Back to the Colonial Hotel

A kind of shitty photo of the scene of the crime.

I had an interesting experience a couple of nights ago. Put simply, I had a run-in with the location that provides the background to a truly staggering amount of my teenage memories...many of which feature me literally staggering around. I went back to the Colonial Hotel for the first time in about five years and, upon seeing it clean and not filled with drunken young'uns (and not being a drunken young'un myself), had my mind blown when I realised where the hell I was. That was where my friends and I spent many, many a weekend circa 2007...being super alternative, going to an alternative club, and having all sorts of awkward teenage adventures in the World of Going Out to Clubs, which obviously none of us were well-versed in.

Context. I occasionally take photos and do some copywriting for the Venuemob. A quick plug, they're a really lovely bunch of dudes, and I'm having an absolute blast spending time in the office writing for them and occasionally trundling around town taking photos of venues. It's a welcome change from sitting around the house in my pyjamas doing "work", and it's nice to be earning money doing things that aren't waitressing and making coffees. So if you have a function coming up, give the website a look-see.

ANYWAY.

Tuesday night I made my way to the Colonial Hotel to take some photos of their various spaces for the Venuemob website. I got there, and the ground floor was nicely set up with tables and chairs and tablecloths and flowers. It all looked very classy. At that stage I had a vague recollection of having been there before, but I was in a rush and was running late. So I met the girl working that night we went upstairs and BAM. BAM. My mind exploded everywhere.

I remembered the stairs. I remembered the room to the right, that'd more often than not be playing 90s hits. I remembered the little in-between room, where people'd be making out. And I remembered the main room, with its bar on one end and D-Floor at the other, where I'd spent many, many weekends from the age of about eighteen till I dunno, a couple years after that.

My mouth agape, a few exclamations of "Holy shit! Ho-ly-SHIT!" escaped my face. "I remember this place!" I cried. "I came here all the time!" There was a guy with us too.

"What was the name of the night that was on here, on weekends? Ages ago?" I asked him.
"I dunno, there's been heaps. Um. Click Click?"
My arms flailed around. "YES! That was it! Click Click!"
He laughed. "Oh my god. That was ages ago. Years ago."
Well shit. I thought. I guess it was. 
"Yeah, it was."

It was strange to suddenly see the venue clean, and empty...and clean. Click Click and that other god-awful night that was on ... Pow, or Splooge, or Bang, or Crash or whatever the fuck it was called, my friends and I were there all the time. For those of you who never had the questionable good fortune to attend, it was a bunch of rooms playing "alternative" music while emo-fringed kids danced around and made out, and while my friends and I took our first foray into the world of going out and getting kind of fucked up.

A pimply-faced youth. One of the few photos
of that era I could find on Facebook.

It was a time when kids still hung out in front of Flinders Street Station. It was a time when everyone had an emo fringe. It was a time when people still used Myspace. It was a time when my friends and I hadn't exactly figured out our style and schtick and what exactly it was that we were about. So obviously, I occasionally wore high heels and I had long hair.

My friend Nate rode over, to hang out/keep me company/kill time before we met Jaz and Mike at the Liberty Social to see a Yeasayer DJ set. As I snapped away, I excitedly told Nate about the adventures my high school friends and I had within the very red walls, and on the now-empty and now-clean dance floor.

"Dude, this was the place we spent our weekends!" I repeated again in astonishment.
"Oh, cool."
"Seriously! This is where we ended up on my nineteenth birthday!"
"Awesome."

He was obviously attempting to be interested in my exclamations while he fiddled absentmindedly on his phone. As one of the newer additions to our circle of friends, Nate didn't have the kind of context for five-year-old adventures that Jaz and Alice might. He didn't know me when I was an obnoxious kid. He met me when I was an obnoxious 23-year-old, after all (lol). Still, in the now-empty rooms I had to share the myriad (admittedly blurry) memories rush back to me.

Oh man, the memories! We'd jump around on the D-Floor, singing along to Karnivool's "Themata" for the umpteenth time. That song was played multiple times a night, and we all complained about it ("WHY DON'T THEY PLAY ALBUM TRACKS!"), right before we sang along at the top of our lungs. Back then, I hung out with band-tshirt clad guys, and I almost exclusively dressed in things bought from Dangerfield. We were all skinnier, and we all had longer hair. It was in those rooms that we almost dutifully drank too much, then cabbed our way back to one of our houses then fall asleep on the floor.

