David M. Brown's Blog, page 34

Film Review: Almost Famous

About Derailed (2000)
Audiences and critics alike are raving about this larger-than-life rock’n ‘roll favorite that Roger Ebert calls “one of the best movies of the year!” The guys of Stillwater have the sound, they have the look and Rolling Stone Magazine wants their story. For young reporter William Miller, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime as he hits the road with his favorite band and discovers the price of fame, the value of family and the limits of friendship.

Starring: Billy Crudup, Frances McDormand, Kate Hudson, Jason Lee, Patrick Fugit

Directed by: Cameron Crowe

Runtime: 122 minutes

Studio: Dreamworks Video

 

 

Amazon US Amazon UK IMDB

Review: Almost Famous

It’s 1973 and fifteen year old William Miller (Patrick Fugit) has just bagged himself the dream ticket of accompanying upcoming rock group – Stillwater – on a tour and writing an article for Rolling Stone magazine about them. With a frantic mother Elaine (Frances McDormand) constantly on the phone, coupled with rising tensions in the group, not to mention some beautiful groupies, William’s time with the band is eventful to say the least.

Cameron Crowe’s setting is after the glorious sixties with the likes of The Beatles now obsolete and rising stars such as David Bowie looking to fill the shoes of lost musicians such as Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison. Stillwater are hopeful of filtering into the gulf that is craving the next big thing but life on the road, though often glamorous, is not without its hazards. Russell (Billy Crudup) is the band’s guitarist and very much the pin-up and face of the band, much to the chagrin of singer, Jeff (Jason Lee). Always looking to flex his leadership muscles, Jeff emphasises caution around William for all journalists are perceived as “the enemy” but Russell likes their guest and sticks up for him, though he always worms his way out of an exclusive interview. William’s time with Stillwater is not helped by groupie Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) who is very much Russell’s girl on tour but becomes a close friend to William as well, introducing him to life on the road and joining him in a mutual passion for music. The question is what sort of article will William produce for Rolling Stone magazine come the end of his time with Stillwater?

Something of a box office failure when it was first released, Almost Famous still received nods from the Academy Awards and deservedly so. A terrific cast is on offer, be it McDormand as the domineering mother from hell or the underused Philip Seymour Hoffman who is William’s first port of call for advice when the pressure gets too much. The film successfully balances the glitz and glamour of a tour with some of the harsh realities that befall many individuals. For William, it’s a lot to see and go through for one so young.

Almost Famous is packed full of great music, a rich and varied cast of well-known names, rounded off with a sharp and well-polished script. Things may get a little too tender in the final scenes but accompanying William and Stillwater on the road is one memorable journey and worth taking. The soundtrack isn’t too bad either.

Verdict: 4/5

(Film source: reviewer’s own copy)

Game Review: Rodland

Review: Rodland (Amiga)

Cute fairies Tam and Rit set out on an adventure when their mother is kidnapped and imprisoned in a tower. Armed only with magic wands the siblings have to negotiate 40 levels or rooms as they ascend the tower, coming up against an assortment of enemies and every 10 levels having to face off against a tricky boss.

Rodland plays a lot like Bubble Bobble with each level restricted to one screen. While your magic wand can disable enemies if you fire at them, its main strength comes in holding your enemies and then swinging them over your head left and right, bashing them against the ground until they are dead. It’s surprisingly brutal for such a cute and colourful game. Enemies leave numerous power ups including a flame thrower and magic bolts that move rapidly around the screen and usually take out your enemies. To traverse the levels you have to make use of ladders to reach the higher platforms. Tam and Rit have one ladder of their own which they can use throughout the level to either reach platforms or to ascend to higher points to hit a boss. You can only move onto the next level when you have taken out all the enemies on the screen. Your enemies include sharks, worms, potatoes, a vast array who will try and stop you any way they can. Kill them quick though because some have the ability to spawn further chums to hinder your progress.

Rodland is a very brief game but this was the standard for the Amiga back in the early nineties. While this is well executed and has a great soundtrack it does feel a little limited compared to Bubble Bobble. That said, it is still a fun experience while it lasts and a fond reminder of how games that were simple were not necessarily bad. You’d probably play through it a few times to be honest so for that reason it deserves credit.

Rodland still looks good today and although it’s a short experience there is still some fun to be found here. This doesn’t have the durability of Bubble Bobble in my opinion but it retains a lot of charm and the method of dispatching enemies is very amusing no matter how many times you do it.

Verdict: 3/5

Game Review: Rodland | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Book Excerpt: The Rogue’s Reluctant Rose – Daphne du Bois

Today Daphne du Bois stops by to share an excerpt from her book, The Rogue’s Reluctant Rose.

Excerpt from The Rogue’s Reluctant Rose

Lord Chestleton was seated at Lady Dillwood’s grand piano, looking out of the tall, French windows at the lawn, which had begun to darken with the first shadows of dusk. His fingers danced over the keys but his thoughts seemed to be far away. There was no music open before him, and Araminta assumed that he was playing from memory. Or perhaps, and the thought seemed to fill her with tenderness, this was even a piece of his own composition. She had never heard its like before, nor seen a pianist exhibit such searing passion, as though plumbing the very depths of his soul for a melancholy that no words could ever hope to express.

She only had a profile view of him, and Araminta dared neither to move closer nor leave as she took in the transported expression on his aristocratically handsome face. He might have appeared to be looking out into the carefully tended garden, but he was seeing something else entirely, lost in some private memory which she had no business being party to. Suddenly, she wished she was not there to see it, that she had not succumbed to her curiosity and followed the music. She felt like a voyeur, watching his shoulders rise and fall, his body sway slightly with the haunting melody, the crashing rhythm of the chords. She wished very much that she was safely in the library, minding her own business, ignorant of the scene that was now before her. She wanted to flee, but she dared not move for fear of alerting him to her presence.

Araminta stood for what felt like an eternity, watching the enigmatic marquis pour out his soul into the cold ivory keys of the piano. Of their own accord, her eyes were drawn down to his long slender fingers, almost as pale as the ivory keys themselves. She watched, as if hypnotised, as they danced and flitted over the keys, with an expert ease that seemed almost unbelievable, as though the marquis was, in that instant, more spirit than man. Araminta’s own skill at the instrument was only passably good, enough to have satisfied her tutors and her father’s expectations, but she had never advanced beyond that. Now she understood why. As she watched Chestleton, she knew that she had always lacked the passion to make the instrument sing so, to lament and seduce the soul.

The piano was an extension of the man, a vessel for the emotions that burned and smouldered within him. Before she realised it, Araminta found herself wondering what it would be like to be the receptacle of all that passion, all that burning need, to smooth away that unspeakable despair. She pictured his pale fingers dancing upon her skin as they danced upon the keys, so expert and confident, compelling and strong – drawing ardour from her with every confident touch.

Araminta was just wondering how long he meant to continue, and how long she could stand to listen, when the music suddenly resolved in a sustained chord that rang all around them, seemingly echoing not only off the walls of the music room, but also off the walls of her heart.

