I don’t do shots.

But that jigsaw is always there, peeping at me.  Peeping at us all.  And it only has one weakness.

Abstinence.

I’ll drink to that.