My Back Pages, day 3

Today's choice is You Ain't Going Nowhere, recorded with The Band during Dylan's post-accident recuperation and finally released (officially, at least) on The Basement Tapes in 1975.

The Basement Tapes is one of my very favourite Bob Dylan albums. It marked a return to more traditional American music for Dylan who, up to the point he broke his neck falling from his motorcycle in Woodstock in 1966, had been blazing a trail of Byronic poetry set to a clattering, quicksilver blues backing.

The rate of technological progress that society has undergone since 1966 - or even since 1975, or 1998 when I first heard The Basement Tapes - has been remarkable. So remarkable, indeed, that it actually renders any number of popular song lyrics rather anachronistic. For people of my generation, who remember a time when telephones weren't something you carried in your pocket and the postman wasn't just an inconvenience, it's not so pronounced. But the day is already here when the entire grammar and lexicon of popular music has changed.

My love for The Basement Tapes stems very much from the genuinely timeless and evocative themes that its songs contain. You Ain't Going Nowhere just pips Please Mrs. Henry as my favourite of the bunch. Play it to a teenager now, or a teenager in a thousand years, and they'll still know what it's about. I think this is going to prove a rarer and rarer quality for the songs I grew up listening to and as such should be treasured.

Lyrics here.

My Back Pages, day 2

Day 2 of my Bob Dylan love-in falls on the man himself's 70th birthday. Happy birthday, Bob Dylan. Today's song choice is Spanish Harlem Incident, a song from 1964 which appears on his fourth album, Another Side of Bob Dylan.

I'm regretting using my standard pro-Dylan's singing rant yesterday when I didn't really need to, because the magic of Spanish Harlem Incident is as much to do with the delivery as it is anything else. The lyric, which concerns a fleeting encounter with a beguiling woman, is one of Dylan's first recorded forays into the kind of poetic approach to songs which would ultimately lead him into conflict with the folk crowd.

The lyric is wonderful, but his delivery of it is completely magnificent - as beguiling as the song's subject. Serpentine and flowing yet still concise and focussed. Dylan hits every beat like a metronome without ever sounding robotic. The overall effect is enormously evocative.

You can read more here.

My Back Pages, day 1

Recently I've been using this blog to try and work out my crazy. In a way it worked, because I'm now feeling significantly less crazy. I'm not going to dwell any more on why this is, but you know. Thank you.

Instead, I thought it might be a nice project to try and restore this blog to some sort of normalcy, where creativity is given more of a free rein and my personal insecurities are pushed deep, deep down inside. My chosen topic for a week of posts is one I've touched on once or twice but never really expanded. Indeed, I have probably promised to expand on it on several occasions but I never have. Luckily, I am not a liar because I now am.

I don't think you should never meet your heroes. I think people will always appear all the more heroic for you knowing them better, finding out what makes them tick, their story. All of my heroes except one are people I know and, therefore, have met. I'm not going to name them here. Bad luck, nosey parkers. I will, however, say who the exception to the rule is, and that's Bob Dylan.

It's Bob Dylan's 70th birthday this week, so no doubt the internet will be inundated with all sorts of retrospectives and thoughtful essays about his contributions to music and to modern culture. These are all likely to be a lot more informative than this. But I'm not really aiming for any purpose greater than to talk about five of my very favourite Dylan songs. If you learn anything or are inspired by it at all, it will be a bonus. But one for which I'd never dream of taking any credit.

Today's choice is Let Me Die In My Footsteps. It will probably be the shortest write up, but what more do you want? I've already given you introductory paragraphs. You're judging me on WORD COUNT now?

A quick aside. I'm hoping, where possible, to provide a YouTube clip of the song in these posts. However, none are available of the original recording for this first selection, and cover versions of Dylan songs almost always miss the point. Yes, he's not a singer. But no-one else comes near in terms of intonation, conviction or rhythm. This is never more evident than for songs like Let Me Die In My Footsteps, part of his early output of "protest songs" (a nomenclature Dylan himself has always disputed). Show me a "good" singer tackling a song like Blowin' In The Wind and it will put me to sleep. When sung by Dylan, these words in these songs are like nails being relentlessly hammered down, one after another after another. It's what they're meant to sound like.

Anyway. To Let Me Die In My Footsteps. It's one of the very first songs Dylan ever wrote, and for me still one of the very best. It comes from early in 1962 and didn't appear on any official release until The Bootleg Series vol. 1-3 emerged in 1991.

It's a song about human dignity in the face of technological might, inspired by Dylan watching sharky businessmen hawking nuclear fallout shelters door-to-door and their adverts appearing all over the press. Other songs from later in that same year, pre- and post-Cuban Missile Crisis such as Masters of War find Dylan in a far more combative mood. In Footsteps, however, he is restrained and resignedly dignified. It is a monumental achievement by a man barely out of his teens.

To try and examine it further would be to negate its eloquence, so I will instead just point you to the lyrics of the song here.

They're playing my song

As keener-eyed readers of this blog may probably have noticed, I've recently been going through one of my "episodes". Or "the unpleasantness". Call it what you will, it's not very nice.

Luckily, my friends are very nice. A dear friend of mine, who could easily have a successful career talking people down from window ledges should they wish to pursue one, was really very patient and understanding and one thing they said is really sticking in my mind: be kind to yourself. This may sound very simple for you normies out there, but for ranting, drooling maniacs like me it's often the first thing that gets tossed to one side.

So in the spirit of being kind to myself (and also doing things I like doing), I have made a list of all the songs currently on my iPod that are entirely about me, no arguments. And here it is.