In the sudden, ringing silence which followed, she hardly dared breathe, as if even the slightest inhalation would draw his eyes to her. No longer held captive by the magic of the music, Araminta’s veins seemed to flow with ice. She should not be here. As quietly as she could, she began to move towards the door, but it was too late. Suddenly, his head turned and his eyes flew to hers, freezing her in place. For a moment it was as if he did not recognise her, but then, in a terrible instant, his eyes bored deeply into hers, and she was lost.

It was as if for that moment there were no barriers between them, as if a higher connection existed between their two hearts. The last chord surrounded them, locking them in a private world of their own. As his eyes locked on hers she read in them all the emotions she had felt echoing in the music, and she was sure he was able to read exactly what she had been thinking, as if he could see into the very depths of her heart. As if no secret would remain her own.

Involuntarily she took a step back, and just as suddenly he was on his feet, crossing the room in only a few brisk strides.

There was a wild look in his eyes, and Araminta’s knees suddenly went weak, so that she wondered if she was going to fall. His polished black hessians sounded loudly on the bare wooden floor, matching the pounding of her heart in her ears, so that she could not tell where one ended and the other began.

She wondered what he meant to do once he reached her. For a brief moment of madness, she wondered if he meant to ravish her right there on the music room floor, and she wondered if she had it in her to object. Surely no woman could ever be that strong.

In one breathless instant he was beside her, so close that they were inches away from touching, looking down into her beautiful, startled, pale face. She wondered if he would kiss her. She could feel heat radiating from his body. Silence hung between them, laden with a world of things that could not be spoken aloud. He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek, and then seemed to catch himself at the last moment.

They both knew that with just that one touch all would have been lost, though neither fully understood what it was the other stood to lose.

“Lord Chestleton… I’m sorry. I intruded. I didn’t mean –” she tried to explain haltingly, even as words failed her.

He regarded her for one tense second, no longer than a heartbeat, though to Araminta it felt as if no less than a decade had passed. A frisson of danger passed through her as she awaited his next move.

About The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (2013)Miss Araminta Barrington, clever, pretty and unexpectedly poor, bravely decides to sacrifice her own happiness in a marriage of convenience, in order to save her family from certain ruin. She sets out to win a proposal from the wealthy Sir Timothy Stanton while struggling with her guilt over using a good man so poorly.

Just when success is in sight, she catches the eye of Jasper Devereaux, the scandalous Marquis of Chestleton, whose own growing fascination with the enigmatic young woman compels him to pursue her at all costs. If he can only win her into his bed, his absurd fascination will surely evaporate!

Araminta knows that to be seen in Chestleton’s company could ruin her chances of securing a marriage that will save everything she holds dear. She knows that Chestleton is not the sort of man to take a wife, and with poverty looming, she knows that love is a luxury she cannot afford. When a riding accident forces her to be his unwilling guest at a secluded country house, will her undeniable attraction override her sense of duty? Will a night of passion really be enough for the dastardly lord? And does the strange bitterness she glimpses in his eyes have anything to do with the secrets he is determined to keep close?

Amazon USAmazon UKGoodreads
About Daphne du BoisDaphne has always had a passion for literature and history and one day it occurred to her: what better way to use her English Literature degree than to write about Regency romps and romance? She hasn’t looked back since. Admittedly, her addiction to all things Jane Austen from a very young age had probably somewhat informed her choice of subject matter…

Daphne has stacks of notebooks full of stories that still need to be written, which she insists on bringing with her when she moves around the world (she’s done this a lot!). She likes her books full of romance, adventure, witty repartee and a dash of silly humour. When Daphne isn’t writing, she can be found painting, picnicking, reading and listening to all sorts of exciting music.

 

Twitter

Book Excerpt: The Rogue’s Reluctant Rose – Daphne du Bois | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Game Review: Kingdom Hearts 2

About Kingdom Hearts 2 (2005)Kingdom Hearts II follows Sora Donald and Goofy on their continuing quest. It has been one year since the events of Kingdom Hearts. The story begins in Twilight Town a quite burg nestled between night and day. Sora and friends are joined by a vibrant new cast of characters including King Mickey himself! Together they will encounter countless dangers in worlds both familiar and brand new.Features: Explore both new and familiar worlds from Kingdom Hearts plus new Disney worlds to the Kingdom Hearts franchise such as Pirates of the Caribbean Beauty and the Beast and Mulan. A more advanced battle system that allows for a wider range of commands powerful new combos and cooperative attacks with members of your party introducing another layer of strategy. An all-new “Drive” command that lets Sora change into a variety of new forms altering his skills and abilities. A revamped camera system that keeps you in the middle of the action. Brand new transportation system that takes Sora and friends from world to world in the style of theme park rides. Cameo appearances by popular Final Fantasy characters. A large ensemble cast of Disney characters and a new cast of original characters designed by renowned artist Tetsuya Nomura.

 

Amazon USAmazon UK
Review: Kingdom Hearts 2 (PS2)

The first Kingdom Hearts was a game I took a chance on and was blown away by everything about it: graphics, gameplay, storyline, everything was fantastic. The arrival of Kingdom Hearts 2 had me full of both hope and concern. Could Square Enix possibly equal its predecessor? Kingdom Hearts 2 was actually the third game in the series, following Chain of Memories. Set a year after that game, our heroes – Sora, Donald and Goofy – are in suspended animation so we spend the early sections of the game in the company of a boy named Roxas who lives in Twilight Town. Roxas’ idyllic days are disrupted by the arrival of black hooded figures known as Organisation XIII as well as a new group of enemies – Nobodies. When the game switches to Sora, Donald and Goofy they begin a new adventure to find Sora’s best friend, Riku, who was lost in the first game as well as get to the bottom of what Organisation XIII wants and to stop them at all costs. There is also the mystery of who Roxas is and how is he connected to Sora.

Kingdom Hearts 2 is not as good as the first game, it is even better. It follows the same format with Sora, Donald and Goofy hopping on their gummi ship to travel between a variety of worlds. We have some of the same worlds from the first game such as Agrabah and Halloween Town but there are new ones in there including the world of Pirates of the Caribbean with Jack Sparrow for company and a visit to the Pride Lands to fight alongside a now adult Simba. Each world sees Nobodies, Heartless and members of Organisation XIII instigating some trouble and you have to stop them and save each world in turn. A resident character from each world such as Jack the Pumpkin King, Mulan, the Beast and Aladdin are all on hand to help you out as well though you can stick with Donald and Goofy if you wish. I tended to out of loyalty to my chums. The game has a welcome return for many Disney characters but also retains many favourites from Final Fantasy including Cloud, Squall, Tifa, Sephiroth and even the Gullwings from FFX-2. Sora has been enhanced as a warrior, given the chance of acquiring various outfits that allow you to take on a series of powerful forms once you have powered up enough. A balance between physical and magical attacks is also essential though once again I made life difficult for myself, preferring physical exchanges.

