Film: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1

I'm sure I'm not the only ardent Potter fan who found the screen adaptation of the sixth instalment a horrendous disappointment. After a roaring and action packed fifth film, the sixth seemed sloppy, with a story-board that was apparently hastily hacked together, an infuriating and nonsensical fight half-way through and an ending in the form of one fat anti-climax which screamed "we ran out of money!" In short, they ruined what is, in my opinion anyway, the best book of the series.

In light of this, it was with trepidation that I set out to watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. You may wonder why I bothered, what with holding the preceding film in such contempt, but the truth is I sobbed like a baby when I closed the seventh book some twenty-four hours after its release in 2007, and I'm not ready to let my favourite franchise go just yet. In any case, I am happy to report that the penultimate Potter is well and truly a return to fifth-film form, and my doubts evaporated almost as soon as Bill Nighy in his role as Minister for Magic uttered his opening lines.

This is the only story in the Harry Potter series that is not set within the confines of Hogwarts. Instead Harry, along with his unshakeable best friends Ron and Hermione are on a quest, a quest to capture the Horcruxes, scattered pieces of evil Lord Voldemort´s soul, in order to destroy them and ultimately bring about an end to him and his reign of terror. That is, if the Death Eaters, Dementors, rogue bands of  "Snatchers" and the enormous snake don't manage to kill them first. Armed with nothing except their wits, wands and some cryptic gifts left to them by the deceased Albus Dumbledore, Harry and his two friends set about discovering not only the whereabouts of the Horcruxes, but also a new mystery in the form of the tale of the Deathly Hallows, undertaking the most important and terrifying adventure of their lives.

And it is terrifying. This film is much darker and more brutal than any of those that have predeeded it, scenes of torture and death pushing the young actors to new emotional depths. There are scenes when even the most unshockable adult will jump backwards in their seat. However, that isn't to say that there is none of the usual trade-mark Potter joviality in places; Ron still has his humorous moments, whilst the return of Dobby the house elf should raise a smile or two. The Deathly Hollows is also particularly moving in parts, most noteably when Harry and Hermione, alone in the wilderness, share a dance to Nick Cave´s "O' Children", finding a brief moment of happiness amongst a world of fear and hurt.

Whilst the focus of the film is undobtedly on the main three characters and their battle against their nemesis, there is, as ever, a great network of supporting actors, with the likes of Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid, Helena Bonham-Carter as evil and twisted Bellatrix Lestrange and Rhys Ifans as the eccentric Xenophilius Lovegood adding a vibrancy to an already excellent film.

For once, the people responsible for whittling down over 600 pages of novel into two two-and-a-half-hour cinematic chunks have turned in a stunning performance. They've succeeded in cutting down dramatically the vast expanse of plot given over in the book to Harry, Ron and Hermione sitting around the countryside whinging, and concentrate instead on the action scenes, allowing the film to roll along at such a pace that you'll be wondering how the end managed to come around so soon. There are perhaps a few too many scenes involving Daniel Radcliffe sitting moodily about in forests, but not so many as to make the audience switch off. In any case, there's always another battle just around the corner and the action never stays dormant for long.
 
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is undoubtedly the best film in the series so far and for the first time, I can say that avid fans such as myself will be able to feel that the book has been done justice. It just seems a shame to have to wait until next year before finding out if Part 2 is just as good as its predecessor.

Creative Writing: "Over The Hill"

As ever, I wrote this for Folktakes, broadcast every Sunday 3-4pm on LSRfm.com. It's written to "Over The Hill" by Alessi's Ark. 
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Envy’s a funny one, isn’t it? I mean, no matter how much you try and control it, no matter how much you tell yourself you’re not the jealous type, it still finds a way in. It creeps around those barriers you build for yourself, burrowing its way under the wire and niggling away at you with a persistence that means you’ll soon be engulfed and drowning. A real green-eyed monster.

That’s what I am now. Envious and hurting, riddled with pain. I knew when we started this that I wasn’t the only one. That I wasn’t even the real one, that I was just your bit on the side. I thought I’d be ok with it, I thought that I could cope with the knowledge that all the time you weren’t with me you were with her, because I had you, or at least some of you, sometimes. 