We were not particularly well-versed in drinking (we started late), but we'd get it done. The guys weren't particularly good at picking up, and neither was I, but at the tender age of eighteen it felt like that was expected of us. That to go out to a club, we also had to drink too much and attempt to pick up members of the opposite sex. Not that we didn't have an awesome time, but it was the kind of awesome time that you have when you don't quite know what you're doing, and when you don't quite know your limits.

Nate had met me in the "rooftop terrace", which I knew as the "room on the side that played older less metal stuff". I remembered being there on my nineteenth birthday, dancing to "This Charming Man" with a friend from uni. I remembered drunkenly wondering out loud whether or not I should break up with my first boyfriend dancing to some shitty R&B. As we descended the the stairs, and I remembered stumbling down them, and once carrying my blonde friend down them so I could take her home on one of the few occasions she'd joined us at the sprawling club.

Nate sat on the couches downstairs, taking photos of himself with my little iPhone fish-eye lens. I looked around us, at the pillars around the tables around us, so nicely set up. Wasn't this once a club as well?

"Oh MY GOD." I exclaimed.
Nate looked up. "What?"
"This is where Mitch and I met! Except it was a club then, not a restaurant! Oh my GOD."
Nate laughed. "Was he working? Did you say, 'Forget the beer, I'll have your FACE.'?"
"No...shit. I can't believe this looks so different...!"
I laughed, and made a mental note to tell Mitch. It was beyond bizarre.

Anyway, I finally finished taking those gazillion 360 degree virtual tours, and Nate and I left. We headed to the Liberty Social, to meet Jaz and Mike. I was driving. I approached the door and was surprised when the bouncer demanded to see my ID, which I didn't have.

"Seriously man. I'm twenty-four."
I looked over at Nate. He was laughing.
Seriously man. I wanted to tell the bouncer. I just spent the last hour reminiscing about my teenage clumsy drinking and disco pashes. This guy is younger than my younger brother. I AM OLD ENOUGH TO GO INTO THIS BAR.
Instead I said. "Dude. Come on."

It sounds stupid to feel old at this age
but I tell you what it was a weird night...

They let me in. I was driving, so I wasn't drinking. Jaz and Mike were already a bottle of wine and many beers into the night.

Admittedly, my first thought was I am way too sober to be in a room this filled with lasers and smoke machines. And admittedly, I spent the first twenty minutes or so awkwardly dancing, and being very aware of the fact that I was super sober and dancing. I was suddenly reminded of being a kid at Click Click, and being incredibly insecure about the fact that it was expected of me to "dance sexy". And obviously I couldn't do it. Because I was a complete geek, and so were my friends.

Before long though, Nate and I were making complete spectacles of ourselves on the ol' D-Floor, arms punching and legs kicking and jumping around. We pretended to be animals, we pulled faces, we made up truly absurd moves and danced around in a completely over the top way, not giving one iota of a fuck. Covered in sweat and completely sober, we danced up a storm to a DJ set that took a bizarre turn for the 90s-inspired. I laughed to myself, amazed. The nineteen-year old Reb could never have made that much of a D-Floor spectacle of herself while completely sober...unless I was moshing, of course. I would've been too self-conscious. But here I was, making ridiculous faces and making a fool of myself with Nate, who obviously gave even less of a fuck than I did.

Probably how I thought I looked back then.

If nothing else, it's heartening. I can dance my little heart out, and not care what anyone thinks. In fact, I wrote a post entitled "Times I've Enjoyed Dancing", expecting I'd write a few more. I quickly realised though, that every time I go out I now enjoy dancing. Is it something that comes with the years? Is it because I now hang out with people like Alice and Ferg and Nate, with whom I can't help but dance around and not give a fuck? Or am I just becoming more and more comfortable with myself? It's probably a little from columns A, B and C.