Kingdom Hearts 2 pushes the boundaries with some truly fabulous spectacles. Perhaps the most memorable moment is when Sora battles 1,000 Heartless in one go. You do this all alone and you have to defeat them all. It is fantastic to watch. The gummi ship sections are mind blowing this time, being worthy of a game in themselves. You only need to negotiate one route to travel between worlds but if you want to test yourself there are secondary paths to have a go at and if you can make it that far a challenging boss awaits at the end of it all. You might want to ask a friend to play these sections so you can admire the view. You’re normally too preoccupied when controlling the gummi ship. The strength of Kingdom Hearts 2 is not in the visuals though, it is in the storyline. How Square Enix have merged Disney and Final Fantasy is pure genius again, while Sora, Riku and Kairi fit in perfectly to these contrasting universes, just as they did first time round. The secondary tale of Roxas is fascinating from start to finish but a huge emotional depth is added if you have also played through Kingdom Hearts 358/2 Days which takes place between the first Kingdom Hearts and this one. The voice talent enhances the characters greatly and you’ll hear some very familiar voices in there, including the legend that is Christopher Lee. It’s hard to forget the sight of Mickey Mouse kicking ass with a key blade and as always Donald and Goofy are two fantastic and loyal companions you will be glad to have on your journey.

Kingdom Hearts 2 remains the best entry in the series for me. The first game was stunning but this sequel is more assured and confident. The combat remains tricky at times but never to the extent that you won’t want to see it through to the end. Rumours continue to abound about Kingdom Hearts 3 but at the time of writing there is no sign. If Square Enix do decide to revisit this fantastic series I hope they will retain everything that has made each installment so great. If Kingdom Hearts 2 is to be the best of this fantastic series’ legacy then I can’t think of a better game to highlight what a privilege the Kingdom Hearts games have been.

Verdict: 5/5

Game Review: Kingdom Hearts 2 | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Book Excerpt: Hunter – Chris Allen

Today Chris Allen stops by to share an excerpt from his book, Hunter. 

Excerpt from Hunter

CORFU

This final phase was always going to be tricky. Morgan knew as much before he went in, although he had hoped to at least make it past the second guard before the others became aware of his presence. But to ensure that the plan to conduct a covert capture of Šerifović remained absolutely top secret, it was imperative that Intrepid took full carriage of the arrest and, as a result, participation by outsiders had been kept to a minimum. At this point even the Interpol liaison officer had been kept at arm’s length, only aware that a high-risk arrest was being made and that he – along with members of EKAM, the Hellenic Police Anti-Terrorist Unit – was responsible for cleaning up the underlings. As far as the local Greek police currently on standby in helicopters at Corfu airport were concerned, it was just another drug bust. Exactly who was being arrested and why had not been disclosed beyond the walls of General Davenport’s office.

Morgan knew that Milivoj Šerifović was not afraid to kill, his record in the Balkans vouched for that, and right now he was a caged animal. With his third bodyguard for backup, he would be ready to kill to extend his tenuous freedom, no matter what. Worst of all, Šerifović was now alerted to Morgan’s incursion and would be ready.

So it was that Alex Morgan found himself solo, again, penetrating deep into the lair of a fugitive war criminal, mass murderer and rapist. Quite a CV, he noted wryly. In theory, flying solo on a job like this had its benefits in terms of ensuring operational security, but fuck, it had knobs on when it came time to actually be on the ground, especially when the intelligence pencil necks failed to identify that one of the three, quote, “lazy, poorly trained, shouldn’t be a problem”, unquote, bodyguards was built like an Abrams tank. “Thank you, intel,” he whispered while reflexively massaging his neck.

Having tagged the second bodyguard with a GPS tracking device – and pilfered a couple of items he thought might come in handy – Morgan exited the corridor through a smashed window and made his way toward the main villa via an alternate, less obvious, route. Approaching through the darkness to the side of the villa, he became aware of shouting, just audible above the blustery din of the wind. Male voices at first, aggressive and demanding. One voice was dominating the other when the exchange was joined by a woman’s voice. She sounded young. Whatever was going on, whoever she was, she was desperate, shouting in terror and panic.

Moving quickly, Morgan pushed through an assortment of wild herbs growing up against the house and the smells of rosemary, mint and garlic enveloped him. He found a discreet window nestled in a dark corner and peered inside. The small, ornate window gave him a clear, albeit angled, view of a long, luxuriously appointed room. From the artworks to the furniture, fittings and features, the interior of the villa was dripping with cash. The stench of far too much money and not enough taste permeated the scene, all paid for from the proceeds of a life of crime, violence and death. Jesus! Morgan thought with incredulity. I sure chose the wrong side of the trade. He edged closer and carefully pressed his face up against the glass. Yep, there they were. Target confirmed. Older and thinner and with much less hair, but definitely him. Morgan let out a tight hiss through clenched teeth. The man Morgan knew to be Šerifović was standing over a girl who looked like a tourist. Young, lithe and dressed to impress, she’d obviously been coaxed up into the mountains on the promise of a good time. The girl had no idea who she was dealing with. Flashing lots of cash and drugs, it wouldn’t have been too hard for Šerifović to entice her enough to overlook the fact that he was in his sixties. But now the party was over. She was cowering helplessly on the floor and Šerifović was rough-handling her, slapping her and yelling at her to be quiet, while barking orders at the other man, the third bodyguard, to cover the door that led to the corridor. Morgan’s blood boiled.

They were expecting him from entirely the wrong direction. Good news for Morgan. Not so good for Šerifović.

Urgently, Morgan surveyed the scene to ensure that he was absolutely clear on where each of them was positioned in relation to everything else in the room. He would not have time to become embroiled in another hand-to-hand confrontation with either Šerifović or his bodyguard – he would end up with a bullet in his back within seconds. Taking one last moment to scan the room, Morgan saw his opportunity. He knew what had to be done.

Despite the modern restoration of the villa, local builders had made use of the original tiles. They were of the classic terracotta, convex design, loosely stacked in columns and regimented rows across the pitched roof. The strong winds of the looming storm were screaming through the huddle of buildings now and rustling the ancient tiles like canvas sails upon rough seas. The entire surface of the roof was an enormous, vociferous wind charm.

Clambering across the roof of the villa, his movements covered by the volume of noise, Alex Morgan reached the spot he knew would provide the most direct access to his target inside. Extracting the still-bloodied SOG Force SE38 knife from his belt, he made quick work of a number of tiles, levering them off steadily before throwing them clear of the house. Then he took to the waterproof membrane and insulation beneath the tiles, making a hole just large enough to squeeze through.

Inside the roof, with the aid of his SureFire tactical flashlight, Morgan made his way cautiously across the roof trusses, listening for voices and activity below him. He did not have far to go before he reached the service access panel in the plasterboard ceiling he’d noted from the window. The muffled voices from the living area below became clearer. He could hear heightened levels of uncertainty and anxiety in the voices of the men. The girl was relatively silent, only now and then offering a whimper or cry of fear. Poor thing. “I’ll get you out of this mess shortly, darlin’,” he whispered. “Sit tight.”

Steadying himself across the top of the access panel, Morgan bent his ear to the crack in the joinery and listened intently. His Serbian was scant, but he recognized enough to know they were perplexed and more than a little agitated. They’d expected him to come blundering in from the corridor minutes ago, but there’d been nothing and now, they had no idea.

It’s now or never, he thought.

Just as Morgan prepared to assault, he shifted his weight across carefully to his left foot and the change in his balance caused a rippling creak along the latticework of trusses. The sound was a thunderclap in the confined space of the ceiling and the room below. It was too loud even for the wind to mask it.

