So now I know why brakes are good…

So, I am ok…

The thing is that on the way to Buchlyvie a couple of days ago I came around a corner to be confronted by a slow-moving quad bike and a flock of sheep. This led me to put my foot gently on the brakes and plan to drop down a gear or two, but there was a surprise coming. My brakes did not work.

Literally, my right foot was buried into the floor and my Ranger was not slowing down at all, not even noticeably decelerating from my foot having come off the gas. Now when I learned to drive my instructor covered this eventuality, explaining to me that the gearbox and engine can be used very effectively for braking in case of emergency, and indeed getting me to practice doing it. I am very grateful that I had such a meticulous instructor.

I dropped the car into second and started to hope that I would slow down enough that I would not damage the vehicle or myself when I put it into the hedge to avoid committing mass murder on the sheep, and then fate smiled. To my left (if you are reading this elsewhere than the UK or a handful of other countries please try to remember that we, here drive on the left) there was a small lay-by, rather like the road equivalent of an oxbow lake, and so I threw the vehicle into it and completely missed the flock and their guiding shepherd without having to come to a full stop or use the hedge.

Clearly this was a shock; I had not expected my brakes to simply stop working, but I was a long way from anyone who could be of assistance and almost late to see my doctor, so I dredged up my knowledge of how to drive on the gearbox and engine and thanked my lucky stars that the handbrake was still working perfectly. The trip back from the doctor’s surgery was slow and careful, for one thing I did not want to have to do any emergency stops on the handbrake, but I managed to get back to Aberfoyle and put the Ranger, as directed, on the ramp at Trossachs Motor Services.

It took the guys there about 2 minutes to put some new brake fluid into the system and find the leak. I was explaining to Donald Jr. that I was on leave and did not need the vehicle when he very politely let me know that there was no way he was going to let me drive away in the damn thing any way (not that I wanted to), and we all had a good laugh about that, considering the single track road we live up.

So, the moral of this story?

If you put your vehicle in a ditch don’t just assume it’s ok, get it checked over. Oh yeah, and if you drive “stick” and you don’t know how to brake with your gearbox, get someone to show you – you never know when it might save you anything from a hefty bill to your life. So, get your brakes checked, learn to engine brake and use sunscreen…

Photo by Daniel Salgado on Unsplash

Loch Arklet

Loch Arklet (from the Western end dam, looking East)

I really don’t often show people my attempts at Landscape photography; I am rarely pleased with my efforts. This is an exception to the rule, so I hope that you enjoy it.

Meeting Authors – Part 1 (of a series?)

So, last night I went up to Bedford, from work, to go to an event at the very Rogans’s Books.

For those of you that don’t know – and why would you if you don’t live in Bedford, or attend Children’s Book Festivals (i.e. Booktastic, also run / curated by Rogan’s Books impresario Rachael Rogan, and others – I don’t have names, but I know that their contributions are huge), or indeed simply never have met anyone who has been to the shop. Of course, if you have met someone who has been to the shop, then chances are that sooner rather than later you will also go to the shop and then you’re “in”, forever…

This is Rachael

Portrait of a woman wearing a multi-coloured scarf, standing in front of a display promoting women in STEM.  The woman is Rachael Rogan
This is a portrait of Rachael Rogan in her natural habitat, her own bookshop.

Rachael has started to organise events at the shop, and the inaugural event for adults was last night, Wednesday 20th February 2019, with a visit from Sunday Times Bestselling Author of “The Binding”, Bridget Collins.
This is Bridget:

Portrait of a woman signing copies of a book at a bookshop counter.  The woman is best-selling author, Bridget Collins
Bridget Collins, signing copies of “The Binding” at Rogan’s Books, behind the counter.

The evening began with informal mingling and chatting, as well as nibbles and wine – the most amazing vegan “cheese” straws I have ever tasted – and then was followed by a short reading from “The Binding” given by Bridget herself and then a lively Q&A which offered some really interesting insights into her process as a writer, her career, her inspiration for the book and the way in which it has all come together.

Bridget was really generous with her time, offering entertaining and insightful answers in the Q&A and then really taking time to talk to the attendees while signing copies of her book for us.

It was a real pleasure to meet her and in particular for me that she was kind enough to let me take some photos.

