Why?

Is that what the facebook format is for? Taking your tie off and smelling the flowers? Or is it a mating ritual? I once filled in an "OKCupid" profile, and my matches - the people of similar morals who enjoyed the same books and videos as me - were not people who lent tumescence to my winkie (all turned me off either by liking Terry Pratchett or by being my brother). In the middle class UK branch of Facebook all the boys look like lab assistants, and all the girls look like Louise Brookes dressed as Minnie Mouse, and they all talk like effete uncles and tomboy aunties, and they all like Scrubs, Sufjan Stevens and Catch 22. What's to know? Vive la difference, add salt to my meat.

Is this a book you like - or a book you'd like to like? Is this film a foul-weather friend or a PR? Show yourself by listing your enemy films. Which do you dislike liking? Which of your dislikes do you like? Do you like to dislike? People list their favourite bands and authors - and emphasise that the list is incomplete. But of course! Who but an autist has finite tastes? Panic not, your omissions do not mislead me.

Give me a social networking system built openly on fear and loathing. Or a confessional. Show in your contact list a gallery of those to whom you owe forgiveness. A network of people you have dirt on - parochial kiss 'n' tells. Testify your pain and resentment. Confess and absolve. When people you don't like try to “friend” you, give negative testimony. "Your posturing sickens me". "The memory of our drunken sexual encounter is like knives to a blackboard". "I genuinely hate you just because you have nicer hair than me". I want to make "2facebook".

No, here's one. Assimilate the current popularity of genealogy and make familybook. If immortality is the attraction, let's do it properly. The Koreans think that we are squeamish about their dog farms because we have weak family values, and can only open our hearts and souls to capering, sycophantic mutes. Can you list 10 of your mum's favourite bands? Do you know what your grandad's first job was? After all, it's part of what made you who you are - the butterfly effect of your great-aunt's time in the ball bearing factories led to your love of Deerhoof, you know. The time for finding out your friends’ favourite telly shows is when you’re in the old folks’ home together. Imagine a WW2 facebook: Interests: Gardening, Oxo, NOT getting fucked or bombed. Back in the days before boredom. The only facebook they had was Schindler’s List.

Show me elliptical vignettes - blogs and flickrs - and send your meticulous personality meta tags to Tesco. Facebook’s supposed to be a friendfinder but it looks more like a factfest, like a pile of tellies.

I shouldn't scorn something that wasn't made for me. Just because I don't want to do it doesn't mean it shouldn't be there - that's homogenophobic. Plus I visit it every day. Is my ambivalence fired because it makes me feel competitive? Did I hypocritically turn up wanting to be discovered in the most nonchalant chair?

In my college's "alternative" yearbook I put "The Moon" as my future destination, with forced leftfieldery - and so did the trenchcoat boy who I bullied in film class.

If I list my favourite sandwiches on Facebook I know I'll feel compelled to add "And more..." because I don't want to be judged on incomplete evidence.

Have them carve "I could have gone on..." on my gravestone.

This year's mythopoeic SURPRISE MOVIE, lensed some time after the prehistoric age, is an unrecognisable reincarnation of the then amateur director’s directorial debut, SPOILT IT ISLAND, cinematographised in the 20th century. ISLAND, the film that inspired the adage, “Never work with children, animals or Val Kilmer”, explored anti-sexuality and the occult as well as exposing the hypocrisy of those who profess beliefs that they do not possess. This new version is more visually engaging than Aardman Animations' poignant summer hit MAUS, and funnier than Sam Raimi's political satire BUSH AND GORE. The cast comprises a troupe of thespians and performers whose actuality has to be seen to be believed. Structurally, SURPRISE could be compared to Riverchon’s TWISTER (2001), which was literally a rollercoaster ride with two peaks. However, the shooting style is camera focussed, paying slight homage to Russ Meyer’s documentary FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL!; the sheer cinematography is undeniable.

The film follows a three-act structure, possibly dealing with themes of separation and return, of atonement and the quest for understanding. Its narrative is drawn as much from what is left unspoken as from what is revealed, and when the non-titular SURPRISE hits, there won't be a dry seat in the house. Can a killer with a 30 second memory span truly find redemption? Was Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk faked? Don’t look to SURPRISE for the answers. At the end of the day, if you laughed when you saw Rowan Atkinson flick THE BEAN, then this is not the film for you.

The subject is paedophile priest Father Oliver O’Grady, who felt “ill equipped to handle” the responsibility laden upon him by his parishioners. Perhaps we normal members of society are ill-equipped to examine the human need for affection or validation hampered by Catholic doctrine and extreme sociopathy.