Pinpricks of light instantly appeared in radical patterns through the ceiling plaster as a barrage of 9mm rounds peppered every square inch around him, pelting the layer of insulation above his head with the force and frequency of heavy rain upon a tin roof. The narrow space was filled with the fine powder of shattered plaster, splintered wood and ricochets. Morgan had no time. He was seconds away from being riddled by bullets from the submachine guns and falling dead, or worse, fatally wounded to the floor.

Alex Morgan jumped straight through the access panel, splintering the square of plaster while simultaneously hurling the M84 stun grenade he’d taken as a souvenir from the second guard. The flashbang landed perfectly in the center of the three of them. The shock of his appearance and the sight of the grenade at their feet stunned the two men and sent the girl into hysterics. Morgan dropped behind a natural barricade of lavish furniture – hands to ears, mouth open and eyes clamped shut – allowing the detonation to do its thing.

The instantaneous combination of the one million candela flash and 170 decibel bang of the 84’s eruption brought the room under Morgan’s power. Without hesitation, he was in action, leaping across the furniture and heading first for the bodyguard.

Once again, Morgan resorted to the baton. His targeted first strike of the telescopic high carbon steel blade at the side of the man’s neck missed, but the baton still struck hard, crashing down upon the collar bone and shattering it. The guard screamed in agony. He teetered forward, grabbing for his shoulder, and Morgan followed through determinedly with a pulverizing knee strike to the face. The impact and pain of it all reduced the man to blithering semiconsciousness and Morgan immediately carried out the plasti-cuffs, duct tape and tracking device routine again.

Three down.

Morgan flashed across the room, responding to the sudden, but dazed, recovery of Šerifović. Beside him the girl lay silent – she’d fainted. For her it was a blessing; for Morgan it was one less thing to worry about. The Interpol liaison officer would ensure that she was identified and properly taken care of. Then Morgan saw clearly the bruising around her eyes and the splits and swelling of her lips, the results of being worked over by her host. The cold objectivity of his profession morphed into a primal revulsion of the coward – any coward – who would take to a woman with his fists.

Morgan’s anger turned upon Šerifović but he forced himself to refrain from beating the man senseless. The disturbing strength and menace captured by those grainy file images that had become so familiar to Morgan back in London had all but left the Serb. The file pictures, the only official record of his appearance, dated back to the early 1990s. Seventeen years later, all that remained was a gray, emaciated-looking wretch. The old man was finally beaten.

Morgan kicked an MP5 far away from Šerifović’s reach and hoisted him unceremoniously to his feet. He was groggy, a mix of the alcohol he’d consumed, the effects of the flashbang and shock, but he was coming around.

“Who are you?” he asked in Greek, finally looking into Morgan’s eyes.

“Turn around,” Morgan demanded in English, spinning the man on his axis.

“Not Greek police then,” Šerifović said. “Interpol? No, you are no policeman. I can see that in your eyes. You are a soldier – a mercenary after the bounty on my head?”

“Consider me a facilitator. Nothing more,” Morgan answered bluntly, as he pulled the man’s arms behind his back and applied plasti-cuffs. “And you are to consider yourself officially under arrest. Move,” he barked and frogmarched Šerifović hurriedly toward the door. Šerifović did not attempt to escape or resist but he was committed to making the task of removing him hard work, constantly tripping and stumbling as the Intrepid agent hurled him outside into the middle of the wind storm.

“Where are you taking me?” he yelled. “You know, wherever it is, they will come and get me. My friends. They will come for me and when I am free again, they will come for you. And they will find you. You should think about that before?”

Šerifović’s taunts were abruptly ended by a punishing blow from Morgan, an expertly placed blunt trauma punch to the solar plexus. He crumpled to his knees, gasping horribly for air while his diaphragm went into spasm. Morgan stood over him, unemotionally, waiting for the man’s breathing to recommence while he scanned their immediate surrounds. Even in the darkness he was vulnerable. Morgan was not about to assume he was home and clear. There could still be some other layer to Šerifović’s protection that intel had missed. That was why Morgan had decided upon a completely unexpected form of extraction.

Finally, Šerifović regained his composure. He took in a series of long breaths, underscored by the smoker’s phlegmy rattle, and then retched vilely before rolling onto his back. Morgan dropped to a knee beside his prisoner. In the darkness the man’s features looked ghoulishly stricken. Calmly, authoritatively, the menace of his words chillingly discernible through the screaming winds, Morgan said, “Old man, if you think you’re going to fuck with me all the way out of here, think again. You were right before – I’m not a cop. You should remember that. And where I’m taking you, no-one will ever find you.”

With that, Morgan heaved him to his feet and dragged him to the cliff’s edge. Manhandling him and cutting him from the plasti-cuffs, it took only minutes to wrestle the utterly perplexed war criminal into the equipment Morgan had stashed earlier.

“What the fuck is this?” Šerifović cried. “What are you doing? Is this a parachute? I’m just an old man, you can’t do this to me! Who are you? I demand to know!”

The fear and uncertainty spilling from him in every word and gesture found no solace in Morgan’s stoic silence. Šerifović grabbed at the buckles and zips, trying desperately to work out what it was that Morgan had strapped him into and what was about to happen. The bravado and arrogance of the man who had eluded international authorities for a decade and a half, living a life of absolute luxury financed entirely by crime, had evaporated. Milivoj Šerifović, the former Serbian colonel of intelligence, was no more. All that remained was Šerifović, the 62 year-old man suffering the onset of lung cancer, who had been stripped of his money, his power, his privilege and influence and, above all, his protection in a few minutes. Now, he was just a frail and scared old man, as vulnerable as every one of the hundreds of poor souls over whose deaths he had presided in his glory days. Glory days. Christ! Morgan’s loathing surged.

In one swift, deftly executed maneuver, Morgan had Šerifović flat on his face on the ground. Placing a foot across the back of the man’s neck, Morgan prepared himself for the extraction. In less than a minute he, too, was ready. Once again, he pulled the other man to his feet.

“You are wearing a Freedivers Recovery Vest,” Morgan snapped coldly. “Designed to inflate once you are in the water. Yours is already set.”

“Set? Water? What the hell do you mean? Are you crazy?” The whites of Šerifović’s eyes showed clearly all the way around his irises. His breath was shallow and strained. Panic had consumed him, but he knew that there was no way out. Not with this man. “What am I to do? What if something goes wrong? Tell me! Tell me something! You can’t just?”

“OK, I’ll tell you something.” Morgan’s hands suddenly locked on his prisoner: one onto the collar at the back of his neck and one onto the waistband of his trousers. “Mind the step.”

Alex Morgan hurled the man from the cliff and off into the darkness.

About Hunter (2012) His orders are simple: ‘The safety catch is off. Return that girl to her family and drag those bastards back to justice. Dead or alive. It makes no difference to me.’

Alex Morgan – policeman, soldier and spy for Intrepid, the black ops division of Interpol – is on the hunt for Serbian war criminals. But these guys were never going to let it be that simple. An assassination attempt is made on the presiding judge of the international tribunal. Days later, the judge’s daughter, the famous and beautiful classical pianist Charlotte Rose, vanishes in mysterious circumstances.