Here are a couple of photos from the Q&A:

A photograph of Bridget Collins and Rachael Rogan sat in front of bookshelves, and before an audience, engaging in a Q&A
Bridget Collins & Rachael Rogan “on stage”
A photograph of Bridget Collins and Rachael Rogan sat in front of bookshelves, and before an audience, engaging in a Q&A - they are both laughing, as are the audience.
Bridget Collins & Rachael Rogan “on stage” – laughter ensued

Rachael informs me that there are going to be more events to come, so keep an eye on the website, or consider following the shop on Facebook, Twitter and / or Instagram.

You wouldn’t want to miss out on meeting someone really interesting and fun, right? And at the same time, what better way to support reading and books than by supporting an independent bookshop, better still an independent bookshop run by a passionate entrepreneur with a deep love of books and bringing reading to life for kids and grown-ups alike.

P.S. I started reading “The Binding” on the train back to London – expect a review, soon.

Saturday walk…

So yesterday we went walking. We were going to go to Loch Achray, but when we got to the top of the Duke’s Pass it was clear that we were not going any further, the road was still deep in snow and untreated.

Instead we went for a wander in the woods at the David Allen Lodge. The kids played with the water course setup and climbed on the deer statues and Lee-Anne and I took photos.

We rounded the afternoon out with a lovely late lunch at The Pier Café at Stronachlachar, and then home to a cosy evening in…

Protected: Shooting with Bree

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Protected: I got to shoot at Scott’s Place…

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Casements…

The key grinds in the lock, but I am reassured by the agent, in the email, that I should expect this and that the key will turn. I push a little harder and after more troubling sound effects the barrel turns. I feel the bolt pull back and the door springs inward about an inch, as if it had been held closed under tension.

I step inside, into the gloomy vestibule, immediately dancing over empty tile adhesive buckets and discarded broken tools. There is a layer of dust that seems to be so solid that it is undisturbed by my arrival. I find myself wondering where has it all come from? No one has lived here for nearly a decade, and is it not true that house dust is mostly dead skin? How can there be so much dust? It is barely disturbed as I step in and push the door closed; I wonder if it will ever be cleaned away?

The stairs are directly ahead and far more inviting than the dark and dreary corridor leading away towards the dark kitchen at the back of the house. The living room door stands ajar, but even though it is barely half open I can see the stacks of newspapers and magazines that I remember from my childhood. I cannot face the paper-stack maze, yet, I need to open some windows and clear the smell of abandonment out of the place. Similarly I am not enticed by the kitchen the other dark and foreboding rooms on the ground floor, so I mount the staircase instead.

I am amazed that the stairs do not creak as I make my way to the upstairs, not even a low grumble from the bannister as I lean upon it trying to keep my steps on the treads as light as possible, though I have no idea to what end. The smell of emptiness, the musty, yet subtle taint of loneliness and emptiness is not as strong as I reach the first floor, but it is there nonetheless. I stand for a moment at the top of the stairs and close my eyes, remembering a time when these walls were covered in framed photographs and press cuttings, a homespun exhibition of parental pride that has long since been taken down and put who knows where.

I turn the corner and the door to the master bedroom is wide open. Afternoon light is streaming in, diffused by an almost complete blanket of cobwebs strung between the panes of the casement window. Scattered onto the ground there is a broken radiator, some rubble, this is little more than a graveyard for memories. Nothing remains. Gone is the beautiful mahogany wash stand that I used to wonder at, with its large jug and washbowl and its intricate backboard, depicting a coastal scene in the Hebrides. The deep pile carpets, so beloved of his generation and so reviled by my own, are clearly long gone and the floorboards are coated in more of the dust that it now occurs to me may be in part made up of the rotting plaster that is falling from the tops of the walls where they meet the ceiling.

I stand there, transfixed by the neglect and sorrow of a window so bedecked with the trappings of time’s passing. Even the most neglectful householder could never allow such an accumulation of dirt, grime and colonisation of spiders. Simply opening and closing the window every now and again would keep the arachnids at bay, and surely everyone would wash their windows at least once a year?

Stepping into the room, I catch a new smell, the smell of damp and I start to realise why the plaster is rotting. The window frame is rounded at its top by stains on the wall, and I am now sure that the water from the gutter, or perhaps just years of inclement weather with no one in the house to see its effects, has been creeping into the wall above the casement and has been working it destructive magic in the way that only water can.

I am hoping to find some trace of him as I cast my eyes around the room, but there is nothing, not even a discarded letter or trinket, let alone the steamer trunk I was secretly hoping to find. The room seems to me as a skeleton picked clean of the meat that made it his bedroom, all distinguishing features and characters lost to plain floorboards and empty walls, nothing but more rubble and another broken radiator, and just the soft, fractured light from the window.