Besides that, the fact that I'm able to go out and not immediately sink a bunch of beers is heartening. That I (mostly) know my limits is something I've been glad to note also. Mostly though, the fact that I'm comfortable with myself now and (mostly) don't feel like that naive and insecure kid is something worth high-fiving myself about. PROGRESS.

HOUSTON, WE HAVE PROGRESS.

The overriding feeling I was left with from Wednesday night though, was that it's fucking strange to suddenly think about so many hilarious drunken escapades that I hadn't thought about in many, many years. Jumping around to Rage Against the Machine with your best friends, having after-dark clubby adventures, being eighteen and stupid and fucking up ... it was the best of times, it was the blurst of times. Sunrise, sunset, all that shit.

Justin Townes Earle @ The Corner

Last time Justin Townes Earle was here, I wasn't able to see him. Firstly, I had no one to go with (or so I thought). Secondly, I was in the midst of editing a rather epic and stressful project while also working full time and packing up all of my belongings in order to move out. I then heard from a pal who actually did go that it was Pretty Much the Best Thing Ever. Obviously I was beyond disappointed in my having chosen sleep over seeing endlessly talented, tall, dapper-as-fuck, singer-songwriter son of Steve Earle. Who needs sleep when you can have a night of the twangin' musical stylin' of JTE? Chumps. That's who.

Then, lo and behold, I heard he was coming back and I proceeded to lose my shit in excitement. Turns out he actually comes to Australia fairly often; he's been here about six times since 2008. Well, I praised the musical gods of touring at that nugget of information. To cut a long story short, I finally saw Justin Townes Earle on Sunday night at the Corner Hotel.

After so long spent watching countless  live performances of Justin Townes Earle on Youtube, I can now happily say that I've finally seen him in the flesh. In fact, I wouldn't just say it happily - I'd probably shout it, with wild gesticulations and a slightly crazed look in my eye. I can honestly say that I haven't been that enraptured and mesmerised by a live performance, or that moved by a gig in a really, really long time.

The entire night.

Wanting to minimise the amount of time fiddling around absentmindedly on my phone while standing by myself, I ended up arriving about two-thirds of the way through the second of the two support acts. I instantly regretted my decision to be a pussy, as Robert Ellis was onstage and immediately grabbed my attention and interrupted my "find a beer and and try not to look like a loser" train of thought.

When I arrived, the Texas native was about to launch into "No Fun", the cause of my aforementioned distraction from beer acquisition. That song, and "Sing Along" were particular highlights from what I managed to catch of his performance. Post-gig, I made sure to buy a 7-inch single of "Friends Like These" and congratulate him on a super set. Standing by the merch table and shooting the shit with punters, he was just charismatic and friendly and as good a story-teller as he had been onstage, if not more. So you know, keep an eye out for him if you're into a good dose of twang.

In any case, I marched my way to the front and waited for JTE to take the stage. Which he did, after what felt like aeons and after I managed to hit myself in the face with my beer. How that happened I'm not entirely sure, but it did and it was awkward and I was by myself. That's entirely beside the point though, because shortly after I proved yet again that I can't leave the house without making an ass out of myself in some way, Justin Townes Earle took to the stage. And when he did, a huge grin must have appeared on my face and I'm pretty sure it didn't leave for the duration of his set.

The first thing I'll say about Justin Townes Earle is that his onstage presence is something to behold. He's charismatic, self-effacing, and has a sense of humour that's a little wry, that betrays some intense geekery and that is very, very engaging. As in, I spent a lot of time giggling. Even while mentioning rehab and stints in jail, he had the crowd laughing. He spoke about his mother, about living in a terrible part of Brooklyn, and revealed the stories behind a number of the more touching or #dark songs in his arsenal of tunes, all in that amazing Southern drawl of his. I'm sure they're anecdotes he shares regularly to crowds around the world, but the show had the intimate atmosphere of someone sharing something personal - needless to say, he had the Corner audience eating out of his hand before long.

Of course, I did manage to be standing next to the all-sway, all-singing, all "YEE-HAW!"-ing epitome of That Guy (or woman in this case) who doesn't understand proper gig etiquette. That was a little tedious. But for all of her off-key wailing and her shitty, no-sense-of-space or of time and place dancing, I couldn't really fault her too much. I mean, her exterior personified what I felt like on the inside, and isn't that a good thing? Besides, the guy standing on her other side informed her that he was at the gig to see Justin Townes Earle perform thank you very much so she did eventually shut up. Which must have been embarrassing for her. I empathised - I'd just hit myself in the face with a beer after all. BUT I DIGRESS.