But I’m not ok. I’m not ok at all. I’m seething with anguish. I can’t bear the thought that she gets to touch you, to hold you, to tell all she meets that you’re hers, whilst I… I get shadowy corners and late night messages and secrecy. I want to stand on the roof tops and scream that you’re mine. I want to write it in ten-foot letters on the side of buildings. I want to take you to places, to meet my mum, to show you off to my friends and have them all know that we’re in love. This, I would tell everyone, is my boyfriend. Isn’t he marvellous? Instead, I’m here biting my tongue again. Keeping secrets, keeping your secrets so you can keep her. Why am I doing this? I don’t want you to keep her, I don’t want to share you anymore! But if I betray you, you’ll leave me, and that hurt would be worse than any jealousy.

I think I’m tired of this. Tired of being second best, of living for your call. I hate the front I put on every time I see her hold your hand or stroke your hair, the pretence of indifference when all the while I’m dying inside. I barely remember the time before you, but then, I’m sure, I didn’t have to beg someone to love me. I’m sure that before you, I thought I deserved better. Not for the first time, I think of ending it, of cutting you off to stop you ripping me apart. But then you’re there, smiling, and I’m falling once again into the abyss.

YA: Yes, I DO Speak German!

If there’s one thing I’ve found since being in Germany, it’s that it’s actually bloody difficult to speak to German. I don’t mean that I’m finding it difficult to articulate myself (well, a bit); I’m referring more to the fact that EVERYONE, the second they find out you’re not German, instantaneously switches to English.  

It’s frankly getting on my nerves. Apparently “Können sie langsamer sprechen, bitte?” does not, as I thought, translate as “Can you speak slower please?” but rather as “Please talk to me in English, I am a retard.” Slightly stumbling over your words, be it in the bakery or asking for directions, automatically results in a sympathetic head tilt and an English reply. Even if you then respond in German, they cannot be swayed from this patronising course and persistently talk at you in English whilst you desperately wonder if you absent-mindedly hopped on the 19.30 to Heathrow and are now on Oxford Street instead of Königstraße as you originally thought. Even those who have shitter English that I do German (very few) still manage to do it. It's driving me mad.

I know that the Germans that do this probably think they’re being helpful, and to someone who didn’t speak German, they most certainly are. However, to those of use who can speak German, albeit badly, it’s just a pain in the arse. Hence why I angrily shouted at the man in the 02 shop in a conversation that ran thusly:

Me: “Hallo, ich will Guthaben für mein Surfstick kaufen.“

Man: “You know, I can speak English if that’s easi—“

Me: “ICH BIN IN DEUTSCHLAND UND ICH MUSS MEIN DEUTSCH ÜBEN!“

I do feel bad, because he was a nice man who did not deserve to have my pent-up aggression unleashed at him, but I was at the end of my tether. I’m relying on this year abroad to pull my ailing language skills up to scratch, and that’s never going to happen unless I actually get to speak it.

So I want this blog to act as a message to all Germans (and any other nationalities I may happen to come across during the course of these nine months). Feel free to pass it round should you be suffering from the same Year Abroad based problem. My message is this: HERR GOTT NOCH MAL, KEIN MEHR ENGLISH MIT MIR SPECHEN! (‘For God’s sake, don’t speak any more English with me!’)

Thank you. 

YA: With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

Or at least in my case anyway. Since I've been back after Herbstferien, my workload seems to have crashed down like a tonne of bricks. Not only am I teaching the hour-and-a-half Cambridge classes entirely on my onesy savvy three times a week (and I mean entirely - I research the work, I plan the lessons, I teach the lessons, I set the homework) but I find myself with new responsibilities too; a Nachhilfestunde (which, admittedly, is ten extra Euros in my back pocket every week, though it still demands a certain amount of planning), a much more active role in a Klasse 5 group (involving taking half the class for speaking practise whilst the others learn their grammar, something which means yet more time given over to planning) not to mention the other timetabled classes I assist in. I've attended two teacher conferences so far, a full faculty one and one just for English,* and soon I'm also going to start helping Klasse 6 with learning their lines for an English play, to be performed at various school functions early next year. This is something I'm particularly excited about, as I believe it will give me chance to explore my hitherto unexplored dramatic depths.** Also, it's about Robin Hood, and as a proud Nottingham lass, I believe this is a subject in which I can seriously kick some arse.