The girl is not just a pretty face and the daughter of a judge, however. She’s also the goddaughter of Intrepid’s veteran commander, General Davenport. It’s up to Morgan and the Intrepid team to track the kidnappers and the missing woman before the very fabric of international justice is picked apart at its fraying edges.

Part James Bond and part Jason Bourne, Alex Morgan must walk the line between doing the right thing and getting the job done. And this time he’s got permission to make it personal.

Amazon USAmazon UKGoodreads
About Chris AllenBefore penning his Alex Morgan espionage series, featuring the ultra-secret agency Intrepid from Interpol, Chris’s saw the world from under a parachute; made a difference in East Timor; protected Sydney’s iconic sails post 9/11; and most recently, held one of the most historic offices in Australia. Since self-publishing and being signed by Pan Macmillan Australia’s digital imprint Momentum for a two-book deal, Defender and Hunter have wowed readers worldwide, with Avenger due out end-2013 and a film franchise underway. These days, Chris’s first son, Morgan (3) is well-pleased with the popularity of his namesake while Chris’s second son, Rhett, (8 months) is waiting for a series to be created in his honour. Chris dreams of one day spending extended periods of time enjoying an English country cottage in Surrey, preferably one in walking distance from the local pub.

Chris blogs about all things thriller as well as indulging his love of cult TV shows and movies from his youth on his blog.

 

BlogTwitterFacebook

Book Excerpt: Hunter – Chris Allen | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Game Review: Cannon Fodder

Cannon Fodder (Amiga)

Back in the early nineties Amiga gamers that delved into the world of Cannon Fodder became attached to the likes of Jools, Jops, Stoo and CJ and sang, “War, it’s never been so much fun!” Sensible Software, the team behind Sensible Soccer, went all out war with this classic game where you have to guide groups of soldiers into battle against the enemy through a series of missions, many of them divided into phases. You’re armed with guns, grenades, rockets and you will even get the opportunity to control jeeps, tanks and helicopters.

Amongst the terrain you will have to negotiate are jungles, frozen plains, canyons, the English countryside and underground bases. Missions vary in their requirements. In some cases you are ordered to kill all the enemy, others to destroy enemy buildings and later on you may have to rescue hostages. Enemy buildings contain a seemingly inexhaustible supply of soldiers and the only way to stop the output is to blow the building up to stem the flow. Later, those enemy headquarters are pretty tough and require something a little more powerful than your grenades and rockets. Most of your enemies will be the standard soldiers armed with guns but some have bazookas while others will come at you in tanks and helicopters. They’re all united in wanting to kill you so you’ll need to be careful out there.

Cannon Fodder has lost none of its charm. You have a limited amount of soldiers with the first ones being Jools, Jops and Stoo. Whenever you finish a mission your soldier’s rank improves. If they are killed in battle you have to witness their graves on a large hill between missions where recruits stand lined up ready for battle and Sensible Software have gone all football on us with a Home and Away tally at the top recording how many soldiers on each side have been killed. Given the size of the soldiers the game isn’t too violent for gamers though there is a lot of destruction and carnage, men screaming as they are shot and even angry farmers shouting, “Get orf my land!” which never fails to raise a smile. The only downside to the game, if any, is that it does get very difficult in the later missions and you’ll often need luck to get through some very tough battles, especially in missions when you have just one man at your disposal!

Cannon Fodder is one of the best games that ever appeared on the Amiga. Little soldiers tip-toeing round harsh battle grounds, their names forcing you to form an attachment with them and near sobbing when your brave boys are inevitably killed in some fierce exchanges. Between the amusing names for the missions, the catchy theme tune and the variety of objectives you are given, Cannon Fodder still has a great deal to offer.

Verdict: 5/5

Game Review: Cannon Fodder | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Film Review: Derailed

About Derailed (2005)Tense thriller based on the novel by James Siegel. Charles Schine (Clive Owen) and Lucinda Harris (Jennifer Aniston) have noticed each other on the commuter train before. One morning their conversation leads to a flirtation which turns into an evening of drink and then, before either one can stop it, a passionate one-night stand. But suddenly a stranger explodes into their world, threatening to expose their secret, and lures them into a terrifying game with more surprises than they saw coming and more danger than they may survive.

Starring: Clive Owen, Jennifer Aniston, Vincent Cassel, Melissa George, Addison Timlin

Directed by: Mikael Håfström

Runtime: 108 minutes

Studio: The Weinstein Company

 

 

Amazon USAmazon UKIMDB
Review: Derailed

A harsh lesson is learned by Charles Schine (Clive Owen) in this intricate thriller. Nursing the responsibilities of his marriage to Deanna (Melissa George) with the expensive treatment of their diabetic daughter, Amy (Addison Timlin, Charles is constantly overworked and stressed by uncertainty. One day he has an encounter on a train to work with Lucinda Harris (Jennifer Aniston) who helps him out when he has no money for a ticket. What begins as a brief encounter soon develops into intimacy as the couple stay out late for a few drinks and later head to a hotel for either a one night stand or the beginning of an affair. Both Charles and Lucinda are soon made to regret their indiscretion.

Before making themselves comfortable at the hotel, an armed thug named Philippe LaRoche (Vincent Cassell) bursts into the unlocked room. After beating Charles into unconsciousness he rapes Lucinda before making his escape. Agreeing not to report the crime to keep their would be affair secret, Charles assumes the matter is over until Philippe contacts him and demands $20,000 otherwise he will harm Charles’ family. Charles risks everything by paying the debt but a few weeks later, Philippe calls him again and wants $100,000 this time. Charles has the money but it has been set aside in savings for his daughter’s medical care. What is he to do? Pay the money and hope Philippe goes away? Or does he try and find another way to stop him? Can Lucinda help him in some way?

An intricate thriller with twists waiting in the wings, Derailed moves along at a satisfying pace. The main twist in the story is one that some will be able to predict but certainly not all. Personally, I had minor suspicions about what was going on but couldn’t quite figure it out. It is a twist worth waiting for, to be honest. Owen and Aniston are fine in the leads but the film really belongs to the effectively sinister Cassell who clearly revels in his role as the bad guy. The ending reels may be a little over the top as Charles goes from advertising executive to accomplished action man but he’s not the first and he won’t be the last, that’s for sure.

Derailed is a decent enough thriller with enough twists and turns to maintain the interest to the denouement. The two leads are outshone by the bad guy here but you will still find yourself in pretty good company as poor Clive Owen tries to unravel this one. There are many reasons to remain monogamous to your partner and Derailed is yet another example of the dangers of infidelity.

Verdict: 4/5

(Film source: reviewer’s own copy)

Film Review: Derailed | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Guest Post & Excerpt: Crystal Fire – R.L. Kiser

Today R.L. Kiser, author of Crystal Fire, stops by to share a guest post and an excerpt from his book. 

Guest Post

I want to thank Donna and Dave for listing this guest post and excerpt.