Examinations of paedophilia are often diverted by the difficult examination of the cause of this aberration, or attempts to elicit sympathy for the devil. Who would want to watch a version of JAWS which followed a member of the reclusive, non-threatening 99% of the Great White population, who wakes up in the morning, eats seals and then goes back to sleep? Berg’s bold “exception that proves the rule” approach is vital when tackling the subject of predators of any kind.

A dictionary definition of “Survivor” describes one who prospers and flourishes after trauma. Many have thrived on the proceeds of feigned or exaggerated childhood trauma – genuine victims who are reluctant to relive their pain presumably did not “survive”. Through her work, Amy Berg allows her interviewees, or “characters” as she calls them, to survive vicariously.

Hurley was in later years criticised for manipulating his images for dramatic effect, but the grandeur of the Antarctic could never, and need never, be augmented by human imagination. Their ship, the Endurance, was caught fast in the grip of the pack. Hurley's simple footage of the magnificent ship subdued, crumpling in the fist of the ice, is deeply moving.

Composer and pianist Neil Brand provided live, improvised accompaniment for the film. The bizarre and hugely varied sounds made by constantly shifting ice really require a fully stocked BBC sound effects kit. However, Neil Brand conveyed wonderfully the otherworldliness of the terrain with grim, ocean-deep low notes and flowing streams of urgency; and also created spontaneous and charming leitmotifs for nature's not-so-silent comedians, the dog and the penguin.

Hurley abandoned his cine-camera with the wrecked ship, and where the real adventure starts, the documentation continues in stills. These last few images are at least as powerful as the live footage - particularly the rescue ship viewed from Elephant Island. However, the story soon gives way to crowd-pleasing vignettes featuring grumpy sea elephants and busy bird-life.

Shackleton may have failed in his original intention to cross Antarctica, but his crew of 28 men survived flabbergasting hardships, and with Frank Hurley's help he succeeds in astounding us all nearly one hundred years on.

"The Abandoned" is cool, but the twist in the tale (just before the snake eats it) will have you vexed and shaking your fist, and the final voiceover may inspire you to kick summat. Do watch it and let me know if you agree, or whether I am missing something... Oh, gosh, that wasn't my review. Click "continue" to see the official 250 words.

Peripatetic heroine Marie is going through a mid-life crisis when she inherits a Russian farmhouse from her birth mother, whom she has never known. Her search for the meaning of life, falling appropriately on the eve of her 42nd birthday, brings her to this derelict structure which draws parallels with Twin Peaks’ “Black Lodge”. Its deliberately obscure setting lies somewhere between Hostel’s Slovakia and Dracula’s Transylvania. As a physical manifestation of Marie’s psyche, when the floorboards of the house split, there comes to pass not only a ghostly family reunion, but a forced reconciliation of ego and shadow.

Andrei Tarkovsky’s influence lends a new vitality to the ubiquitous viridian hues of the 21st century horror film. From brown study and rusted tableau to bursts of verdigris, this is a place where gaming classic Resident Evil 4 meets Breughel. Composer David Kristian’s profoundly effective and original sense of Dies Irae sustains an overindulgent intensity, and the climactic un-destruction of the house is breathtaking. Does the past haunt us, or do we haunt the past?

Heraclitus said, “The soul is its own source of unfolding”, and unfold it does, rashly but beautifully. Let’s see what Cerdà does next.

Nyahhh I saw this before you. The Yanks saw it first but they don't count. You can see it on Jul 12th in Cambridge, if you like.

Lukas watches life literally pass him by from his tollbooth annexe, snatching cursory human contact from the daily flow of drivers. A chance exchange with a concentration camp survivor provokes the righteous arrogance of youth to surface, and Lukas reinvents himself as an unorthodox Jew. He meticulously adopts the trappings of both obsession and Judaism, and with a yarmulka planted on his head, creates a psycho-collage on the wall of his apartment. Taking upon his shoulders a burden of plagiarised pain, he preaches in vain to the available masses of amused children and baffled peers.

The call and response of soundtrack and dialogue carries with a calculated elegance, counterpointed by actual survivor testimony. Ted Reichman's ambient jazz soundtrack chides, warns and ridicules a protagonist who is more misery magpie than culture vulture.

Can one only exist after experiencing the extremes of human suffering, albeit vicariously? Lukas develops emotional stigmata which prove unbearable, and ultimately this witty and clever film suggests that we follow the traditional Jewish example of allowing mourning to reach an end after grieving wholeheartedly and profoundly.