So, yes. A lot to keep me busy, wouldn't you say? And to be honest, I think I'd rather have it this way. Initially, after speaking to a couple of my friends who don't consider themselves to have been asked to do anywhere near as much work, I was slightly indignant. How come I wasn't getting such an easy ride? However, the more I thought about it, the more I considered myself lucky. Though the workload seems a little heavy at times, I don't think I'd pass it up for hours of sitting at the back of classrooms and wondering why I was there. I know that a few people subjected to this feel a bit useless and undervalued by their schools; at least I can say that mine is bothered that I'm there. It is nice to feel like I'm a proper member of the faculty and it's good to be valued, to have the responsibilities of my own classes and to find myself being actually useful. I'm not by any means claiming that I do an amazing job*** but I do feel like I'm earning my keep. The other teachers, for their part, have gone out of their way to make me feel completely involved in school life; I've attended a BBQ for the Klasse 9 and Klasse 10 student mentors, been invited to the Kulturabend (an invite which, unfortunately due to another engagement, I had to turn down) and this Wednesday I'm going out for a meal to celebrate one of the teachers' birthdays.

And it's not as if I'm entirely snowed under by test papers and English grammar guides. I mean, this week is unusually hectic work wise because, due to the compulsory language assistant conference between the 22nd and the 24th, I'm having to plan lessons for a couple of weeks in advance so nobody misses anything, but normally I can get everything done before Thursday's out, leaving me plenty of time at the weekends to enjoy all NRW has to offer. The latest addition to my cities-visited collection is beautiful Cologne, where I spent a cracking couple of days with Sophie, shopping, eating sushi and generally hanging out, and despite my hefty to do list this week, I'm still hoping to hit Bonn at the weekend. Who wants to live the lazy life, anyway?

All in all, I think I've definitely landed on my feet at Heinrich-Heine; I've got the perfect balance of work and play. In fact, I'm so busy, I've almost forgotten to be homesick! And now I best go; as you may appreciate, time is of the essence these days and I can't spend all my time blogging. After all, I've got lessons to plan!

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* Before you ask, I didn't understand a word.
** If I used smileys in my blogs, I reckon this would be the perfect moment for the one that comprises of a colon and a slanty line.
*** I'm a photocopying beast, but I still stumble my way through pages of notes and plans in my lessons in an attempt to make it appear as if I'm at least vaguely in control of the situation

Creative Writing: "My Year In Lists"

This piece was originally written for Folktales, your slice of story time and folk tunes 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and hosted by the lovely Charlie. It was inspired by "My Year In Lists" by Los Campesinos! which Charlie very kindly deigned to play despite the fact that she hates them. I, however, love them and think you should love them too.
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Here is a notebook. Brown cover, brown pages. Blue writing. Page after page after page of neat cobalt letters, looping under and over and round, putting words to a year. A year in a life in lists. 

Flick through the pages, watch the words blur and smudge…

Stop! Eighth page - to do this week: call Marie, wash red dress, buy Debbie a present (three exclamation marks), pay window cleaner, find umbrella, write article (in capitals, five exclamation marks), see Dave (smiley face, two hearts). A doodle of a monkey eating a banana and a nameless phone number. 

Please turn over. And over and over. Sixteenth page now, entirely given over to the reminder that baking is not something to be attempted ever again. The seventeenth is for shopping (milk, cereal, bread, cheese, pesto, noodles, biscuits, toilet paper). Eighteenth, the letters to post that were probably never posted. Nineteenth, some train times. 

Peel back more pages. See the dates line up and march; one diary entry, two diary entry, three diary entry, four. Two lines each for that which slides from memory lest you pin it down forever with nails of ink. The recordings of important unimportance, written here to stop your mind letting them slip away like sand through a sieve. It’s a good job you’ve got this little brown book with its solid brown pages and sturdy grey lines. You can’t always trust that head of yours. 

Watch the words flash by. The things I should do and the things I should remember, punctuated by the books I should read (Catch 22, The Great Gatsby, The Midwich Cuckoos) and the bank details I shouldn’t have written in here but I’ll forget them otherwise. The people I should call. The albums I should listen to. Dates stretching from November 10th 2009 to… when?

To now. There’s a blank page, right at the back. It seems a shame to waste it. 

Blue ink flows. 

November 8th 2010. To do today: call Mum, call Marie, get ingredients for meal on Tuesday, pick up boots from the menders, take books back to library… 

Pause. I’m sure there’s something else, something important. Just think… 

Oh. Yes. In the same careful blue letters, I write the last three words of the year. 

Buy.
New.
Notebook.

