Jan 4, 2008
Ironic really, that I chose to see Heima nowhere near my real actual home
What kind of twittering moron throws himself on the mercies of the New Year's Day public transport system to see a film in a different county that he could bloody well see up the road from his house?
Still, I don't regret trekking for hours from Manchester to Bradford to see Sigur Ros' masterpiece Heima.
This smouldering film, infused with the ashen Icelandic landscape that no doubt inspired Richard Long, is slow moving, contemplative and beautiful. As the film glides to a close, you think you've seen a "nice" documentary. Then they let rip with Popplagið in all its boldness and intensity. It will leave your ears ringing.
It's definitely one for the big screen. If you fancy schmoozing over to the Cornerhouse in Manchester later this month to see Heima (and you're not a random internet stalker hell bent on stealing my trousers), then give me a shout.
My trip to Bradford had a brace of nice side effects. I sat near a man who, if he wasn't the real thing, was an accomplished Pete Doherty impressionist. Then out of the blue, I flirted outrageously with the bloke who drove my railway replacement coach:
EXT. BUS STOP - LATE EVENING
DRIVER stands in the doorway of his stationery coach chatting and laughing with a colleague
ME: Are you East Didsbury?
DRIVER: No, I'm a driver.
ME: Well, you look like East Didsbury. You know... classy.
DRIVER remains overly formal for the rest of the journey, although he still let me on without a ticket...
DEEPER FRIED FAT: KNOBS COCKS