It's worth mentioning that the evening show on Sunday was actually the second one he'd done that day; the first was a matinee show. I suppose when you do two shows in a day you've gotta do something to keep things interesting, and to my delight that led to a few different versions of songs. A blues adaptation here, a re-imagining of "Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out" there (a particular highlight in my opinion), and a few moments of suddenly changing his mind or pulling out a song he hadn't played a long while. The set-list appeared to be in large part completely improvised, with moments of, "Ah, shit. I reckon I'll try it this way instead..." muttered while adjusting a capo, or re-tuning his battered black guitar.

I'll admit - if it wasn't already obvious - to being quite the fan of ol' JTE's catalogue. I suppose his particular brand of country and bluegrass twang peppered with tales of fuckin'-up, being down and out, heartache and redemption appeals on a very personal level. And I guess the fact that all those songs of his about being down and out, about heartache and redemption come from personal experience and IRL days of being down and out makes for some really affecting stuff.

That being said, I'm certain that even if I didn't have a personal attachment to his tunes and even if I didn't think him just about one of the most easy-on-the-eye/stylish people I've ever laid eyes on (I'm not even kidding), I'd have been pretty mesmerised by his performance. Completely disregarding any of his banter or his laughing at the shit yelled from amidst the crowd, his performances of the actual goddamn songs were kinda nothing if not heart-wrenching. Face contorting and body moving as his long limbs pace up and down the stage - it's like each note is a part of him wrenching itself free. If that sounds painful, it's not meant to be; it's just an indicator I think, of a singer who pours everything into every performance. It must be exhausting.

While I enjoyed the entire set (obviously), particular highlights in my opinion were "Look the Other Way", "One More Night in Brooklyn", "Black-Eyed Suzy", "Harlem River Blues" (SINGALONG, SINGALONG!), and of course, the previously mentioned "No One Knows You When You're Down and Out" (here's a link to another performance of it). For those of you playing at home, "Nothing's Going to Change the Way You Feel About Me Now" may have just been my mind-blowing moment of the set. Prefaced with a quip along the lines of "if you ask an artist you're dating to write a song about you, you might not like the result", it was the song I had been looking forward to seeing and it was all I could do to keep my hands from clapping involuntarily in glee.

Anyway, the set rollicked along in the charming, engaging, occasionally heartwrenching, occasionally hilarious fashion I have described in all sorts of gushing ways in this post. And at the end of the gig, I suddenly realised my attention hadn't wandered for the entire time JTE had been on stage. Which may seem like a strange thing to notice, but it's certainly noteworthy in my case. Even if I'm enjoying a gig immensely, I'll inevitably end up thinking about other things at points during the set, whether it be my To Do list for the next day, or something a song reminds me of, or whether I'll make the last train. Furthermore, I often find that by the end of a gig, I'll be ready to head home. Not that I hadn't enjoyed said gig, I'll just have had a sufficient session of rocking out and I'll be ready to head home and hit the hay. It takes something special for me to yell "MORE! MOAR!", and this was the first time in a long time that as the lights came back up I wanted much, much more.

In fact, I'm pretty sure the only time my mind wandered, it was for me to suddenly wish I'd come with someone, if only to be able to share the musical experience with someone. I wanted to teleport the friend I'd originally planned on going with to the Corner, because I knew the gig would've blown his mind.

Instead, I wandered on back home, all elated and in high spirits, and proceeded to describe how amazing Justin Townes Earle was to Mike and Jaz when I got home, with wild gesticulations and yelling and brandishing my cup of tea around.

Best gig in a while, in case that wasn't clear.

FEAST YER EYES ON THESE.

I've never been good at numbers.

I'm not even kidding. I went to put more money on my damn Myki then found myself staring blankly at the numbers. You know when something's so second nature that after a while, you don't even think about it? Like walking? I find sometimes I'll think too much about walking, and I'll end up walking funny because I'm thinking about each step. Same thing here. I had to remember what actual numbers make up my PIN and suddenly -ZILCH. Nothing. Nada. 

