The experiment that went horribly right.

They say bands go soft with age. Maybe all the sex, drugs and alcohol does something to their brains. Maybe it makes them wiser (or is it woozier?). Or is it just reality turning up at their doorstep unannounced one day and scaring them into maturity? Nevertheless, Why do bands mellow? seems to be a question that plagues fans every time a band or artiste releases an album more than 5 years after they debut. (An exception to the rule, of course, is Madonna who is a different kettle of kitsch. But we haven’t gathered here to discuss the Material Girl.)

Bringing the debate to the fore are four gentlemen whose brilliance has slotted them beside U2 and Radiohead not just as the best thing to come out of the UK since, well U2 and Radiohead, but for possessing the uncanny ability to express what we’ve always wanted to say but neither found the right words nor the tunes. (Haven’t you always wanted to write something that began with I wrote a song for you and it was called ‘Yellow’? Come on, you have, haven’t you?) With their latest ‘experiment’ Viva La Vida (seemingly indulgently subtitled ‘or Death and All His Friends’), Messrs. Martin, Buckland, Berryman & Champion seem to have rediscovered the mystique that drew all of us to them circa above-mentioned Yellow. Albeit without the does-it-have-to-be-so-loud piano. The added bonus is that Mr Martin’s falsetto appears less frequently than before. It’s as if he teases you into wanting it, and then when you can’t take it anymore gives you a generous earful.

Allegedly, the band’s reason for Viva La Vida is that they’d become too predictable for their own good and wanted to see if they could resurrect themselves from the mire of their own success. They have. It’s as if every member, having attained his own personal nirvana, has been reincarnated sans demons, monsters, baggage and cliches. The tracks are so unlike the Coldplay we have of late begun to despair of. The lyrics provoke the mind without patting themselves on the back for having done so.

Then there’s the liberal sprinkling of strings. Like reins in the foaming mouths of each song that drives the album, the strings lead every single track with such skilful deliberation that none of them strays from the objective of earning the band a new sense of respect in the eyes of fans and skeptics alike. And like Clocks the title track seems to possess the ability to grant the listener a sense of weightlessness, supreme confidence and faith in humanity. Ironic then, that such feelings should be evoked from a song about death.

One might argue that it is producer Brian Eno who has breathed new life into the foursome. But that can easily be countered by the former’s recent divorce from the hottie-at-forty Ms Shania Twain. Whatever the source of inspiration, Coldplay certainly has outdone themselves. With Viva La Vida they’ve taken us to a place we always wanted to go. A place that’s not on the map but in our heads. Ladies and Gentlemen, please raise your glasses thank you.

He Was A Has-been.

Probably best known for playing second-lead to Kevin Costner (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) and John Travolta (Broken Arrow), and eminently forgettable in the beguilingly important role of ‘Easily fooled security guard’ (Austin Powers: International man of mystery), Mr Christian Slater has had numerous second-chances to claim his place alongside Hollywood’s elite. Fate however has consistently Britney-ed him. (The fact that Britney’s rise was actually Mr Slater’s and that she stole it from him is a theory that begs consideration but must be kept aside, albeit temporarily, for further investigation).

Other lesser stars (and I believe, even lesser-accomplished actors) have managed to get the tills ringing (Colin Farrell included) but not Mr Slater. His has been a most baleful lot. Until now.

He returns to the screen, cast against his image of erstwhile-one-of-100-most-sexiest-American-men, as a balding employee in a corporate mammoth. A statistic bullied by hipper, hornier and more hirsute colleagues, Bob Maconel is your quintessential everyman. He considers himself an intellectual, he just wants to be left alone, and when he is, he fancies himself as shag-material for the office tramp. Only difference is he has a talking goldfish. Aha!

Now you see where we’re going? Now you see that it wasn’t desperation that prompted Mr Slater to accept the role? Now you see that it wasn’t ineptitude but unadulterated brilliance on the casting director’s part to cast Mr Slater? Do ya? Huh?

Anyway, He Was A Quiet Man is written and directed by Mr Frank A. Cappello who also wrote the regrettable Constantine. With He Was A Quiet Man, he deals with the more surreal aspects of reality. Like nursing a beautiful quadriplegic and making love to her just to reaffirm her sense of self. Thankfully, it is Ms Elisha Cuthbert who plays the role of said quadriplegic.

As the sleaze of office politics unfolds after the shootout that confines Ms Cuthbert to her wheelchair, Bob Maconel begins to wrestle with issues about his lady love and their highly unlikely future together. What’s interesting to watch is Mr Slater in a role that’s so unlike him and how he goes about doing it absolute justice. (It’s like Arnie playing Hamlet. And doing a bang-up job of it. Well, sorta.)

He Was A Quiet Man is unlikely to be Mr Slater’s comeback. However it sure as hell is an affirmation of his pedigree as an actor. And it does make for interesting viewing. Only jigger-up is the twist at the end. It’s an oft-employed tool which means you’re left with the feeling that you could definitely come up with a better ending but you’re not quite sure what it is.

Overall rating: High 6, really low 7 (like 7.00000000001.00000001)
Plot: Above 6.5 for sure (and then drops to about 5.5 at the end)
Acting: Go Christian! Go Christian!
Watch it again? Only if Ms Cuthbert asks me to. Very nicely.