I discovered reading as a juvenile, how it could take me into magical worlds of my imagination. I’ve always been a fan of the unusual. Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, SciFi and Fantasy. At age 14 I started writing Space Opera SciFi. But then life got in the way. High School, military service, war (Vietnam), rock n’ roll during the late 60s (musician), surviving in civilian life, marriage, raising a child as a single parent, and all the complications therein.

In 2000 I found myself in a situation with nothing but time on my hands. I have to give credit to Robert Aspirin of Myth Conceptions fame for the inspiration to take up writing again. He published an anthology mentoring young authors in the dimension traveling-fantasy genre he made popular. So I wrote a western. (Do double take here).

Yeah, a western. Why a western, I have no idea. The idea just came to me. It flowed, I wrote. It turned out so well I wrote a sequel and I’m working on a third one.

But that’s not what this post and the following excerpt is about. I’ve always been a great fan of sword & sorcery magical fantasy. I had time to read Terry Goodkind’s  Sword of Truth series and was inspired by Ed Greenwood and Robert A. Salvatore’s Forgotten Realm series, with Elminster the wizard and the dark elf Drizzt Do’Urden.

I sat with pen in hand, sometimes it was a lead wrapped graphitic indicator (pencil) or a felt tipped pen. It’s an archaic method, hand printing, but it was all that was available at the time. That presupposes a lot of work to follow in getting all those scribbles into a word processor. But get done it did. When it came time to give “Fantasy One” a title I couldn’t think of one. I let it ferment for a while and the Title wrote itself. Crystal Fire.

The story flowed in bits and pieces. Sometimes I would write pages, other times no more than two or three paragraphs. The muse struck, the ideas just came to me. I don’t follow any preset pattern as some suggest. I make notes when I think of them. I don’t make an outline nor write the end and work backwards, I just write, There are times when further ideas will occur to me to add something three chapters back. With a word processor one can just type it in place. On pen and paper I had sheets of “inserts”. Over a three year period the story took shape and was finished.

It left a lot of questions and references as to what went on in the time before. It begged for a prequel, so I wrote Fantasy Two (The Last Battle). That book tells of the horrendous battle in the time before and sets up the third story The Twelve Tablets. It worked out quite well.

Getting it published is a whole ‘nuther story. Brick and mortar publishers weren’t interested, I didn’t have an agent, and couldn’t get one interested. The solution: self-publish. There’s a whole new world available out there that wasn’t there a few years ago.

Being new to the self-publishing business I investigated ways of getting it done. I made the mistake of going with a “professional self-publishing rights agency”. That was a very expensive $1000 lesson. They took forever, didn’t do what I needed done, and wanted to charge me every time I blinked. While dealing with them I learned how to do it myself. I dove right in and published the eBook with Amazon, and later learned of Smashwords. My learning curve was almost a vertical incline. There’s so much to doing all this. I learned how to publish a print book through CeateSpace (an Amazon affiliate). I currently have eight books available as eBooks (in all formats) and print editions.

I wear all the hats, a true definition of DIY (Do It Yourself). I’m the writer-editor-proofer-agent-marketing exec-advertising agent, and VP in charge of empty boxes. Fun times!

Excerpt from Chapter One of Crystal Fire

It wasn’t the kind of weather anyone would like nor dislike. It was one of those grey, drizzly, early winter days that you woke up to and dealt with. The grey haired old woodsman ignored his aches and pains and pulled a well-worn pair of greased leathers over his woolen hose. The fire helped to stave off the aches in his swollen joints but now he had to venture out into the dreary half-light of constant drizzle. The leather pants and heavy boots, both liberally coated and soaked with animal fat would help, but this constant state of wet was unusual even for this time of year.

He pulled on a heavy hooded canvas cloak, tightly woven to ward off the rain. As he stepped onto the covered porch of the tiny, seemingly ramshackle cottage, he threw old oil rags around the evenly cut firewood to ward off the drizzle, now becoming a heavier rain, threw the heavy bundle over his shoulder onto his back and trudged the mudded path to the soggy road to town.

His firewood always brought a premium price gladly paid by the merchants, bankers, and gentlefolk of money in town because it was evenly cut, burned smoothly and long, and always gave off a pleasant scent. There were a few of the poor townsfolk who occasionally had the pleasure of his long-lasting hearth fuel because even though he played the grumbly old man, beneath that gruff exterior beat a soft heart.

As he passed the miller road he saw as well as heard the miller’s young apprentice cussing a blue streak, pulling on the horse’s bridle, trying to get the already straining beast to break the wagonload of milled wheat from the muck and mire that sucked at its right rear wheel. The horse’s eyes were wide with pleading as the old woodsman passed by, the heavy burden on his back bending him over.

“I’ll trade you a ride into town for help in freeing your load from the mud,” he shouted to the young miller’s apprentice over the noise of the heavy downpour. The young man quit his straining, dumped water from his hat and wiped the mixture of sweat and drizzle from his face with an already soaked handkerchief. He nodded his approval.

The old woodsman threw his burden of firewood up into the foot well of the wagon. To any other than the casual observer he threw such a heavy burden a little too easily for such an ‘old’ man. He winked at the horse, who nudged him gently with his large head and winked back. The horse instinctively knew who, or what, he was but wasn’t about to tell anyone. The old woodsman nodded at the apprentice, who once again grabbed the bridle. He mumbled something seemingly to himself, his fingers rapidly making runes, toned muscles bunched under the old man clothes, and the wheat filled wagon rolled forward easily. The rest of their journey into town over the pitted, muddy road was surprisingly smooth.

As the old woodsman descended the marble stairs of the house of his last customer the thought of a pint or two of the stout, bitter local ale sounded more and more appealing. His feet automatically found their way down the street and across the alleyways towards his favorite local pub, his mind on other things. Less than a block away through the grey drizzle his attention was suddenly focused on the swift movement of a bluish hue almost sparkling against the mist. He chose this small town on the outskirts of nowhere for its lack of magic and magicians, witches, wizards, necromancers, warlocks, mages, and altogether boring existence. But that sparkling blue he’d glimpsed a moment before, all but invisible to the common man, was definitely the sign of special powers. He found himself thinking back as he sloshed through the street water and found his way to the foyer of the small but well-kept tavern.

It was several years earlier up north defending Crystal City when he last used the full power of his magic. His lifelong chum and brigade companion gave his life force to him that day in defense of the Crystal. That life force flowed through him into the Crystal. The anguish and helplessness to do no more than that, and later the complete loss of his best friend was too much for him. With the battle won he traveled south until he was dog tired and found a simple place without magic. The only magic he allowed himself was for survival. Once you take the path of a mage or magician warrior, there is no going back. The magic of his firewood, which is not detectable to even the most adept because of the way it was infused, and occasionally as today with the rutted wagon.  Nothing else.

The tavern was not large but it was clean and comfortable. There was an entryway at street level big enough for two or three large men to shed the weather from their cloaks. To the left and right of the entryway were large wooden pegs for hanging hats and cloaks. Two steps took you down to the weathered wooden floor. To the right was the bar, a long solid wooden affair closed in the front. Nothing fancy, just solidly built by a craftsman who knew his art. Behind the bar were two large barrels of ale, one light, one dark, and smaller barrels of wine. To the left of that was a cutting board for meats and cheese.