I retrace my steps onto the landing and realise that I will not be opening any windows, if nothing else I am not certain that it would be a good idea if they are in the process of surrendering to the same rot as the walls. I need to be able to leave the place secure, after all.

I don’t even open the door to the bathroom, something tells me that I don’t want to see it, and I listen to that small voice even though it seems somewhat ridiculous at the same time. Why should I fear the room where he died. It was over a decade ago, surely there is nothing to fear, and yet I cannot steel myself to open it and look inside.

The box room is as empty as the bedroom, and I have almost given up all hope that I will recover any talisman of him from the wreck of his home when I remember the attic. Surely there would be things stored away before the end had come that must lie up there, undisturbed?

I reach into my pocket for the torch that I had been mindful enough to bring, and shine it into the gloom of the box room, looking for the attic door. It is there in the left-hand corner, as I expected, and I shuffle through the dust and plaster rubble and pull it open.

The stairs up into the attic – he would have corrected me and said loft – are not so quiet, creaking and groaning as I place each of my steps on each successive tread. I am not worried that it will give out, but I am puzzled as to how one staircase can be so stalwart and another be so lamenting under the same weight.

The light of my torch is more than enough to find my way to the top of the small flight, and then I am on the boarded platform under the pinnacle of the roof line. I turn my light off for a moment and am plunged into darkness; well at least there are not any large holes in the roof.

I flick the small light back on and start to look around, searching for “boxes of treasure”, as he would have called them. On the edge of the boarded area my light plays across a box with “McCain” printed across the side, faded as if stamped there long ago. Closer inspection shows the words “memories and things” scrawled across the side in his familiar script, and I reach out for the box and pull it across the boards to the space by the top of the stairs where I have the most room to manoeuvre.

The box is old and dry and brittle, the way that cardboard eventually gets to be, and so I am cautious and gentle as I lever the flaps open and point the torch light inside.

The box contains a few of the photographs, in their frames, that I had missed as I climbed the stairs, all of them were pictures of my father as a young man. Some of them in uniform, some in running kit, one in mess kit. If all the rest had been lost or given away, then these were the ones that he could not bear to part with, even if they were in a box above his head, rather than on display. An old diary, a Ronson petrol lighter, an old cigarette tin, Capstan “Full Strength” – though sadly there are none inside. There alongside this ephemera is a bundle of letters, tied with a silver ribbon. I recognise the hand, they were letters from his wife, his first wife, who had sent me cards long after she had otherwise left our lives all those years ago. I wonder if his widow knew that he had kept these at all?

I decide to take the box with me, that this is enough, this is what I was looking for, but then as I am closing up the box my torch plays across a small metal box, almost hidden behind a beam. I cannot unsee it, I am compelled to investigate.

I pull it gently from the shadows and set it on the ground next to the box of memories. It is not heavy, about sixteen inches by nine by five, so an odd shape, but not completely strange. Stamped on the top, on either side of a keyhole and between it and a small handle are his initials, “M N”, in faded gold paint.

The box is plainly locked, so I turn my attention back to the box of knick knacks to see if there is a key amongst the treasures therein. It is not hard to find, it is on a string, looped around an ebony letter opener. I take it out and open the box, which unlike the front door opens smoothly and silently, the lock in perfect working condition, as if it were in regular use.

Inside there are three items that surprise and delight me in equal measure. A Webley service revolver that he must have kept from his time in the Army, during the War. He never spoke of it in life, that I know of, so it must have been a very private keepsake. Alongside it is a small box of ammunition, and a leather-bound notebook. The gun feels heavy, suddenly, in my hand, and while I was not completely comfortable to be holding it, I feel pleased to have this illicit item of his now in my possession. I place it back into the box and lift out the notebook. It is wrapped closed with a leather thong, which I half expect to be brittle with age, but as I untwist and then unwind it I marvel at the way in which it feels supple and warm, like it is new and recently handled. The pages are crowded with his distinctive and almost completely illegible hand, and I realise that I will need better light and perhaps some coffee before I can truly digest the contents. I turn it over my hands as I move to close it, and a playing card falls from between the pages and lands face up on my foot. It is not a playing card, it is a Tarot card; The Magus. The edge of the card is picked out in gold leaf, and the face of the card is inhabited by a hooded figure, energy crackling around one hand, a strange sigil held in the other. Unexpected, to say the least.

