We need to talk about Dredd. Not because it was a massive hit (though it should have been). Not because of Karl Urban’s chin (though it deserves its own credit). And not because the soundtrack made me want to overdose on Slo-Mo and play with pretty water droplets (though it definitely, definitely did).
But because we — that is, the small percentage of the population that actually saw it — demand a sequel. When a post-apocalyptic comic book adaptation written by Alex Garland of The Beach fame, starring the likes of Lena Headey, fails to register in the cultural consciousness, there is something deeply amiss in our film-going society.
For those of you that haven’t seen it (and really, that’s most of you), Dredd is a raw, violent, stunning film centered around the character of Judge Dredd, played by Karl Urban’s jawline. Set in the crime-ridden wastelands of a dystopian America, it follows the induction of a rookie judge named Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) on her first day.
When Dredd and Anderson are called out to a 200-storey slum in Mega City One to investigate a triple homicide, they unwittingly instigate a lock-down. The MaMa gang operates here, and hell hath no fury like Lena Headey when she gets a good script between her teeth. Here, Headey plays the character of MaMa with all the wry, twisted lipped cruelty of her other alter-ego, Game of Throne's Cersei Lannister. Only, Cersei has better hair.
If all this has failed to convince you, then let me ask you this: Do you want to see Avon Barksdale (a.k.a Wood Harris) do his thing again?
Of course you do, so watch Dredd.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve posted anything other than Instagram pics and sassy reblogs, that I’m not even sure what the last thing I said was. Sure, I could check, but that would involve scrolling through photos and I’m not sure what surprises might spring up at me.
It’s been nearly a month since I made the hardest decision of my career so far. I don’t want to dwell on details, but suffice to say it caused many sleepless nights, tears, and self-help book purchases.
Essentially, I decided that a happy and fulfilling personal life meant more to me than golden career opportunities and once-a-lifetime colleagues. I’m not sure how it’s going to pan out.
So now, I’m job-hunting along with the rest of the class of 2013, elbowing each other out of the way for a social-media-digital-marketing-executive-writer-blogger position — or, heaven forbid, yet another internship. Enough has been said on us NEETs (Not in Education, Employment, or Training), most eloquently by How To Be Jobless, so I won’t reiterate the obvious. Suffice to say: Thanks, Society. That whole “Work hard at school and you’ll be fine” line really had me.
When you have nearly 200 graduates applying for some vacancies, it creates an imbalance of power that’s hard to ignore. Sure, it was never the eager job-seeker who called the shots, and employers have always been demanding of applicants. But when every position — whether it’s a barista at Costa or an entry-level paper shuffler — comes with such fierce competition, what’s left is the interviewer asking the interviewee to jump through fiery hoops while bending over backwards and simultaneously kissing their smug, management-level arse.
I’ve been luckier than most. Within a month of job-hunting, I’ve had two interviews and gotten through to the second round of interviews for one company. Now let’s look at what I had to do to get to this “enviable” position:
1. Send out well over 100 applications.
2. Attend three interviews in two different cities, costing me £96.40.
3. Work for free to demonstrate my skills.
4. Refresh Gmail obsessively to find that, no, they didn’t bother telling me whether I got the job or not.
Which leaves me repeating steps 1-3 until some kindly soul on the receiving end of my CV decides that, "Hey, maybe we could do with a writer. Too bad we won’t be able to pay her, but I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to work for free to build up her portfolio. Let’s invite her in for an interview at our John o’ Groats HQ."