A stone wall cut back into the room at an angle supported a wide door to the store room in the back. Along the back wall were two dartboards and on a shelf an old trophy or two. Not many had time for darts these days.

On the other wall opposite the bar, also cutting the corner, was a large hearth and fireplace where one of the old woodman’s special logs burned happily filling the place with warmth and a pleasant smell. Placed randomly facing the fireplace were six sturdy tables each with four chairs.

He looked around the sparsely populated tavern, trying to spot the glow of magical power but couldn’t. But he did spot something unusual. Sitting in the back in the shadows was someone out of place, someone in rich traveling robes of tightly woven bluish-grey wool, a slight hooded figure, with an aristocratic aura of breeding and education. He laid his last fire log down on the counter and was greeted warmly by the innkeeper with a mug of warm, stout ale and a shot of fine whiskey to ward off the damp. Such whiskey was secreted away and only served to his best customers.

The old woodsman stood tall for a moment revealing himself to be a big man, much larger than his old woodsman persona would have you believe. He waved the whiskey under his nose savoring the aroma and tossed it into his mouth holding it there for a moment tasting the fire, and swallowed in a single gulp. He truly enjoyed the taste and shock of that first fleeting moment of whiskey.

The barkeep picked up the fire log and placed it next to one like it near the end of the bar. “I am truly indebted to you, sir,” he said, “I haven’t even used the last one, this rain, business has been really off. Not even any travelers for the southern trades.”

“Yes,” the old man nodded. “The rains have been unusual.” He picked up his mug of ale and turned to face the back of the room where the stranger sat. There was a sudden lightening of the gloom under the hood and he could see a pair of eyes, pretty eyes, a woman’s eyes. At the same moment a soft woman’s voice said to him, “I must speak with you. It is urgent.” Yet her lips didn’t move and no one else heard her speak.

As lightning flashed outside momentarily lighting her dark corner, he was aware that she was not alone. There were wisps of shadows, the glimpse of movement one occasionally catches out of the corner of the eye. There were ethereal beings who travel between worlds, at least two of them, with her as protectors. In a crisis they would be real enough and their enemies just as dead. He saw their kind fight before and had a healthy respect for them. But he also had a sudden desire to know who intruded upon his private sphere.

He strode over to her table, set down the half drained mug, leaned his large fists onto the solid oak, leaned toward her, and in a soft but demanding voice said, “Who are you?”

“One who brings an urgent plea for help,” she replied softly. Her lips moved now, it was the same voice.

“Do I know you?” he queried.

“You know my mistress,” she replied and filled his receptive mind with a vision of a woman so beautiful as to turn most men’s eyes to water and minds to mush. A woman who at one time filled his heart and mind almost to the exclusion of all else. A soft, oval face framed by thick, lush, blonde hair the color of summer wheat, luscious lips colored by the kiss of a rose, a thin, dainty nose separating two large, soft, round eyes the color of a pale blue summer sky, eyes that sparkled with humor, intelligence, wit, and once held nothing but love for him.

Upon seeing this vision there was a sharp intake of breath and he felt his heart seize up a moment with an ache that would fill the void of space, he felt such love for the woman in his vision.

“Noooo,” he moaned and slumped into a chair. “Why do you torture me so? I cannot help you.” Looking down he sat for a moment but quickly started to lift his bulk from the chair.

Her soft and dainty hand was on his as she said, “Please…” a pleading in her eyes. “The Crystal is in danger, she is in danger, your friend…” Her voice trailed off as she saw his visions of his best friend’s life force ebbing into the Crystal. She continued, “You are one of the only ones left who knows the secrets of the Crystal. Who knows the way of the defenses…”

“No!” he shouted, startling what few patrons there were. “Never again. It’s too dangerous for even the gods.” His memories of having summoned powers from deep beneath the Crystal, horribly destructive powers, were locked away. Now they were set free and his face was pale, the life in his eyes dim, staring at nothing a thousand years away reliving those days of the last battle.

The northern hoards descending upon them, severely outnumbered, he and his few Crystal Warriors dredged up from the earth a terrible fire which rained down on the invaders. Intense heat and flames, clinging to man and beast alike, wave after wave of fire erupting from the earth, falling from the heavens, the smell of cooking flesh permeating their very existence.

He came back to the present with her gently rocking him, his head against her breast as if he were a small child, her soft voice cooing to him. None of the other patrons paid any attention to them, which is what she wanted.

“My mistress warned me of this… and I am here to help.” What this man went through to defend his kind and sacred Crystal shouldn’t have been asked of a god, least of all a mortal man. Even one as adept in the ways of crystal magic as him. Yet he survived, though how he kept his sanity was still a mystery.

Upon her signal the barkeep passed another whiskey under his nose, which he gulped down thirstily. “What would you have of me?” he croaked, resigning himself to whatever might come next.

“She needs you,” came her soothing reply “We all need you. We must travel north, but not by magic. There is wizardry about, black sorcery. I have a coach and fire stallions nearby.” Fire stallions were a sort of wizardry unto themselves and were known to cover leagues in a day, but they were rare and no one was ever known to tame them nor keep them for long.

He sat there staring into her soft blue eyes for several minutes saying nothing, the pain and horrors of the past clearly visible in his eyes. He downed the rest of his ale and slowly shook his head from side to side.

He said, “I’m not who you think I am. I… I… no. You must go, now. Leave this place. Leave me,” and he stood to go.

Again she placed a soft, gentle hand on his and said, “You are Rowan, captain of the Crystal Guard. Rowan, who holds the heart of M’Lady Ariel. There is no other.” Her soft eyes looked up at him beseechingly.

Still his head shook slowly from side to side denying the truth in her words. He was trembling. So softly he could barely hear it himself he repeated, “No… no… no.” With tears in his eyes floating the fear and horror he said, “I can’t.”

With tears welling in her own eyes she said, “You must. There is no other.”

Leaning both his big hands on the table, still trembling, he said, “But what of…” but she was shaking her head from side to side.

She said, “Warriors are being recalled, but they are scattered throughout the land, and they are so few. Novices are in training, but they need a captain. The Crystal is in grave danger. It needs you.” Her eyes took on an even greater pleading as tears spilled from them and ran down her pretty cheeks. “We need you.”

He stood there still, hands on the table, but the trembling stopped. He looked up and away for a moment and drug his hands slowly across the table as he stood up straight. Suddenly there was no longer the grumbly, bent old woodsman. In his place stood a tall, noble Crystal Warrior, his eyes alight with new purpose.

He looked down at her and in a deep, strong voice, one he had not used in many years, said, “Very well,” and lifted her hand as a signal for her to arise.

She laid a silver coin on the table, a coin rarely seen in these parts, and followed him to the foyer where he donned his hat and cloak. Eyes followed him in wonderment as if they had never seen him before.

Together they left the warmth and dryness of the tavern out into the incessant alternating drizzle and rain. “There are a few things I need,” he said. Suddenly there was a coal black coach beside them driven by one of the shadowy wisps, the rain sparking off the backs and hooves of the four huge and beautiful fire stallions. In moments they were at his ramshackle abode. The old man disappeared inside to a spaciousness that belied the outside dimensions. What appeared a few moments later was not an old woodsman, but a tall, muscular, straight backed, handsome warrior wearing the magically armored doublet of the once revered Crystal Guard. Swords and throwing knives hung from his side and were secreted about his person. He tucked his now dark hair up underneath the golden warrior’s helmet and stepped lively to the coach. As he seated his bulk across from the pretty messenger one solitary word was all he said. “North!”