I am filled with a desire to leave, and the sure, concurrent knowledge that I cannot leave these things here. I hurriedly return the card to its place between the leaves of the notebook, wrap it closed and place it back into the lock box. I lock it up, place it inside the memory box and put the key around my neck and tuck it inside my shirt, hiding it from view. Then I close up the flaps and lift the box up in my hands and carefully pick my way back down the attic stairs.

I glance, quickly, into the bedroom as I pass, but the afternoon light has been diminished, perhaps by a passing cloud, and the odd character of the place is reduced to a sad, empty room. The window is no longer captivating, more simply ordinary and uninspiring. How telling that light holds the key to so much of that which commands my attention. I wonder if I have somehow removed the last of him, or indeed any character from the place, but I push that thought aside and head down the main stairs to the door.

As I emerge onto the front path with the box of memories tucked under my arm I breathe deeply of the fresh, outside air and feel an unexpected sense of relief to be out of his house. I close and lock the door, and head to my car, keen to retreat to my own, living, vibrant sanctuary that is my apartment so that I can investigate his notebook more completely. That and consider what I should do with the gun.

(This story was inspired by an Instagram post, which you can see here -> joannafurniss )

Photos from The Second Patr(e)on Gig in London by Amanda Palmer (click to view on Flickr)

Amanda Palmer and Friends at Gatsby's Drugstore, London

Conversations with an Outlaw – Introduction

I had been living in Strathard for about ten months when I first met Rob. I was out on the dam, looking up at the stars, secure in the knowledge that I was alone, when a voice quite clearly and rudely addressed me;

“What in the name of blue blazes are you doin’ here?”

I turned to see a ghostly figure, dressed in a great kilt and bearing a sword at his hip, long hair and beard well kept but flowing freely, advancing toward me from the southern end of the dam.

I had never seen a ghost before and indeed I was not sure that I was seeing one then either. My first reaction was that I was the target of an elaborate practical joke; the sassenach, having relaxed into his new life in the glen, was now to be tormented by Scots jokers pretending to be ghostly highlanders. I shook my head and blinked, trying to banish the shade with reason, but it was no use, there he stood, or more correctly floated about three inches above the dam’s stones. He glared at me fiercely and his body language was quite plain; I was meant to feel threatened and no mistake.

In the end I had to accept that this visitation was not going to end as abruptly as it began and that I probably needed to answer the ghost’s question, so I tried to banish my bemusement that I was actually going to talk to a ghost and answered:

“I live here, just down there in fact that small house, just below the dam.”

I pointed to the small white house that my family were all sleeping in. There was a low gentle light emerging from a couple of windows, but on the whole the place was dark and quiet.

“I do not remember that place… Nor any Englishman out of uniform roaming free in this glen.”

Came his halting reply. It occurred to me that something odd was going on, if for no other reason than this ghost sounded for all the World like Liam Neeson and was not in fact speaking either Gaelic or even old-fashioned English with a Scots brogue, where his mode of dress and evident dead-ness would have perhaps demanded that he were a little more in keeping with the eighteenth century. He seemed confused suddenly, shaken from his former confident bluster, and I saw him examining his hands, as if he seemed to mark how insubstantial they were; as if he were conscious that perhaps he was the one out of place.

We stood there, looking at one another for a few moments more, and then he spoke again;

“Ah, I seem to have forgotten myself again. I’m dead you see. Sorry to have bothered you, but I saw you here and for a moment I was taken back to when I was a breathing man, and I would never have suffered a stranger to pass so close to my home in the night.”

It was a shocking admission. On the one hand I did not know a thing about ghosts, but I had rather expected that they rarely knew what they were, let alone be so matter-of-fact about their odd state of lingering activity. On the other hand I had not really considered how out of place I was in so many ways. My family and I were settling in nicely to life in Scotland, but for all of our distant connections with the land we were now calling home, neither my wife nor I were well versed in the history of the Highlands, and yet here I was meeting it. I decided to take the opportunity for what it was, and settled into the idea of talking to the ghost.

“That’s alright. I don’t suppose it can be easy being a ghost, watching the World go on and being unable to take part in it as you once did. Did you live around here in life then?”

The ghost nodded and relaxed, appearing to slip into a mode that was familiar to it, one of acceptance and awareness, a “yes, I am a ghost and now I am going to talk to this living person here, because that is all I have and at least they can see me” type of demeanour.

“Not many folk can see me you know? I don’t know what it is that marks out those that can, but most of the living would never have heard my initial outburst as you did. I should introduce myself, you may find you have heard of me, others have that I have met over the years. I am Rob MacGregor, sometimes known as Rob Campbell or Rob Roy. I was Laird of Inversnaid at the turn of the eighteenth century, then outlawed in conflict with the Duke of Montrose. Like I say, you may have heard of me.”