To make matters worse, I've somehow also managed to lose my drivers' license ... either at home, or on some sort of rampage over the weekend. 

I'm obviously really good at cards, and being a responsible adult (and penning haikus, duh). 

Adventures with Morse.

(REPRESENTATION)

Given the hood that Castle Mega is situated in, the general demographic of our neighbours can pretty accurately be described as "similarly situated young folk" or "old folk" or "wholesome families" containing at least one "very botoxed female". To the delight of my mother, it's a rather uneventful place to call home. That is of course, apart from our next door neighbour. The very same next door neighbour we've decided - after about six odd months of inhabiting the Castle - is completely and disconcertingly Weird, and MOST PROBABLY a murderer.

At a party we threw a while back (which we were very sure he was going to take issue with and maybe go on some sort of killing spree as a result of), I couldn't help but regale some friends with a handful of the creepy-ass things he's done in the past. After I'd brought my pals up to date with his antics they stood there, mouths agape. As one, they slowly turned around to stare, slightly terrified, at the wall dividing our flat from his.

Mike met him long before I did. His introduction to our neighbour was ol' Morse leaping out of the shadows to cast his creepy-ass light upon us occurred on an evening like no other. Mike was chaining his bike to the bench outside our door, when Morse burst out of his flat, truly enraged.

"WHAT'RE YA DOIN'??"
Mike, understandably flabbergasted, could only tell the truth. "I'm locking up my bike."
Morse stared him down for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as he'd barged into view. Weird, we thought. Not troubling.

A short time after that first run-in, Mike was about to leave to meet me at the ol' cinematorium when he suddenly heard banging sounds coming from right outside his window. His window's pretty secluded, so someone would have to make a specific trip there in order to bang metal on metal (which is what it sounded like). Miguel then went over to his other window, following the sound of footsteps, to see Morse storming back to his house, glaring at Mike through the window. He wasn't holding anything. Disconcerting.

The resulting conversation between Mike and I became the catalyst for the nickname that's well and truly stuck, long after we learned his actual name. In Disturbia, David Morse plays the weird-ass neighbour who wants to kill Shia Le Boef.

"Dude. He's fucking weird."
"I think he's going to kill us."
"He definitely doesn't want to be our pals."
"We're Shia LeBoef. He's David Morse."
"Fuuuuuuuuuck."

Note: I haven't actually seen Disturbia because the only thing I can tolerate LeDudd in is
this SNL sketch.

In any case, that's his name now.

A few days later, I get home from work (RIP Full Time Employment) and walk past his flat to ours, like any other day. This time though, his door is open and he's standing there, behind the screen door. Looming. Not doing anything, just looming there. Seeing him glaring and looming out of the corner, I jump in surprise and let out an involuntary yelp.

We stare at each other for a moment.

"Um. Hi?" I offer.

He continues to stare at me for a moment. Uncomfortable pause. I make a noise and rush the fuck inside.

Later that evening I decide to go for a run. I leave the house and walk up the stairs at the front of our block to the street. I look behind me, and see Morse leaning around his door, staring at the entrance to our house. I watch him for a few seconds. He's perfectly still, gaze fixated on our door. I run the fuck away.

After my run I walk back to our door, and he's loitering outside his door. I decide to take action. Maybe if he knows our names he'll decide we're worth sparing, I think to myself.

"Hi. I'm Rebecca." I held out my hand and gave him my most charming smile. "Nice to meet you!"

He shakes my hand. I'd expected him to answer with a "Hi, my name is _____" but instead he just glared at me while holding my outstretched hand. A very uncomfortable pause ensues, seemingly lasting eons.

"Uh...I live with my housemate, Michael. I think maybe you've seen him around?"

He stares at me for a moment longer.

"Yes." He says. "I have."

I rush the fuck inside and wash my hand.

Just about every run-in has been like that over the past few months. Looming, uncomfortable pauses and strange looks. It's a little disconcerting, especially when the occasional yelled expletives drift through the wall. After introducing myself to our other neighbours (all lovely), I soon found out that he must've taken some sort of a shine to me. Simply put, he yells at just about everyone in our quiet hood, and he hasn't yelled at me yet. Unless of course, the expletives heard through the wall were directed at me. Usually, they're roars of "FffffuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK." so you know, they could be anything.