1. Air - Sexy Boy
2. The Beach Boys - Fun Fun Fun
3. The Beatles - Hey Bulldog*
4. Bob Dylan - Forever Young
5. Carly Simon - Nobody Does It Better
6. The Clash - White Riot
7. Dusty Springfield - Son of a Preacher Man*
8. Gene Vincent - Wild Cat
9. Giorgio Moroder - Too Hot to Handle
10. Girls Aloud - Love Machine
11. Ice T - Pimp Anthem*
12. John Lennon - Working Class Hero
13. Marvin Gaye - You're A Wonderful One*
14. R.E.M. - Superman

* OK, so these songs are actually about me

On Eschatology

It was 1987 when someone I was at school with - I won't name him, but it's probably safe to say I remember his name with a greater certainty than he remembers mine - first told me about Nostradamus. Cue 13 years of grinding panic, naggingly always in the background of my thoughts even when it wasn't dominating the forefront. My first encounter with Millennial prophesies of doom had an indelible effect on my 7-year old mind.

I'd like to say it was the beginning of a lifelong fascination, but it'd be only half the story. It was actually the beginning of a life of dread, lived under some kind of unseeable Sword of Damocles. Because, for the best will in the world, for all my (decent) education and for all my (probably slightly above average) intelligence I am, at my most fundamental level, a credulous buffoon.

For me, endtime thinking is transformed into a series of new calculations. When a Russian woman (erroneously, it turned out) predicted the end of the world would occur on December 13th 1996, I became powerfully aware of the fact that I would never be able to be a truly happy human being until December 14th 1996. Then came after the solar eclipse in 1999, another hotspot. Then 1st January 2001. Then every single other one which has happened between then and now.

If you'd told the 7-year old idiot who was me in 1987 that, in 2011, there'd still be a world and there'd still be a 31-year old idiot me in it, it would have been a great weight off of my mind. I suppose it's this fundamental fear of the unknown which has coloured much of my life, which is not an uncommon human emotional response.

What the 7-year old me would not believe, however, is just how many more prophesies of doom, how many more target dates when I could then "relax and be happy" there'd have been between the Dreaded Year 2000 and today. Nor, having managed to make it past that crucial date, would 7-year old me believe how badly I could still be affected by every new prediction of doom. Here I am, a 31-year old with a degree in philosophy and 24 more years experience of all kinds of joy and pain behind me, still set into a frantic tailspin by whatever new shit maniacs can conjure up.

So, the latest line in the sand is The Rapture, due this Saturday and established by some phenomenally convoluted mathematics by a man who believes in the literal truth of The Bible -the world's most consistently self-contradictory book - and who has already wrongly predicted The End once before. Every cell of my rational being screams at me to leave it all to once side. And yet the animal instinct part of my brain which tells me to fear the dark won't ever be content until May 22nd. Then October 22nd, then December 22nd 2012, then the day after whatever other date anyone manages to "calculate" after that. Of course, I won't actually be happy after that, but at least I'll be able to realise I can't look to outside factors to explain why this might be.

I'm sure that people who consistently predict the end of it all find deep meaning in what they say, a tangible finishing line in a world that they perceive as being wicked, venal and out of control. All I would say to them is that life is already short enough. So on behalf of the innocent 7-year old children and credulous 31-year old idiots everywhere, just keep it under your fucking hat, eh?

Making a Mungo

Today marks the last Mungo of the 2010/11 football season, and for various reasons which are probably obvious from reading the strip, the last in its current format. So I decided to document the process thus demonstrating my astonishing lack of any conventional ability or artistic training.

Every Mungo starts pretty much this way. The size of the strip has been 18 by 22cm for all of this season's episodes. Next to it is a vague outline for what is going to happen. I don't storyboard, which is what a proper comic book artist would do. This is why each Mungo looks so shoddy. Sometimes I draw the frames before I even know what I'm going to put in them, which is a preposterous thing to do.


The necessary tools. A pencil, eraser and stuff for inking with, plus piece of kitchen paper because dip pens are cruel mistresses and block a lot. The red one is thicker, for lettering and outlines, the blue one thin for fine detail. The brush is for larger areas. You'd probably already worked that out.

This episode of Mungo requires the name of a rival football team, so I pull up the file with all the Mungo information. As you may notice, it is called The Mungobase. I wrote the majority of it, but it was bounced back and forth between me and Ian, the bloke who runs Twohundredpercent, so there's stuff of his in there too.

I am stalling now, and decided to take a picture of the dog that sits on my desk. Later, in a secondary fit of stalling, I realise he does not have a name so I ask Twitter what it should be. His name is now Hamish McSweeney.

I can avoid drawing no longer by about 9 a.m. Here's the first frame in pencil. Notice how it's barely any different from the finished product. There are different schools of thought regarding pencil sketching and how much or little you should do. For me, a black and white picture will be at least 75% working things out in pencil first.

I'm obviously in the zone by this point with the pencil, and I flesh out panel two. I like to do the text first. That's what normally carries the story, so making sure there's enough room to tell it is the most important thing.

Further evidence of that last fact, inked over. I ink directly onto the original pencils because I am brave and foolhardy.

Shit's starting to get real now. I find drawing to the accompaniment of familiar music, TV or films very constructive. Today Sherlock Holmes comes out. I will watch two films before the morning is over, although really I'm only listening to them.

Next I inked over the first panel. The top image is fine-line (blue) pen only, the bottom is the finished one with added thicker lines for definition and black areas.

With the first two panels finished, I moved on to number 3... although I don't always work in strict progression. Up to this point, however, I had. Here's Mungo's first appearance.

With frame 3 inked, I moved on to number five, the big action panel. Just text for now.

And here it is with the drawing added. I realise now I should have taken some interim shots during the inking, but I was in the zone. Besides, if you can't imagine how one goes about inking something over you're probably way beyond my help.

Three hours in and time for lunch. Sometimes it's quicker than this, sometimes it's much much slower. On those days I swear I'm giving it up.


Here's a close-up of panels four and six. Hopefully this should give you some indication as to the relationship between the pencil sketch and the finished product.

I sneak the final frame on later on, whilst watching CSI. I like CSI more than I like Mungo.

Shading time. You will need QUINK, water, brush, something to mix aforementioned things in.

Here I started with panel three. The general idea is to use the shading just to act purely as a contrast, to make the drawing make more sense. Once that is done, I might do a few stupid fiddly bits because I am an arse.

And we're all finished. The only things to do now are a few touch-ups in photoshop (this one didn't need any, bar for adding lettering to the road sign) and then reducing it to standard Mungo size. You can see the finished result at Twohundredpercent by clicking here.

This, and the huge majority of the other 96 editions of Mungo's original artwork are all available to buy. You can email me using the link in the sidebar for more details.

Confessional

Normally I successfully manage to be the exception that proves the rule, as far as "no man being an island" is concerned. But not any more. This year I have become aware that I feel desperately alone.

I think a lot of it is to do with the fact that when I sat down to consider things, I realised that I literally have nothing in my life to look forward to, perhaps for the first time ever. And it scares me to death. Everything around me seems to be getting away and all I can anticipate the future bringing me is pain, loss and heartache.

I can physically feel it pressing down all around me. There's not been a single waking moment of my life for months when I've not been aware of it. All I've been able to truthfully hope for is to be able to suppress it to try and enjoy any more positive moments that come along.

And there have been plenty. My life is not so bad. I love my family and my friends. I'm as sure as I can be that they feel the same way. But even that and all the good it brings can't shake the void away at the moment.

I don't really know why I'm writing this. Maybe it's in the hope getting it out of me will help. Optimistically, it could even be something that I'll be able to look back on with a wry smile in the months or years to come. Maybe it's just something to distract me from thinking.

I'm so lonely that I honestly don't know what to do except try to keep on bio-mechanically chugging on and hope that somehow my soul will catch up with me when it's ready.

The five things foxes have put in my garden

It is my birthday today, happy birthday to me and all that. I was given a digital camera, so naturally was thinking of things to take pictures of. My immediate thought needn't detain us any further, so I now present the results of my second idea, a photographic guide to the four things foxes have put in my garden (plus one brand new thing today!). This comes courtesy of my generous family, and also the fact that when I mow the lawn I don't pick anything up, merely just kick it out of the way.

Number 1: a bone (presumably from out of an animal).

Number 2: a dog toy. (I figure that foxes, being from the dog family, like playing with toys as much as their domesticated cousins.)


Number 3: A frankly troubling sock (suspected wanksock).


Number 4: A gardening glove with all but two fingers chewed off of it.

Number 5: (NEW ENTRY) Fresh today, a dead fish with no head! Quite smelly. Suspected dogfish, with suspected mud by head end (otherwise it's a poo).


The other thing I got for my birthday was a large spot on my left temple (not pictured).

Mund's Olde Avatar Shoppe

Like the majority of everything which now happens in the entire world, Twitter forms the basis of much of what is about to follow. But, to cut a long story short, I've started doing personalised cartoon portrait avatars for use on all sites which have avatars on them.

I've done a few FREE O' CHARGE so far for my friends. If I were nice and the world were just, I'd do one for everyone on earth and be done with it. However, things aren't that simple and that's the end of that. So, here's the business proposition...

£10 gets you a 256 x 256 pixel avatar.
£25 gets you a 256 x 256 or 512 x 512 pixel avatar, plus the original artwork on 12 x 12 cm 220gsm cartridge paper.

I'm assuming that most people will want a cartoon portrait, however, I'm open to drawing absolutely anything as an avatar as long as its not obscene, illegal or liable to incite religious hatred (and NB, I'll be the judge of what those are).

If you are interested, you can either email me using that link or get in touch with me on Twitter (@dotmund).

The Universal Sherlock Holmes Repertory Company

Without question, my single favourite thing about the Rathbone-Bruce Universal Studios series of Sherlock Holmes films is the fact that it drew on a pool of actors, almost exclusively British character actors in Hollywood, and that the same familiar faces would crop up again and again in different roles. Some of the actors were rather typecast as villains, or as meek victims, but most of this rotating squad got to play pretty much everything - from unbilled desk clerks right up to people with the fate of the Empire in their hands.

Today's list, then, is my celebration of these hard-working souls. The majority of these actors never made it big in American cinema, so I'm sure appearing here will be viewed as the next best thing. Here's my top ten familiar faces.

10. MILES MANDER (2 appearances)

In numerical terms, Miles Mander lags significantly behind many of his fellows, but he more than makes up for this in his impact in the series. His first appearance was in the series' 8th film, The Scarlet Claw, as the frightened recluse Judge Brisson, but he really went over the top in the following feature, The Pearl of Death. His character there, the implacably suave villain Giles Connover, is undeniably one of the most unforgettable foes in any of the 14 pictures.

Mander was born in Wolverhampton in 1888. In addition to acting, he was also an author and playwright, a Captain in the nascent RAF during the Great War, and a sheep farmer in New Zealand. Moving into films, he'd made over 25 films before the dawn of the talkies - including the starring role in Alfred Hitchcock's directorial debut The Pleasure Garden. In all he acted in over 100 films, as well as writing, directing and producing a dozen more. He died of a heart attack, aged 57, in Los Angeles in 1946.

9. GAVIN MUIR (4 appearances)

Gavin Muir is one of those actors you just don't find any more - so impossibly suave it's a wonder they can stand up. His first appearance in the series was a fairly unlikely one - an uncredited and unseen turn as a radio announcer in Sherlock Holmes and The Voice of Terror. His subsequent performances were much more visible - a US agent in Sherlock Holmes in Washington, the unfortunate heir to a huge fortune in Sherlock Holmes Faces Death and a concerned insurance man in The House of Fear.

Gavin Muir, in spite of his cut-glass British accent, was an American actor, born in Chicago in 1900. He appeared in 71 films, usually playing characters so laid-back that they couldn't help but arouse suspicion. Muir died, aged 71, in Florida in 1972.

8. HOLMES HERBERT (5 appearances)

The perfectly-named Herbert was, alas, the stage name of Horace Jenner, an English character actor. Tall and distinguished of appearance, Herbert mainly played authority figures throughout the series, but he also managed to throw one or two scoundrels and bounders in for good measure, most notably as the scheming Alan Cosgrave in The House of Fear.

Herbert was born in Mansfield in 1882. Originally seen as a leading man in silent films, once the talking picture arrived he was reduced to supporting cast, a role he nevertheless played with some gusto and longevity - he appeared in over 200 films in a 37-year movie career. Herbert died, aged 74, in Hollywood in 1956.

7. OLAF HYTTEN (6 appearances)

Hytten's case is an interesting one. Making his bow as a member of the British inner security council in The Voice of Terror, each of Hytton's subsequent appearances in the series were in markedly less significant roles. By the end he was playing hotel desk clerks (The Scarlet Claw) and auction house ledger monkeys (Dressed to Kill). Nevertheless, his big, surprised face was a welcome presence in any of the films.

Hytten was a Scot, born in Glasgow in 1888. He appeared in almost 300 roles across films and American television. He died aged 67, in Los Angeles in 1955.

6. FREDERICK WORLOCK (6 appearances)

The splendidly-named Worlock carved out something of a niche for himself in the later films, playing officious, supercilious types who could - and did - lurch over into the realms of outright villainy. He perhaps reached his peak in the final two entries: a suspiciously short-tempered maths professor in Terror By Night and then as an impossibly well-mannered heavy in Dressed to Kill.

Worlock - sometimes credited as Frederic Worlock - was born in London in 1886 and enjoyed a long career in film and television. As well as Holmes, he appeared in Spartacus as Laelius and as a voice actor in Disney's animated adaptation of A Hundred and One Dalmatians. His last film appearance was in the pioneering disaster movie Airport. He died, aged 86 in Los Angeles in 1973.

5. HARRY CORDING (6 appearances)

The powerful Cording was a regular sight in the series. Often impressively bearded and with deep set, dark eyes, he made for a textbook henchman. That's normally how he was cast, too - although he made two appearances as craftsmen, a coffin maker in Terror By Night and a potter in The Pearl of Death. My favourite of all, though, is his performance as the pipe-chuffing bluff old salty seadog Captain Simpson in The House of Fear.

Cording was born in Somerset in 1891 and blustered and menaced his way through well over 250 feature films, first coming to prominence (along with a number of his Universal Studios repertory company fellows) in Michael Curtiz's The Adventures of Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn. Cording died in California in 1954, aged 63.

4. HENRY DANIELL (3 appearances)

Like Miles Mander, Daniell is set apart by quality rather than quantity. His well-bred menace frequently stole any scene he was in, quite distracting the viewer from the fact that he looked quite a lot like Tommy Boyd. Daniell's most notable appearance was as Professor Moriarty in The Woman In Green, but he was equally effective in his other roles on either side of the thin blue line - a council member in The Voice of Terror and a Nazi spy's henchman in Sherlock Holmes in Washington.

Daniell was born in London in 1894, making countless film appearances before commencing an equally impressive American TV career - usually exuding his peculiar brand of sang froid. Stand out moments from his acting CV: an appearance in Charlie Chaplin's first talkie, The Great Dictator and a starring role alongside Boris Karloff in Universal's magnificent horror, The Body Snatcher. He died aged 69 in California in 1963.

3. MARY GORDON (9 appearances)

Gordon is the holder of a number of distinctions in this list. As well as being the cast member with more appearances than anyone other than Basil Rathbone or Nigel Bruce, she is also the only actor here to have made appearances in both the 20th Century Fox and Universal Studios Sherlock Holmes films. In addition, she is one of only two people in this list to have always played the same role - in this case that of Holmes' long suffering housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson.

Gordon, born in 1882 in Glasgow, was a loyal member of the Universal repertory, appearing (frequently without fanfare or a screen credit) in almost 300 titles. As well as being the Mrs. Hudson, she also crops up in classic Universal horror films Frankenstein, The Invisible Man and The Bride of Frankenstein. The Sherlock Holmes films would simply not have been the same without her. Gordon died aged 81 in 1963, in Pasadena.

2. DENNIS HOEY (6 appearances)

Alongside Mary Gordon, Hoey is the only other recurring actor in the series to have played the same role throughout - the preposterously bungling Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. A character quite unlike the Lestrade of the books, Hoey makes the role very much his own with a flurry of slow-witted misunderstandings and pratfalls, which nevertheless never outstay their welcome.

Hoey was born Samuel Hyams in London in 1893. He appeared in over 60 feature films, often as police officers and the like. He died, aged 67, in Florida in 1960.

1. GERALD HAMER
(5 appearances)

The skeletal Hamer made surprisingly few Sherlock Holmes films, but his impact is unforgettable. Often a very periphery supporting character - his (vital) role as Alfred Pettibone of the British secret service in Sherlock Holmes in Washington even went uncredited - Hamer came into his own in The Scarlet Claw as Holmes' implacable foe Alistair Ramson. Hamer's other appearances came as an eccentric Egyptologist in Pursuit to Algiers, a twitchy invalided serviceman with shell shock in Sherlock Holmes Faces Death and a meekly contrite teapot thief in Terror By Night.

Hamer was a Welshman, born Geoffrey Watton in 1886. He made fewer than 30 films, having spent much of his career as a serious stage actor in Britain. He died, aged 88 in Hollywood in 1972.

On Basil Rathbone and Sherlock Holmes

The Universal Pictures (plus an initial two made by 20th Century Fox, yes, yes) version of Sherlock Holmes starring Basil Rathbone in the lead role and Nigel Bruce as Doctor Watson are the greatest accounts of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's most celebrated literary creation ever committed to film.

Having laid my cards down early, I'm hoping to allow any of you who feel particularly outraged by this view to abort whilst the going's good. There's probably not a lot for you here, bar a stress migraine. For everyone else, allow me to explain why.

Think about Sherlock Holmes. Think about Doctor Watson. Chances are you will have a very clear picture in your mind of a be-deerstalkered Basil Rathbone followed by an tubby and amiable, if blundering, Nigel Bruce. It's a trick that the Universal Studios perfected during the 1930s and 40s - Bela Lugosi's Dracula and Boris Karloff's Frankenstein's monster are similarly entrenched in the global consciousness.

But it goes beyond that. I'm a fan of the original Sherlock Holmes stories, particularly the short stories which made up the bread-and-butter of the series. As an adaptation of those stories as they are presented, I'd suggest looking no further than the excellent ITV adaptations of the 1980s and 1990s starring Jeremy Brett. But books and films are different things and should be treated as such. What makes a good book and what makes a good film can diverge wildly. Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps had its genus in the director's love of John Buchan's novel, but he was clear in his mind from the start that it was not a cinematically friendly work. His film version of it, therefore, used the characters and situations as a jumping off point to make something new.

And therein lies the secret of the Rathbone-Bruce Holmes films. They take some of the characteristics and some of the stories and weave them into something recognisably Sherlock Holmes but not beholden to it. The result is not particularly accurate to the book in terms of content, but in its excitement and bluster nevertheless capture the joy that kept you going back to the original stories. A true adaptation of Sherlock Holmes would likely feature our hero slumped in a chair for an hour or so, in a cloud of tobacco smoke and a veil of silence, before coming up with a brilliant solution. This can be made into a riveting piece of literature, by an entirely sedentary John Watson, but in the motion picture world we're much better served by Rathbone's all-action swashbuckling Holmes being pushed from a train by an unseen antagonist. Or Watson bungling into a hole.

In the next few days, I'm going to reduce my love of the Universal Holmes films to a series of lists - a sure sign of my truest devotion. If you've never seen any of them, or have seen bits and pieces, I hope that it may inspire you to complete the set. And to anyone who still profoundly disagrees with me but has gamefully continued to read this far, I salute you.

The Rathbone-Bruce series of Holmes-Holmeserie began in 1939, at 20th Century Fox. This produced two features, both based on the Victorian Holmes of the original text - The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - although only the former had any notable basis in plot to the Doyle stories. Once Fox passed on the Holmes films, they were picked up in 1942 by the Universal Studios, then particularly famous for their hugely successful and influential horror canon. Twelve B-pictures, none longer than an hour and a quarter in duration, followed in the next 4 years, the lion's share directed by Roy William Neill, one of a welter of Brits abroad whose name would be indelibly interwoven with these films forever.

The initial Universal films moved the detective to a modern setting. London was still his home but now his enemies were Nazi spies. I remain a great fan of these conceptual frenzies, but I'm by no means in a majority. Indeed, after just a handful of war-themed outings, Holmes' life returned more to normal Doylian fare, though still with the action set in the present day. Today's list is my rundown of the fourteen films, in reverse order of how much I enjoy them.

14. PURSUIT TO ALGIERS (film 12, 1945)

It's widely thought of as the weakest film of the bunch, but Pursuit to Algiers still has its moments. Certainly, the story is fairly thin - even padded out with 4 songs it runs to only just over an hour in length - but there's enough here to make it an hour pleasantly wasted.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are, by delightfully hammy and circuitous means, commissioned to guard the safe return of a Crown Prince to their war-torn country. A subterfuge involving a fake nephew on an ocean voyage is a natural leap, our antagonists comprising an odd gang of mutes and circus knife-throwers and whose leader bears quite the resemblance to Uncle Monty in Withnail and I.

Best bit: The opening scene, with Holmes drawn into the game via the means of a series of improbably stupid clues, takes some beating.

13. THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (film 2, 1939)

The second and final of the 20th Century Fox outings was based on a popular stage play of the time written by William Gillette. In it, bassoon-wielding maniac Professor Moriarty (played, in his first of three appearances in the series by three different actors, by George Zucco) hatches a scheme to distract Sherlock Holmes with a trifling matter of murder whilst he makes off with the crown jewels.

This is a film which seems burdened by its Victorian period trappings, and its rather slow pace - again padded out with a song, this time sung by master of disguise Holmes himself - is a persuasive argument for the updated and modernised Universal films to follow. However, Zucco is a fine Moriarty, probably the best of the lot.

Best bit: The all-action denoument, featuring the first of what became a series of demises for the antagonist.

12. SHERLOCK HOLMES FACES DEATH (film 6, 1943)

The first Universal film to dispense with the overt premise of Holmes fighting the Nazis, Faces Death retains a cutting edge theme as Holmes investigates murder at a convalescent home for shell-shocked servicemen. It is also one two Universal outings to follow a single original source reasonably closely, in this instance The Musgrave Ritual.

Best bit: There's any number of things to recommend this film: a bloodthirsty pet raven, any number of reasonably dubious attempted regional accents and an explosive thunderstorm scene. The way you can at times hear the giant fan making the wind is also an unexpected bonus. However, the real winner is a deliciously played breakfast scene at 221B Baker Street, full of humour, cameraderie and taut plot building.

11. SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE SECRET WEAPON (film 4, 1942)

Holmes saves the world from Moriarty and his Nazi paymasters, a double coup. A triple or quadruple coup, in fact, as he also helps rescue a noted scientist and inventor whose revolutionary bomb sighting device could help win the war for the Allies. Moriarty this time is portrayed by a series regular, Lionel Atwill, with a fully stocked operating theatre by all accounts.

Best bit: Sherlock Holmes, ever a master of disguise, distresses his face (complete with fake scar) to blend in to a bar frequented by dock rats and undesirables and gain information as to Moriarty's whereabouts.

10. SHERLOCK HOLMES IN WASHINGTON (film 5, 1943)

Another war entry. Here, Holmes flies to Washington DC to track down a King's Messenger who'd gone missing in possession of a vital secret document. This film is particularly notable for the appearance, once again, of George Zucco as the Moriarty-alike leader of a German spy ring. Peppered throughout with overt Allied propaganda and wonderfully stilted dialogue, this film is a little treat.

Best bit: Watson's perennial bumbling in these films can occasionally grate, or serve to undermine Holmes' peculiar brilliance. Here, he's a perpetual berk and it's a joy to watch.

9. SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE VOICE OF TERROR (film 3, 1942)

The first, and I think the best, of the Nazi-fighting early Universal era. A mocking Lord Haw-Haw style broadcaster is taking to the British airwaves, accurately predicting death and disaster to befall the beleaguered British populace. Holmes is called in by the British government to root out the culprits.

Best bit: Every scene with the British security council. The half-dozen actors have, honest to god, each always been given a line to speak, one after another. It's magnificent.

8. THE WOMAN IN GREEN (film 11, 1945)

A madman is going round the streets of London, killing women and removing their little finger. This is definitely a case for Sherlock Holmes... and invariably the work of Moriarty and a team of hypnotists and curiously fey doll repairmen. Henry Daniell takes up the role of Moriarty here. Basil Rathbone wrote later in his autobiography that he considered Daniell to be the best of the bunch.

Best bit: The tense-yet-urbane Baker Street conversation between Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty, based on The Final Problem, is hard to top.

7. THE HOUSE OF FEAR (film 10, 1945)

Bad things are happening at a remote Scottish mansion house, as the members of a perplexing tontine are being bumped off in any number of gruesomely disfiguring ways... having been forewarned of their plight by the arrival of orange pips. It's classic Holmes territory this, and Watson always enjoys a trip up to Scotland, land of his ancestors.

Best bit: The bit where the dour housekeeper Mrs. Montieth grimly intones "Aye, you'll find him all right, like the others... a corpse".

6. THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES (film 1, 1939)

The film which started the series, the longest of the series and also the truest of any to the source text. Baskervilles' effectiveness can't help but have been undermined by the slew of imitations and alternate versions of this most famous of the Holmes stories which have followed in the intervening 70 years. However, this still stands up to any of them. Storywise, I'm pretty sure you know the drill. Big dog, ancestral curse, moors.

Best bit: Sherlock Holmes, master of disguise, annoying Watson to the point of him pulling a gun on an unlikely cave-dwelling zither salesman.

5. DRESSED TO KILL (film 14, 1946)

The final entry in the Rathbone-Bruce series is an enjoyable yarn about musical boxes being used to reveal the whereabouts of stolen banknote printing plates. The overall plot of murder and intrigue in pursuit of pieces of a puzzle is not dissimilar to the one used in the series' 5th film, Sherlock Holmes and The Secret Weapon, but here is freed of the propagandist tone and imbued new life by a sinister gang led by the beautiful and distinctly hard-boiled Hilda Courtney (Patricia Morrison).

Best bit: Holmes' escape from an attempt to kill him, pure comic book extravagance.

4. THE PEARL OF DEATH (film 9, 1944)

A magnificent film, based closely on The Six Napoleons by Conan Doyle. Again, the antagonist is Moriarty in everything but name, Giles Connover masterfully portayed as a true intellectual rival to Holmes by Miles Mander. Sherlock Holmes contrives to lose a valuable pearl at the British Museum, and, in his efforts to get it back is confronted by a spree of brutal murders perpetrated by the horrific Hoxton Creeper. The Creeper, played by Rondo Hatton, was launched into a series of Universal horror films on the back of this introduction.

Best bit: Holmes leading Watson through a practical demonstration of pearl hiding in a London pottery workshop.

3. TERROR BY NIGHT (film 13, 1946)

Another day, another trinket. This time it's the Star of Rhodesia, and Holmes has been retained to guard it on an overnight train between London and Glasgow. This proves useful with the noted henchman of Moriarty and celebrated jewel thief Colonel Sebastian Moran about. The train setting is a classic for the murder mystery genre, and Terror By Night never disappoints, presenting just the right balance of shady suspects and dramatic set pieces. The real gem, though, is Renee Godfrey. Portraying the recently-bereaved Vivian Vedder, she exhibits a British accent which must allow Dick Van Dyke to rest easy each and every night.

Best bit: The final scene, with a lunch car shuffle and the final reveal. Most satisfying.

2. THE SPIDER WOMAN (film 7, 1944)

In many of the very best entries in this series, Holmes comes face to face with a brilliant female antagonist. None more so than in The Spider Woman, where Adrea Spedding wins Holmes' endless respect by almost killing him frequently. The title refers to the tropical method being employed to drive wealthy men to nighttime suicides. Holmes steps back - playing dead, indeed, before returning to the case dressed as a down-on-his-luck, lame, Indian gambling addict called Rajneh Singh. No, really. This film is by turns hammy and tense, silly and gripping. There is never a moment's let up.

Best bit: They're almost too numerous to just pick one, but Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson's eventful visit to the home of the eccentric tropical expert Matthew Ordway probably tops the bill.

1. THE SCARLET CLAW (film 8, 1944)

Made in the middle of a run of magnificent entries, The Scarlet Claw stands out as the very finest Rathbone-Bruce Holmes adventure. Set entirely in Canada, Holmes is retained by letter, sent by a woman who not 12 hours before had been brutally murdered. With its moorland setting and glowing, phosporescent antagonist, The Scarlet Claw is almost closer to The Hound of the Baskervilles' original text than the film bearing the same name in the Rathbone-Bruce film canon. However, it's the use of psychological thriller-style elements which sets The Scarlet Claw apart, as Holmes battles against a distinguished but psychotic actor set on revenge, who is an even greater master of disguise perhaps than our hero. Watson falls in a bog. Twice.

Best bit: Again, it's hard to choose. But I'll plump for Holmes coming face to face with the silhouetted killer, and his delightfully staccato explanations of his crimes thus far.

All of the original artwork in this post is available to buy! Email me (details in the sidebar to the right of the page) for details. Next up in this mini-series, a look at the Sherlock Holmes film's unofficial repertory company.

On being old

I turned 30 this year, an age which my mother has always told me I have been anyway. However, the physical reality catching up with the mental does seem to be having an additional effect. I became painfully aware of this yesterday afternoon.

Of a weekend, I will frequently find myself in Brighton, because it is awesome. This weekend, though, is the 6th Annual Brighton Crawl of the Dead, where fans of zombies everywhere dress up as such and stagger around pubs for fun and frolics. This year they are finishing up at the Duke of York's cinema for an all-night zombie film fest.

I know this because I googled it. I found a poster outlining the itinerary. Then I found myself right clicking and saving as. Yes, I had just saved a poster with the express intention of using the information to avoid my path crossing that of any revellers whatsoever.

Is this a new and worrying sign? I racked my brains. The conclusion I reached, sadly, is no. I now present a list of things I do, say or think to prove it. A damning list it is indeed.

1. I own, and use, one of those "No trick or treat" signs old people put up on their front door.
2. I think BBC iPlayer "is nifty".
3. I resolutely refuse to get a smart phone because my old Nokia "does everything I want from a phone perfectly well".
4. I've started going to bed at 9 o'clock to read a book.
5. I've started to try and avoid certain foods too close to bedtime in the way other people avoid live grenades.
6. I make a noise when I bend over.
7. I refuse to use abbreviations on Twitter.

In the modern, Western democracy, 30 years old is still young. It is just that I am the oldest person I know.

I have drawn a bear

Click for bearger

It is the final version of the sketch I posted the other day, the keen-eyed amongst you may notice. If you are thick, however, it is the final version of the sketch I posted the other day.

Golf for Beginners

Click for bigolfer

Normal bear

Click for bearger

Blue bear

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Beak Strata Analysis

Click for bigger

Daybreak in the forest

Cloverfield

Yesterday evening I watched Cloverfield, the 2008 camcorder-shot crazy monster movie, simply because it features Lizzy Caplan, that one who plays Janis in Mean Girls. I am 30 years old.

My report on the film itself is that it was a perfectly entertaining way to spend 80 minutes. The camerawork is quite annoying at first, but it does serve to set the film apart from its rivals. The main problem is that, in a film structured much like a zombie movie, Cloverfield succumbs to the old zombie film curse: your cast of sympathetic characters is slowly picked off one by one but they are all so vapid and two-dimensional you don't really care who lives or dies. Lizzy Caplan dies in it. Oops, spoiler alert. Overall, I give it ONE THUMBS UP.

However, where Cloverfield really succeeds as a film (for me, at least) is that it throws up a number of questions. Chief amongst these is: could this really happen? For those who do not know the film, the basic premise is that New York is - for reasons never really explained - suddenly and catastrophically besieged by a huge monster who damn near destroys everything. He is accompanied by more boring smaller spider-type monsters who bite you and then you die horribly. But you can beat them up. The big monster is impervious to all attempts to make it stop doing monster things.

When considering whether or not this could actually happen, I felt determined not to fall blindly into traps of fallacious reasoning. Just because this sort of thing doesn't appear to have happened before, in other words, I can't with any rationality claim with complete certainty that it will never happen. So, in answer to my earlier question, the answer worryingly seemed to be yes.

But would the monster be exactly like the one in the film? Well, as a consequence of the handicam conceit of Cloverfield, getting a really good look at the monster is difficult. During the film I tried to work out which animals the designers had based their creature on. A look at the internet later helped to fill in the gaps. The chief characteristic of the monster would seem to be it's huge, bendy bat-like arms. This is coupled to a bat-style broad chest and powerful back legs which would not be out of place on an ostrich. The head seems to be that of a crazy, ugly dog, although during the film itself I was convinced it had a beak. Could such a creature really pose such a threat to all mankind?

Well, this morning I got out my needle and thread to find out. I grafted a bat's torso onto an ostrich's legs. Then I shaved the head of an angry pit bull terrier and stuck it on the top. Having given it life using a technique far too boring to detain you with any further, I made the startling discovery that, just like the monster in the film, my creation was pretty furious.

All in all, watching Cloverfield and then going through the natural questions and research that arise from it has been a fairly chastening experience. Not least because of the angry thing I've had to lock in the garage. I remain hopeful that, on a planet as hugely old as the earth (allied to the relatively minute lifespan of a human being), the statistical probability of being around when this shit goes off is fairly low. However, I think I might take to wearing a utility belt and carrying a stick, just in case. To be honest, I've been looking for an excuse for some time.

On films

Recently, I've hardly been watching any films. I'm not sure why this is, because I really like films and every time I look at the TV schedules there's loads of really good films I've always wanted to see on. And yet I do not seem to have any interest in sitting down and watching them. I think the reason for this is that having now turned 30, I am more interested in being proactive with film than reactive, or even passive in my pants eating a whole block of butter.

The time has come, then, for me to make my own films. I'm not interested in the whole Orson Welles thing, because I can't act. However, the auteur ideal of writing and directing all of my films is very appealing to me, so as I can best express my vision to the stupid, ugly masses. You, in other words.

I would be very particular about the sort of films I would want to make, you see, and the kind of topics I would want to deal with. I am put in mind of the Dogme 95 movement here, and whilst I would not be subscribing to the formula they set forth, I would be very keen to lay down my own vitally important ground rules to try and bring realism and soul back to film-making.