Crystal Fire (2012)Crystal Fire has more than just witches, wizards, magic and sorcerers. It’s about overcoming adversity from horrifying past events, taking matters in hand, and kicking butt! There are very powerful and beautiful young ladies too, something for everyone.

 

 

 

Amazon USAmazon UKGoodreads
About R.L. KiserR.L. Kiser has written several books available as eBooks and print editions, including the Tales of the Crystal Trilogy, The Prophecy of Tara, the Educated Injun series, and Exile-A SciFi Adventure. Born in Idaho, raised in Arizona, grew up in Los Angeles he’s a Vietnam Veteran, been a musician, a Hollywood taxi driver, a computer programmer, a single parent, and ran his own Internet marketing business. He holds an associate’s degree in computer science He currently resides in Reno, Nevada with three computers, a 20 year old SUV (no, that does not stand for Small Ugly Vehicle), two bicycles, two parakeets, and 9 other veterans. His novel Exile-A SciFi Adventure received a five star review and made the first cut in the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards. Tales of the Crystal: . .• Crystal Fire . .• The Last Battle . .• The Twelve Tablets Educated Injun Series: . .• Educated Injun . .• Chicago Chase . .• How Do You Steal A Tree [soon] • The Prophecy of Tara-A Mystical Fantasy • Exile-A SciFi Adventure • Bizarre Stories (Adult – by Greybeard)
Website

Guest Post & Excerpt: Crystal Fire – R.L. Kiser | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Film Review: Dancer in the Dark

About Dancer in the Dark (2000)Selma (Bjork) is a Czech immigrant who works as a machine operator in an American tool factory. Almost blind herself, she struggles to make enough money to pay for the operation which will save her son’s eyesight, and has nearly collected the complete sum when the money is stolen from her by the cop (David Morse) who lives next door. Discovering this, Selma goes to appeal to the cop’s mercy, but he refuses to listen and pulls a gun on her, an act which will have fatal consequences for the both of them. With songs by Bjork herself and spectacular dance sequences filmed with a mass of digital cameras, Lars von Trier’s film is both an ultra-modern take on the film musical and a tear-jerker in the classic tradition.

Starring: Jean-marc Barr, Bjork, Cara Seymour, Udo Kier, David Morse

Directed by: Lars von Trier

Runtime: 141 minutes

Studio: New Line Home Video

 

 

Amazon USAmazon UKIMDB
Review: Dancer in the Dark

Initially signed up to just do the soundtrack to the film, Bjork was convinced to also take on the lead role. Selma (Bjork) is a Czech immigrant who has sought a new life in America in the 1960s. She works as a machinist in a tool factory and has one objective: to raise enough funds for her young son to have an operation. Selma is suffering with a degenerative disease that is causing her to go blind. She knows that later in life her son will suffer the same fate so every penny she makes is to buy the operation that will save his eyes. Living in poverty and never buying her son any gifts, Selma rents a trailer from a police officer, Bill (David Morse), and his wife Linda (Cara Seymour). At the factory she continually fends off the attentions of the lovestruck Jeff (Peter Stormare) and attends both a theatre group and heads to the cinema with best friend, Kathy (Catherine Deneuve), where their mutual passion is for musicals.

Selma has slowly raised her money but still cannot afford her son’s operation. Her eyesight is failing, making her a liability at work and relying on Kathy to get her through the shifts. Her passion for theatre where she is the star of an upcoming amateur musical also comes under threat with her eyes near useless if she doesn’t wear her glasses. With time ticking away Selma decides that she will have to hand over everything she has to the hospital and hope they will accept it for her son’s operation. Things take a sinister turn though when Bill, having confided in Selma that he is heavily in debt due to his wife’s relentless spending, steals Selma’s money to pay off his own debts. When Selma goes round to confront him the repercussions are life-changing for all the characters involved.

Told mostly as a moving drama, Dancer in the Dark plays on Selma’s love of musicals and how her vision of America has long been shaped by the movies. Throughout the film we are treated to instances where seemingly unimportant and unspectacular scenes ignite Selma’s passion for music and she bursts into song. Of course the men and women around her join in the dancing and even the singing, augmenting the many daydreams that Selma has, her only means of escaping from the harsh reality that is her life. Oscar-nominated Bjork is very good in the lead and is ably supported by Deneuve, Morse and Stormare. The musical elements to the film certainly make this one unusual but it is moving as well with some people maybe needing tissues for the conclusion.

Dancer in the Dark doesn’t have the same impact as von Trier’s Dogville but it is an excellent drama and musical. Selma’s devotion to her son and the many sacrifices she makes will tug at heartstrings, while the musical interludes offer welcome relief from the main narrative. It is holding a mirror to the harsh depiction many immigrants have to face and the conclusion suitably avoids melodrama.

Verdict: 4/5

Film Review: Dancer in the Dark | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave

Game Review: Curse of Enchantia

Review: Curse of Enchantia (Amiga)

LucasArts set the pace for point and click adventures in the early nineties with the first two Monkey Island games and Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis but there were attempts to usurp their throne. In 1992 Core Design looked to derail LucasArts with Curse of Enchantia, applying their own slant to the adventure game. The story sees a teenager, Brad, at a baseball game when he is transported to the world of Enchantia by an evil witch. Brad must find his way home but also take on the role of the reluctant hero and destroy the witch as well.

Visually the game has retained a lot of its charm with a cartoon feel to the adventure and Brad encountering a myriad of weird and wonderful creatures and characters on his journey. He begins as a prisoner of the witch but soon orchestrates an escape and wanders Enchantia in such places as the ocean floor with a goldfish bowl on his head, an ice palace, an underground network of caverns and a graveyard with some bloodthirsty vampires in attendance. As with the usual point and click adventures, Brad has an inventory of items to search through and use to solve some often tricky puzzles. Rather than a list of commands at the bottom of the screen, you have to search through a line of icons to access different commands and use items in a variety of ways. It’s a less friendlier interface than I’ve come across before.

Indeed the interface is a major headache with Curse of Enchantia. While the user had to scroll through a group of items in Monkey Island, all the commands were in one place which made things a lot easier. Curse of Enchantia also lacks dialogue with Brad reduced to just a handful of outbursts. There are plenty of sound effects but not really any voice acting and even written exchanges are sadly lacking so the story seems to lose any real depth. This is a shame. The game does look good but it is amusing rather than hilarious and somehow it’s hard to feel completely immersed in the world of Enchantia.

Curse of Enchantia is a brave attempt at competing for the point and click adventure crown but it falls short due to a series of issues. Great graphics are undermined by the lack of dialogue and the fiddly interface. Brad’s adventure is an action-packed one but it doesn’t compare to the likes of Monkey Island and Beneath a Steel Sky. 

Verdict: 3/5

 

Game Review: Curse of Enchantia | Thank you for reading Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave