Whimsical Musings of a Loon

The Guardian and Observer publications are running supplements featuring their "Greatest Films of All Time" in various sub-categories of genre. Deciphering culture greatness is always a contentious subject of classification. I relish perusing these types of lists; to criticise, to agree, but most of all, to observe why we, as humans and devourers of arts and popular culture, love listing these things in the first place (and subsequently argue about it like it actually means anything). I was intrigued to see one of my favourite films featured in the "Greatest Romance" section; Sofia Coppola 's most beautiful and wonderfully underplayed Lost In Translation . I was curious, because as much as I love the film, it never even occurred to me to even class it into the 'romance' film genre. Lost In Translation is a film that appears to divide many. It seems to leave many either completely cold, disinterested or feeling as if Sofia Coppola had snuck behind t...

The Guardian featured a recent article on graphic novels , which immediately caught my eye. What particularly interested me was the writer's admission that for years, 'picture books', were to her, just read by nerdy men. In a lot of ways, something there resonated. However, I grew up with graphic novels, mostly in the form of Asterix, but more importantly, the work of the legendary Posy Simmonds . I did not realise it at the time, but they were helping to shape my humour, as well as beginning to hone my observational skills. As a child, I thought in pictures. I lived in pictures. I drew things daily. I played out my drawings, creating characters with costumes and accents. The world was a giant, living, colourful graphic. Then I suddenly stopped reading graphic novels. Perhaps it was a time I was discovering Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen. I became entangled amongst Chekhov and Harold Pinter. I wanted the word. I dreamt pretentiously of acting. I also became obsessed with fil...

I grew up with books. They were like little bound and papered siblings. Officially my childhood home was made with bricks, but it may as well have been built with 1960 retro Penguin paperbacks (with terribly convoluted undecipherable titles and communist russia style graphic design covers). I thought all families had their tea alongside shelves of Lenin's biography, all washed down with a sip of Pinter. But one particular book series I grew up with, both confused and delighted me more than any other. My parents had few graphic novels, but being stalwart Guardian readers, they did have the wonderful work of Posy Simmonds, the Guardian cartoonist, illustrator and writer extraordinaire. Posy's books captivated me. One on level, they were cartoons, even a child could read and enjoy the drawings. On another, they were highly satirical accounts of the political/social climate in the 1980s. It wasn't until I re-read them as an adult that I really appreciated how ingenious the joke...