I imagine I looked quite comical, flapping my jaw, soundlessly in the moonlight. I mean, sure, any ghost is going to claim to be the ghost of Rob Roy, but he was believable, if nothing else. I was still having trouble with the lilting Irish brogue of Liam Neeson every time that he spoke, but he certainly had the look of the late great clan chieftan, cattle rustler, blackmailer and all round delightful scoundrel, so I was poised to believe him utterly.

“Yes, I have heard of Rob Roy MacGregor, everyone has. Just one question though, why are you not speaking Gaelic?”

At this the ghost laughed, his face softening and his features seeming to transform into a much softer, warmer countenance.

“I am, it’s something about the ghost situation. You hear what I am saying in the way most likely to make sense to you, if I tried to speak to you in my halting English you would hear the speech of a child. I speak as I did and whomsoever I meet hears me in their own tongue, in their own way. If you were from the low countries you would hear me in Flemish or Dutch, France in French and so on.”

I nodded, that made a lot of sense; what point would there be in being a ghost if no one could ever understand you.

“So, Englishman, what is your name?”

I settled down on the low wall on the west side of the dam and took a deep breath;

“I am James Inderwood, a very great pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

I answered as I effected a solemn, but token bow.

“Well met then, James Inderwood. Forgive my initial ill humour, as I said I forgot myself and my condition. As you might imagine it is a lonely lot to haunt the land for as long as I have, so I ought to treat those that I meet from the living world with a little more civility. Alas being a ghost is not always a rational estate. Tell me, Sir, what brings you out into the darkness on a night such as this, while your family sleeps in your bothey o’er yonder?”

I decided not to be offended by his calling our very nicely converted shepherds’ cottage a bothey;

“Well, to be honest with you Rob, may I call you Rob?”

He nodded his assent

“To be honest with you, I was having trouble sleeping, and it’s come to be my custom when sleep will not take me that I wander up here and look at the stars until the fresh night air starts to make me drowsy and then I take myself away inside again. I suppose it goes back to when I used to smoke and I would do that outside, so as not to make the children breathe the stuff in, and now even without the habit I find that the night air is calming. That, and I love to look up at the heavens and marvel at the stars.”

His smile widened and I was struck by the odd notion that I was having a human moment with a spirit, with the unquiet soul of a man who lived and died under the same stars, in the same glens, but three hundred and more years before.

I took a moment to take his form in once again, to appraise it more closely, and based on the little I knew about his history I had to assume that he was haunting the glen in the mode that he had adopted in the time after the Duke of Montrose had declared him outlaw, when he and his family had been kicked off his land in Inversnaid and he had waged his own private blood feud against Montrose in response to what many would agree was poor and unjust dealing. I screwed up my courage and decided to ask him about that time, after all who would not want to know about high adventure, love, betrayal and blood in the highlands of the early seventeen hundreds.

“Rob, I hope you don’t mind me asking, and tell me if you do, but what was it like to be on the run from Montrose and harrying him, his men and his property after the wrongs he did you and your family?”

He fixed me with a stern look, but nodded and seemed agreeable to tell me the tale. I settled back against the stones and prepared myself for a story.

“Am I an outlier?” or “I loved Batman Versus Superman: Dawn of Justice. What’s wrong with me?”

While I was away in Asia, Batman Versus Superman came out in cinemas. Despite my expectation that it would be a great addition to the DC filmic universe, the reception of the movie was broadly negative. I made my peace with that and thought that at some point I would pick up a cheap DVD and make my own mind up. I rather put it to the back of my mind.

While we were away I did not buy physical media; region coding is a hit an miss issue and I did not want to have even a handful of Bluray discs that were going to be useless to me once we got back to the UK or indeed ended up somewhere else. As such when the longer cut of Batman Versus Superman came out on Bluray I hoped to be able to buy it from iTunes, based on the much more favourable response this version received. Again I was thwarted; the UK iTunes Store only offered the “Ultimate Edition” as an iTunes Extras, streamable only, version, which received very poor reviews for being hard to watch, low quality and just generally disappointing as it could not be watched offline. As such, once more I put it to the back of my mind and tried not to be disappointed that while most people were still quite down on the new DC offering, several of my friends were much happier with the extended version of the film. For what it may be worth, and expecting to be derided by many, I had some faith even after the initial disappointment, that if allowed to release his actual vision, Zack Snyder would be able to pull off the ideas and plot and that the film would stand. My defence of Zack Snyder is a MUCH longer post than I want to make right now, but maybe one day I will get around to it.