YA: Halloween (The Münster Mash)

First, an announcement. People may be excited to learn that I have finally explored Duisburg beyond Koenigstrasse, and there is actually stuff in it! There's a lovely old Rathaus and the Salvatorkirche and some archaeological digs of old, old buildings. There's the very attractive Altstadt and the Kultur-und Stadthistoriches Museum, which isn't much fun.* There's an amazing children's adventure play area, which is very much fun indeed and the Legoland Discovery Centre, which looks like it could rival Disneyland as the happiest place on earth (at least, if the life-size Lego giraffe outside is anything to go by). There's also the Innenhafen, which is very lovely and full of nice places to eat and look at the boats on the river.** So with all that to attract you, why aren't you all on the plane right now to come and see me?

So, yes, Halloween. Well, I was told before I came here that the Germans party like nobody else. However, whilst it's true no one falls out the club here much before 5am, and they can drink copious amounts whilst remaining upright (unlike me), I just don't think they compare to us on what I consider to be, frankly, the most integral part of a good night out: fancy dress. Hence this Halloween, safe in the knowledge that we all had the following day off work thanks to an amazingly well-timed Bank Holiday, we took it upon ourselves to set out and show Germany exactly how these things are done. 

I've got to say, we did the fair isle of Binge-Drinking Britain proud. As ambassadors for our beloved student culture, we got "hammered whilst dressed as a tit" down to an absolute tee. First, we all donned our costumes in Cerys' fantastically spook-bedecked flat (the Smurf shaped Marshmallows and Haribo Halloween Mix made my life). Everyone looking lovely apart from me as I chose to do something unspeakable to my hair involving turning it into a purple haystack. Oh, and then I painted myself green. Not very attractive, but pretty darn scary, no?

After we were suitably costume-ified and had nipped off to the takeaway for pizza dressed thus, we decided the best course of action was to play Ring Of Fire. From what I recall, Matt led the game in a fairly dictatorial fashion, waving the rules written on the lid of a pizza box like the they were Ten Commandments, but then I downed a glass of wine for apparently no good reason other than everyone was shouting "chug!" and the rest is a blur. I don't remember at what point we decided it would be a good idea to make our way to a club, but I know that at some point between leaving Cerys' and getting a taxi, Matt somehow managed to accidentally punch Kelsey in the face and we decided the only appropriate punishment was to beat the crap out of him with a devil's pitchfork and a broom, our Halloween props. Good times. 

Unfortunately, the club we were aiming to go to, the one with the Halloween themed night, was full. So we went to another, much smaller club (called 'Klup'), where I believe we were the only people in costumes. Well, maybe there were a couple more, but they'd gone to comparably no effort, so they barely count. The club itself was amazing - teeny tiny with an excellent range of tuneage, a range so wide that I don't think I got of the music once. I won't go into a great deal of detail about the whole experience, as you probably don't care, but I will give you my top three highlights: singing Mumford & Sons at the top of my voice and jumping around in a circle, doing the Mr Brightside dance entirely on my own and not giving a shit and the sword fight with the now broken broom and pitchfork, even if I did sustain and injury. 

The end of the night heralded what is now becoming a Münster tradition, which was a desperate late-night search for the flat of the person we were staying with because the person we were staying with was at a location unknown. Because of these wee-hour wanderings, I've seen more of Münster than I have of any other German city, but as I'm always tipsy and confused, I still have absolutely no idea where anything is. Fortunately, we eventually found the flat we were looking for and, after waking up a very angry flatmate, fell onto our blankets around 6am. 

In conclusion, it was a good, good night. I look forward to seeing how we get lost in Münster next time...

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*In short, Duisburg was industrial and got even more industrial over the years. Something about the Hansiatic League, a type writer and some sexist banners. There, now you don't have to visit.

** I can take you to the eating establishment where we went if you like, to show you the place where some total genius has done this: 

It's the most grammatical graffiti I've ever seen. Whoever did this is my hero. 

YA: The Good, The Bad and the Odd-Bods.

I realise I haven't been posting on this as much as I would like, so here's a quickie until I find some Stunden to sit down and right up the ghouly and ghosty escapes of a Halloween alla Deutschland. It's a list of the best, the worst and, most importantly, the weirdest encounters I've had in Germany so far.* If you've had weirder (and it's possible, this is a strange country) please write your entries on a postcard and send them to me. There may be a prize.

THE GOOD

- The lovely man from Sparkasse who told me on my second day here that he wouldn't have been able to tell I wasn't a native. For this wonderful confidence-boosting lie, he receives my eternal love and undisputed position as Georgie's Favourite German.

- The boy in my Klasse 7 social sciences bilingual class who called the European Union "the Eurovision Onion".