No, instead he'd just glared at me.

Anyway, like I said every story since those first few have been just about as creepy or disconcerting as the last. Like when he demanded to know how many of us live at our place. Or when he loomed in FRONT of his door for a while. Or when the car crashed in front of our house and he spent the next four hours yelling about "THE ALMIGHTY CRAAAAAASH" that he'd witnessed to everybody at the scene (believe me, that is a long-winded story worth telling in its own right) and anybody who'd listen.

Amusingly, after my initial shock had worn off, I suddenly realised that watching Morse ranting and raving about seeing the horrible car crash ("WITH ME OWN EYES!!!") had been the longest I'd ever seen Morse talk, or interact with people. Or be out of his house, for that matter. By then Mike had arrived back from his weekend away and I was sitting outside, my attention divided between watching Morse yell wildly, and being intrigued by the flaming car across from our house. Suddenly, I sprinted back inside.

"DUDE. MORSE. HE'S SPEAKING. He's talking to people." 

Forget the horrible car crash, Morse was outside, talking, being a mostly functioning person. Not a looming, creepy figure that yells instead of speaking. Interesting realisation, that was. That Morse is an actual human with a name and the ability to interact with other humans. To be honest, I did become to be less creeped out by him for a while. I got a phone call from my brother when Morse was on the news yelling loudly about the car crash on the evening news, ("AN ALMIGHTY CRAAAASH!") which was pretty hilarious. Of course, the feeling that perhaps we aren't living next to a weirdo possible murderer lasted all of about a week, because before long he was back to his yelling, looming creepy-ass ways. You know, demanding to know how many people live in our flat, people knocking on the door inquiring as to his whereabouts, things like that.

Mike, Jaz and I recently compared notes on recent Morse antics while sitting at our picnic bench outside. All of a sudden someone noticed his window was open. An uncomfortable hush fell over the table. You could almost hear a wolf, or coyote, or creepy wind blow, or something equally as ominous cast a shadow over us.

Eh, we'll see how things go I guess. As long as no one tells my highly strung mother, I think we'll be okay.

Come over at your own risk.

I have actually been doing things.

Honestly, I have. While often "things" equates to consuming three boxes of barbeque Shapes within the space of two days and enduring the subsequent shame spiral, it also means I've been doing Legitimate Constructive Activities as well.

Apart from my usual role as photographer (read: occasionally the only way I end up leaving the house during the week) for the lovely and very cool guys at Venuemob, the lovely and very cool guys at Venuemob have recently enlisted me for another task. The task has been to write and/or re-write a very large amount of copy for their website, which is being re-done, re-launched and re-snazzed sometime this month (I believe).

That's meant writing all manner of nice things about venues around Melbourne, and finding all sorts of new and interesting ways to say "this venue caters to groups of all sizes" or "this venue has many rooms for you to use". It's been a challenge, albeit an enjoyable one. It's also probably a good thing, to have something force me to use my brain for things that aren't watching endless episodes of Friday Night Lights in between writing drivel and/or quite silly articles.

Speaking of quite silly articles (SEGUE! SEGUE! SEGUE!), I've recently begun writing for Port Whine. I've only written a couple so far; one about having no money, and one about my rather embarrassing penchant for nerds.  You can read them if you think that's the kind of silliness you'd be into.

I've also been recruited by Perth-based mag Colosoul, although the only thing I've done so far is for the print issue so I don't have a link for you because YOU CAN'T LINK TO IRL PAPER ON THE INTERNET, DINGUS.

Gangster Squad or: The Untouchables Do LA

"C'mon Josh. I'll do my De Niro if you give us a cuddle."

The Untouchables Do Los Angeles. That's what Gangster Squad is in a nutshell, and I say that without a hint of exaggeration. A hard-ass monster mob boss played by an Oscar-Winning giant of the cinema giant tightens his stranglehold on a decaying city and is taken down by a rag-tag group of misfits led by an idealistic honest cop. Along the way, families are attacked, the brainiac gets killed, and the mobster does a throat-destroying amount of yelling. Sound familiar? Of course it does!