I think I will refer to this framework as Dotmund 10. Now, as it may be about to become very apparent, I've not thought any of this through at all, so my list of Dotmund 10 requirements may very well be extremely stupid, hugely boring and, most likely, self-contradictory in several places. But don't let these stumbling blocks put you off. Because a future with better films may very well begin in this document.

THE DOTMUND 10 VOW OF MUNGANITY

1. All films must be 3 hours long
2. All films must have a donkey in them. Because people like donkeys.
3. All films, like real life, must have lengthy periods in which not a lot, or nothing happens.
4. The camera is not allowed to move beyond turning on a pivot point. If a character leaves the room or goes to the shops or something, we do not follow them. If this means looking at an empty room, then so be it.
5. All films must feature a significant discussion of all the different kinds of poo it is possible to have. Like those poos where you do a poo and then five minutes later you realise you're going to have to do a bit more. Because everyone on earth does poos and this will engender a sense of connection between the film and the viewer.
6. The lead character in all the films must be called Bert Harris.
7. The premiere for all Dotmund 10 films must be an itinerant, flashmob affair, taking place wheresoever my friend Ian is and, if needs be, chasing him down the road. This is because he has suggested I am a stupid fat oaf and all my film ideas are terrible and even if he were invited to the premiere at a star-studded gala with all his heroes in Monte Carlo and all his expenses were paid, he would still not go.
8. Literally all monies made from the film to be given to me.
9. All of my friends are to be allowed a part in the film. Unwilling ones will be forced to be in the film, like Eddie Murphy's character Kit Ramsey in the film Bowfinger.
10. All of these rules may be discarded if I become really successful at films and someone lets me direct Ghostbusters 3. Apart from rules 2, 5, 6 and 9. They are sacrosanct.

So, what kinds of films would Dotmund 10 produce? Well, I think it's quite clear they would be unlike anything ever seen on the silver screen before. But is that a good or a bad thing? The simple answer to that question is: yes. Here are some of the ideas for films I currently have.

• A Weekend At Bernie Ecclestone's: All the drivers in the Monaco Grand Prix die of some sort of fit whilst rounding the final corner on the last lap of the race, allowing their cars to cross the line under their own power. The podium ceremony becomes an elaborate façade in order to save face in front of the watching millions and is not dissimilar to Thunderbirds.
• A full exploration of my favourite Thunderbirds episode, 'Path of Destruction', where an atomic-powered logging machine goes out of control when its pilots are incapacitated by food poisoning from bad chilli. The film will explore the countless failsafe measures which could have been employed to prevent this series of events, such as: a dead man's handle on the outside of the Crablogger machine; legislation to prevent both pilots of an atomic-powered logging device both eating the same meal on the night before they are due to log; remote control over the engine. Regulatory meetings would make up the majority of this film, although it would end with a cataclysmic atomic accident involving an atomic-powered crablogger machine, a dam and a huge pile of logs.
• Andrew Lancaster Has Tea: in which my friend Andrew Lancaster has a cup of tea, but in a twist decides to then have his tea, i.e. the evening meal. Do do this, he has a wee and then goes to the chippy to get a butter pie and parched peas.

As I have previously stated, however, I am available and willing to write and direct a number of sequels to existing films, if I feel they are a strong enough franchise. These include:

• Ghostbusters 3: in which the Hudson River turns to Red Bull because of all the evil in the world. Venkman has to phone the pope, whilst Spengler and Stantz are forced to try and talk Zeddemore out of the lucrative career he has made for himself as a town planner.
• Die Hard 5: in which everyone in the world kidnaps one another and John McClane is forced to resolve the crisis by shooting himself in the knee for some reason.
• Crank 3: in which Chev Chelios' urinary sphincter has been replaced by a polo mint but he is due to take a 4-hour long open-top bus ride over famously bumpy terrain.
• Death Race 1999: A prequel to Death Race 2000, followed by the other 1,998 prequels to that, detailing in staggering detail what happened in the other 1,999 Transcontinental Road Races, including those that took place using horses and carts.
• Quincy 2 - The Dead Reckoning: where the dead rise in Los Angeles but, having all read the opinion pages of the print and online media, are very opinionated and all reckon things. Quincy must battle against time to work out why they died, why they stopped being dead, and how to kill them again. All the while trying to get his end away with a much younger woman on his boat.

New gallery

As Tony Hart knew only too well, there's something marvellous about a gallery of pictures. For too long my pictures have been strewn forgetfully across the internet, like litter in a stiff breeze. However! Today I have managed to put how much I hate the Halifax advert (the radio station one with the high-fives) behind me and upload like a madman to produce this:

dotmund.jimdo.com/picture-gallery/

Tell your friends! Show your enemies! Marvel at the fact that I'm actually pretty good at pictures, despite what you may have read on various toilet walls!

Arsene Wenger's puffa jacket

Let's be honest, it's been a pretty cold winter for many of us. However, fashion hasn't been among the casualties, as Arsene Wenger has proved, stalking the touchlines of England's football stadia wearing a puffa jacket obviously inspired by Bibendum. This is my cubist memorial of a vintage winter for couture.

Two more pictures

The first one represents the fourth of my pants pictures project, recycling the cardboard from underpants packaging in the form of almost-high art, the second one is on more traditional media, i.e. cartridge paper that has never been anywhere near underpants, mine or anyone else's.

As usual, both of these pictures (A5 size, roughly speaking) are available for purchase by any art-lovers out there, for £35 and £40 respectively. If you are interested in them or commissioning any other exciting art, you can as always email me up.

Pants pictures, volume three

My arting up of underpant-packaging card continues, this time with a scene from non-league football. Clicking the picture will make it go bigwise.

Buy this picture