- The girl in my Thursday FCE class told me she liked my boots. Fashion compliments always earn you a position in my good books.

- The other girl in my Thursday FCE class who gave me half a bag of gummy bears because I said they were my favourite.

- The group of Klasse 12 lads who, in a role play based around the film Juno, collectively got the word "fuck" into the script five or six times, whilst the one playing Juno  managed the sentence "Dad, Brenda... I'm pregnant" with a straight face.

- The boy in my Klasse 6 group who today did a full impression of Michael Jackson complete with dance routine in the middle of his art class. Only eleven years old and already a legend.

THE BAD (fortunately, far outweighed by the good.)

- The jobs-worth conductor on that tram who charged me 40Euro for not following a rule I didn't know existed. I was practically in tears and he still took my money. He clearly has a heart of stone.

- The boys in my Wednesday FCE class who pretty much directly laughed at me uncontrollably for reasons I don't know because they were speaking German. And no I'm not paranoid, they were definitely laughing at me.

THE ODD-BODS

- Not a person as such, but the dog in the staffroom. I turned round and there was a dog. An actual drooling, woofing, widdling dog. I mean, whaaa?

- The Amnesty International man who launched himself from the other side of the road at high speed in order to corner me. I don't understand, there were plenty of other unsuspecting shoppers for him to accost - why run all that way to preach at me? Maybe I was wearing a special hat...

- The other two Amnesty International men who danced around and around me until they had my attention. They have it in for me.

- The creepy dude from my halls of indeterminable nationality (Turkish?) who I accidentally ended up having coffee with because my German wasn't quick enough to think of an excuse not to. My biggest fear is one day bumping into him on the stairs, especially as I accidentally on purpose threw away his number with my old train tickets.

- The man in the post office who asked me repeatedly about the different types of envelopes available and which I thought he would need for his parcel whilst I wondered if I'd accidentally put a Deutsche Post uniform on when I got dressed that morning.

- The very presumptuous English man who asked me for directions to the Hauptbahnhof in English.  Either I look incredibly English, or he just arrogantly assumed that whoever he asked would both be able to understand him and also reply in the language he understood. Lucky for him, really, that he picked the only English person in the street besides himself.

- The man flyering for Deutsche Bahn who, after giving me the flyer, asked to have a picture with me. I believe it was to prove to his superior that he´d actually given me the flyer and not just thrown it down a drain somewhere, but it was still a baffling experience. I felt like a celebrety who´s been spotted by a fan with a camera whilst on a late night dash to Tesco for milk.

- And last but by no means least, the old man I occasionally see at Oberhausen train station who always wears combat trousers and a beret. Such a fashion faux pas, but what a don. Kudos to you, beret-touting old gent.

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*This list may be revised at a later date - keep your eyes peeled for Mark II.

Creative Writing: "Here's To My Old Friends"

This piece was originally written for Folktales, broadcast every Sunday 3-4pm on Leeds Student Radio (LSRfm) and hosted by the lovely Charlie. It was inspired by "Here's To My Old Friends" by Joseph and David and "Without You" by Ellen and the Escapades. Oh, and a few of my own thoughts and feelings. Enjoy.
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Here’s to my friends across the sea. I’m missing you again. It’s been years since I saw you last, though it’s not yet been two weeks. The time is not flying as we promised it would and it’s no fun here without you. I don’t like this distance… My drinking buddies and my dancing partners, my many shoulders to cry on and my cohorts in crime - I miss just chatting with you. When can we next wrap ourselves in sofa cushions and memories and drink tea and make wild plans? Icy wires don’t compare to sunny afternoons and real smiles. Your letters, full of anecdotes and imagined laughter, are like hugs with words. But I like the hugs with arms best. 

Without you, friends, what am I?

Lonely.

Here’s to my friends far away. Here’s to the one with the fullest heart, the one who always knows the right thing to say, and the one who’s just like me.  Here’s to the one who never says no to a party, the one who keeps me grounded, and the one who makes the best cupcakes. Here’s to the one that makes me laugh until I can no longer breathe. Here’s to the one who knows me better than I know myself. Here’s to the one who gives the biggest bear hugs. Here’s to you, every one of you. I should always tell you how brilliant you are because you are brilliant, always. I don’t deserve you, but I hope to God you never realise.

So, here’s to my old friends, my now friends, my always friends. I raise my glass and wait. And wait. And wait out the two month eternity until the next real smile.