Review - Shutter Island

Like any great artist Martin Scorsese knows how to create a feeling. Whether it be New York's suffocating angst in Taxi Driver or the constantly humming volatility in Goodfellas, the (finally) Oscar winning director is a master with the emotive paintbrush.

Shutter Island, then, is Scorsese's darkest film to date both aesthetically and in tone. But once you scratch away at the bleak canvas we're left feeling rather empty.

Undoubtedly inspired by some of Scorsese's favourite Noir, Shutter Island is at it's most basic level a detective film centered around the disappearance of a 'patient' Rachael Solando from the seemingly inescapable mental institution on the remote Shutter Island.

Boston detective Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and new partner Chuck Aule arrive on the island and immediately surrender their firearms to obey protocol. They meet Dr. Crawley (Ben Kingsley) who insists the is at their disposal throughout the investigation. After a storm wrecks havoc on the island's power and inevitable, the missing Solando turns up not once but twice and after a meeting with an old friend Daniels, crucially, starts to doubt his own existence.

As the plot twists and then turns Scorsese, master storyteller that he is, draws out our own doubts through Daniels' behaviour and flashbacks (the only way we learn about Daniels' traumatised past) to his time liberating a Nazi death-camp in WWII. This raises intriguing questions: why did Daniels want this case? Who is Laeddis? What happens in Ward C?

Nearly all of the accumulated loose ends become clearer after an unravelling that probably reveals a little too much over too many minutes. This is where the film dissipates slightly and becomes a little more Hollywood than you'd expect from a film maker of Scorsese's heritage.

The performances in Shutter Island help capture the menace of the film. Leonardo DiCaprio is completely compelling as Daniels and portrays his fragile state of mind convincingly. The finest point coming when Daniels doubts his own partner. Shutter Island could mark DiCaprio's finest performance with Scorsese at the helm.

The supporting cast, however, aren't outshone by DiCaprio. Mark Ruffalo plays Chuck with a charming laddish-ness, one that makes the latter stages of the film tougher to digest but not entirely surprising. Ben Kingsley brings subtlety and composure to Dr. Crawley, a man whose professionalism is tested only when he almost loses his raison d'etre.

Stylistically Shutter Island wonderfully captures the insecurities of the protagonist in nightmarish noir. Expressionist angles, shady characters and snappy dialogue are all there but the film lacks some of Scorsese's typical vivacity. As a result the rug isn't ever completely pulled from underneath you: it's fairly obvious where this is going.

Even the climax, a Sunset Boulevard-esque trip which differs from Dennis Lehane's source novel, doesn't have the effect it should. Instead when the end credits roll we're left not really knowing how to feel.

Mephed-Up

There isn't much that scares me. I sleep in the dark, eat raw fish and once punched a bloke - deservedly, I should add - in the face. Hard.

I primarily put this down to a warped sense of realism, meaning I often find myself in situations thinking: "What's the worst that could happen?", like some sort of Dr. Pepper mantra.

Let me put this into metaphorical practice.

Were a man to coerce his way into my house hellbent on stealing, raping, killing or otherwise annoying me, my family or their possessions you'd expect survival mode to kick in. Not me. My distorted mindset dictates that I would be hoping that the trespasser had politely removed his shoes upon entry.

To me a hacked throat would by far outweigh the inconvenience arduousness of removing mud stains from Mum's beige carpet.

Exception to this affliction is the controversy-mire that are legal highs. My inclinations on the rising popularity of these drugs are crystal clear, set in stone, mounted on my mantlepiece because of one night last year.

Looking for a cheap, hassle free night away from the bright lights of town, me and friends settled for a night on the sofa's rather than the tiles.

A few of the lads had been talking about something called Space-E, which I now know is one of the ridiculous pseudonyms for the increasingly popular party-drug Mephedrone.

Sold online and over the counter at head shops, Mephedrone, or Meow Meow as it is now commonly known, can be purchased for as little as £10 a gramme and gives users a feeling of euphoria.

Unbeknownst to me It is currently legal for sale in the UK, though not for human consumption, but calls are being made to outlaw the substance in the wake of a number of deaths related to the drug.

Mephedrone is reported to induce amphetamine-style euphoria in combination with mental and physical stimulation, feelings of empathy and increased talkativeness. Physical changes can include dilated pupils, sweating, raised temperature, increased heart rate and high blood pressure.

Side-effects of the drug can include anxiety, depression, nose bleeds,nausea and vomiting. Police have also reported some users have stopped breathing, following a collapse caused by the drug, and user accounts tell of a sharp, depressing comedown and overwhelming feelings of anxiety.

I remember thinking that for a tenner and with no legislative restrictions this stuff, this 'Plant Food', was cheap and legal. A bit like good porn.

After an anxious ten minutes during which I felt like a Huntingdon Life Science experiment, I became totally overwhelmed both physically, from head to toe, and mentally. I could feel blood pumping through my veins like express trains. Everything became clear, my head had opened, my body in awe of, well, everything. I unashamedly, and looking back now, quite pathetically, admitted that I'd never felt so incredibly alive.

This feeling lasted for about an hour after which I came crashing back to normality with my head feeling as though I'd slammed it against a wall. Something that subsequently I wished I'd rather opted for. I felt low, scummy and tainted - a feeling that, to my horror, lasted days. Legal or not, I'd just harmed myself in ways I didn't know.

Mephedrone, like any drug, is dangerous but perhaps the most discernible concern with this drug is the lack of knowledge about what it does to you. Mephedrone was introduced into this country in 2007 and its stratospheric rise in popularity has caught both medics and the Advisory Council for the Misuse of Drugs off guard.

One user who admitted himself to hospital after binging on Meow Meow described petrified doctors unwilling to administer medical procedures for fear of causing a reaction with the substance.

"I was left sitting in the corridor, sweat pouring out of me and my heart smashing against my chest. They thought I was going to die," he said.

But despite the news headlines and government proposals to classify Mephedrone as a class B drug, use of the substance is still on the rise.

A regular user put it this way: "It doesn't matter whether it's legal or not, there'll be an alternative out in months that people will start using.
"I've noticed changes in people who do it all the time but they'll still crack on with it."

This is perhaps the most shocking detail of the rise of Mephedrone, that the consequences of this drug become very much a secondary consideration to a night out.

And that is very scary.

Corking English Wine

The English have always had a reputation as a nation of drinkers. Switch on the news and you’ll invariably hear a story about youngsters’ intolerable drinking patterns, usually coupled with a still image of a woman with her knickers over her face. “We are a society of lager louts,” Jon Snow will boom.

Well, I went to see whether I could change this. I was to embark on a mission to learn to respect alcohol and more specifically wine, English wine. Beer sales have declined 5% since 2003 with wine over taking it as the nations favourite beverage. England, it seems, has become not just a nation of drinkers, but also a nation of wine drinkers. Every year we knock back an intoxicating 1.16 billion litres of wine – almost a quarter of a billion bottles. But out of this mind-splitting figure, English wine sales account for only 1% of the domestic market. What was wrong with English wine? I went on a three-day discovery into the heart of English winemaking to see whether I could become an English wine expert and then put my new skills to the test.