To his credit, Ruben 'Zombieland' Fleischer's take on the gangster movie provides all the eardrum shattering shoot-outs, be-suited men in hats, and the montages of jazz music and violence that you'd expect and probably thoroughly enjoy. Unfortunately, despite the stellar cast and eye-catching design, Gangster Squad is also riddled with cliche and ends up being the kind of flick you soon forget.

Like I said, if you've seen The Untouchables - and for that matter, just about any lawmen-take-on-the-mob film - you'll know the score An upstanding war veteran cop John O'Mara (Josh Brolin) is recruited by the chief of police (Nick Nolte) to use methods of badassery outside of the police handbook to put the spanner of the law in Mickey Cohen's (Sean Penn) gangster doings. One by one, we're introduced to the rag-tag bunch of misfits chosen to bash saunter away from explosions, and who mostly never become more than one-dimensional caricatures defined by singular characteristics.

There's the black beat cop (Anthony Mackie), old Wild West quick-draw type (a sorely underused Robert Patrick), his plucky upstart hispanic sidekick (Michael Peña), the brainy intelligence/electronics expert (Giovanni Ribisi), and lastly and most charismatically, Ryan Gosling as womanising slacker-cop Jerry. Of course, Jerry soon becomes involved with Cohen's current squeeze Grace (Emma Stone), although sadly the chemistry of Crazy, Stupid, Love is never quite recreated. In any case, a intelligence-gathering montage there, a shooting practice scene there, a botched first attempt at a hold up there, and BAM - you've got yourself a crack squad of gangster interrupting law enforcement brothers. Now we just sit back and place bets on who's going to die first.

Under-developed relationship, but still very nice to look at.

It's to Gangster Squad's great benefit that the cast assembled is of the calibre that it is. While there's hardly chance for any of the characters (with the exception of Brolin and Gosling) to do any sort of growing or to actually become interesting, the core ensemble and the a handful of supporting players are certainly enjoyable to watch. They even manage to mostly rise above the gangster cliches that abound, as well as the dialogue, which at times seems to have been lifted straight from the Gangster Movie 101 handbook. Of particular note is Mireille Enos as Brolin's pregnant wife, who manages to get a fair amount of warmth from a potentially thankless role.

Gangster Squad walks a constant and very fine line between taking itself seriously, and being utterly and completely ridiculous. Sure, there are a few good one-liners, but when the film attempts to delve into the moral dilemmas of being "outside the law", it stumbles awkwardly. There's a great smattering of bullet-ridden set-pieces, but when at least one of the dramatic moments is so clichéd you literally laugh out loud, it doesn't exactly bode well for the rest of the film.

The two sides of Gangster Squad are somewhat personified by its villain, Mickey Cohen. His gangster accent alternates between "kind of normal" and "truly absurd cartoon villain". He's sinister yes, but without any redeeming features or warmth, he becomes a caricature so over-the-top that it's hard to reconcile even with the more ludicrous elements of the story. "HERE COMES SANTY CLAUS!" he yells, before mowing down Christmas decorations with a machine gun in slow motion. Why is Sean Penn here? Is it to pay for a divorce? Did he just want to ham it up and chew some scenery? You know what though? Once you get used to the ridiculous accent, he's pretty fun to watch as a screeching villainous maniac.

Here's the thing about Gangster Squad. It's incredibly predictable, it's probably instantly forgettable, and it's uneven. However, it's also a lot of fun. It's visually lush, it's surprisingly funny, it's full of blood-spurting, gun-toting violence and the solid cast makes the most of less-than three dimensional characters. It's violent, stylish and entertaining instant gratification, and you'll most likely have a good time watching it. Especially if you're a fan of Ryan Gosling.

2.5/5 (I'm being generous)

Smooth-Talkin'

This post was whipped up at the insistence of a couple of friends. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that my awkwardness knows no bounds, and that apparently said awkwardness is almost a superpower. Such is its awesomeness. 

Here's but a select few true nuggets of smooth talkin' badassery! 

Please, ladies and gents. Form an orderly queue, and try not to get too flustered.