South, Frank Hurley's footage from Shackleton's South Pole adventure. I will probably blub.

The Cloud (Die Wolke) - it's a nuke-you-ler cloud, too!

Collection of Dalek features (That's not a new way of saying "you look like Jimmy Nail", it's a Dr Who special)

Hell's Ground (Zibahkhana), a Pakistani "screaming teen" horror film

Lunacy - Jan Svankmajer, but no clay willies

Motel Hell

The Memory Thief, sounds like a thinking man's Apt Pupil

The Abandoned - blood and killin's and that

Paprika - manga

I recently made a list of the 30 books I could think of offhand, that I have genuinely read more than 3 times - not just the books I would list if someone asked me to. Most of them included themes of dystopia, holocaust, violence, Antarctic exploration and squalour. You'll notice I swing the same way for a picture.

Anyhoo LOL, I applied for this after seeing "The Prestige" at the drive-in with my sweetheart. We couldn't get the radio tuned in for the first fifteen minutes or so, and by the time we could hear the film there was still an undeniable tree blocking our view. I wanted to test myself by reviewing something at random, and to a deadline. The finished product made me feel like a twat, but then again all reviews sound a bit smug. If you want to see my practice review, read on. Remember - I didn't actually see half of the fucker.

Sadly, Christopher Priest's elegant work of speculative fiction has been wrought into a script too shallow to honour either the author or his muse, H.G. Wells. In theory, Christopher Nolan is the ideal conductor of smoke and mirrors. Editor Lee Smith creates a scattergun rhythm that is as baffling as Nolan's excellent "Memento", but lacks its guyropes - character depth and intrigue. The potential counterweight of two powerful female characters goes unrealised; the story begs to be handed over to Orson Welles for fattening, or even to Paul Verhoeven for flattening.

Production designer Nathan Crowley's fanciful showmanship is too straight for steampunk; the direction too glamorous for true romance. Stylish imagery such as top hats clustered in a copse gives way to B-movie mummery and electrickery. Caine (as Cutter, quartermaster/butler) might in his youth have given a better bit as Borden, the earnest cockney diamond. Jackman bores even himself as Angier, only to shine in the role of his character's hired double, a drunken British arse. Twists loiter in the wings as blatantly as the Dundreary whiskers favoured by the protagonists when they go incognito. Where is the poise, the flirtation and caprice? A game of 52 card pickup - don't fall for it.

a long time ago. Coming soon: Ed Gein's mum's room, work currently under construction.

I've been wondering if I've been sinning. I don't do lust any more; I used to a lot. Wiki: "Dante's criterion was 'excessive love of others', thereby detracting from the love due to God". I met a Quaker recently; I've decided I'm a Quaker, and to me "love due to God" translates as love due to the syrup in my headporridge, e.g. my quiddity, and so no, I don't do that any more, and speaking of Dante, Clerks 2 is rubbish. They all have double chins and are less funny. I know people get double chins and less funny when they turn 30. I know.

I have two dinners every night and I hate mornings!!1

I don't care about money much. With money comes power. With little power comes little responsibility, and I like it that way. Too much disposable cash would throw me into moral turmoil. People who boast about their income disgust me. And that's where we come to the sins I doodoo, e.g. wrath. It's my worst one. I can leap into a benny at the slightest provocation. I've found two ways of curbing my petty outrage, and I want you to do it too. Next time some arsehole pisses you off, you have two options. One is to check whether you're projecting. For instance, I find myself having a proper rant about Ms X:

"God, she's such an attention seeking, screech voiced cow; she thinks she's one of the lads but just comes across as fancying them".

No she isn't; but I am, and I do. Except I'm not and I don't, I just subconsciously worry about it. I've unwittingly berated myself for this a few times, thinking I was hating harpies when I was in fact just a bit spiritually fidgety. You can even use it for:

"For fuck's sake, the Mrs hasn't washed up"

because neither have you, and does that make you Mr Trebus? Nope.

If you're not projecting, then somebody may well have stolen your bucket (see top). Usually for me it's when I'm sinning Pride - if I think someone's being condescending or inconsiderate. If you find yourself thinking "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!" or your own equivalent, either go the whole hog with your fury and commence a shooting spree after Falling Down, or stop and think "Am I just behaving like a wall-eyed, bucket obsessed seal?" and then stop it. If something's justifiably maddening you, and it's not your fault, and you can't remove yourself and think about ponds and lounge music until your eyes are pointing the same way again (e.g. forwards), I suppose you're allowed to bust a blood vessel. It's worth checking, though.