Anyway, we arrived back in the UK in March, and there was a flurry of house-hunting, starting a new job, lots of business travel for me and before I knew it I was killing an evening on one of my trips to London by taking myself to see Wonder Woman on the big screen. Wonder Woman exceeded my expectations and I think those of many other viewers as well, proving not only that DC could produce a great super hero movie, but that a woman could carry one and a woman could direct one – not that I had been in any doubt on either score, but the industry being what it is / was…

So finally, after another six months I had the time and the inclination last night to catch up with the DC Universe and so I was coming to Batman versus Superman after having already seen Wonder Woman, and having the added benefit of only seeing the extended version.

My verdict?

I do not know how people have fun any more… I thought that the film was fantastic. Amy Adams is Lois Lane, Laurence Fishburne completely persuades as Perry White, Jeremy Irons is the best Alfred we have seen yet, and for my money by a great, great margin despite my abiding love for Michael Caine. And then there are the principles…

Henry Cavill is every inch the Superman in my head, dragged bodily from the pages of comics I have read, completely believable as a conflicted hero, aware of his insane power, aware of not belonging, aware that he will always be slightly the wrong shape for one aspect of his world or another. Ben Affleck, an actor that I have always felt has been unfairly punished by critics and the populace alike, entirely embodies the late-career Bruce Wayne / Batman of the Dark Knight Returns. He is exactly note perfect, for an older, grizzled, disaffected Bruce Wayne, searching for meaning, for a legacy, burdened with a looming understanding that just pulling up weeds is an endless and thankless task. Diana Prince is also completely on-point, but I think that I may be seeing her in a different light to the original cinema audience, as I felt that the portrayal was completely in keeping with the film I saw about her first. Finally there is Lex Luthor. I can remember criticisms of the characterisation and performance that he was too manic, too self-assured, too geeky and so on and so forth, but honestly I felt that as a portrayal of a young Lex Luthor, filled with anger and hatred for Superman, utterly driven to unmask the dangerous alien and cement his place as the pre eminent force in the modern world by force of intellect was pretty much spot on. I think that people just don’t like Jesse Eisenberg and have some narrow belief that Lex Luthor can only be Gene Hackman, but I suppose that I may be over simplifying things.

The machinations of the blame plot, to persuade Batman that Superman is dangerous and must be dealt with and the wheels within wheels that Luthor goes into in order to put the pieces into play while retaining a reasonable shot at having apparently clean hands and have all the blame fall upon Batman is actually really well done, even if there is a hubris in Luthor’s final actions as there would be people that knew that Luthor had been given access to Zod’s body. The arc that Superman takes, and the evolution of his relationship with Lois, both as Superman and Clark is believable and satisfying, and in keeping with the years of to-ing and fro-ing in the comics. Even the conflicts that Clark has with Perry over what they ought to be doing as a newspaper speak well to the larger internal conflicts he is dealing with about purpose and accountability.

All in all the film delivers and it does not shy away from the darkness that has long since been the territory that DC has occupied by comparison to Marvel.

I can’t single the film out as the best Batman movie of all time, simply because I love the “early years” of the character and feel that the Nolan trilogy does an excellent job of exploring the genesis and early experiences of Bruce Wayne and Batman, but for me, as a comics fan that came into comics through The Dark Knight Returns and The Killing Joke and Death of Superman, here were familiar, compelling representations of some of my favourite characters in fiction, doing what I would expect them to do, and ultimately saving the day, though at great cost. As such it’s a firm 9.5/10 from me, and I am excited to see Justice League when it hits Bluray later this year. I expect, based on the spoiler-free reviews I have seen, that I will continue to be in the minority, that I will continue to warm to Batfleck, that seeing more of Wonder Woman will be a good thing(tm) and that adding in other exciting and very DC characters can’t really hurt at all.

I await your flame-war with joy in my heart…

P.S. If I had one criticism of Batman Versus Superman: Dawn of Justice, it would be this; “WTF, Jimmy Olsen is CIA and you let him take a bullet to the head in the first 5 minutes! DUDE!”. Look I am a photographer, a nerd / geek and a guy; if I am honest with myself Jimmy Olsen is the only DC character I have any hope of really identifying with. Well that and Olsen was my nickname at work for a while, long ago…

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