THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | REVIEW
by James Killough
I’ve always liked Michael Winterbottom’s name because it makes my inner snickering pubescent, who hovers just slightly under the surface of my persona, think about having sex with a young buck under a Christmas tree. The young buck is wearing a Santa hat and nothing more. Okay, maybe work boots.
Steve Coogan (seen here in "24 Hour Party People") is becoming the Marcello Mastroianni to Winterbottom's Fellini.
Winterbottom is a British director who works with admirable speed, intelligence and ferocity in terms of the issues he tackles. I’ve never met him, but judging by his work he’s a real mensch; he was one of the first to turn a camera on the nasty injustices of Guantanamo. The only thing I know about him is that he owes a large part of his success and his ability to get his films made, despite a lack of box office success, thanks to his long-term partnership with his producer, Andrew Eaton. Continue reading
Very aptly, I am the son of a Mad Man. In the 60s and 70s, my father was with one of the larger ad agencies that are referred to from time to time in the dialogue of Mad Men. He accepted a position to head up the Italian operations of that agency, the purview of which was expanded over time, but we the family were based in Rome while he traveled around. The real reason we were there is probably because the US was afraid to lose Italy and France to the communists during the 70s, so we sent some of our “businessmen” over there to help bolster the interests of democracy. If I were in a pitch meeting and had to do a mash up of references to describe Dad, it would be Mad Men meets The Good Shepherd.
If Dad has a quibble with the authenticity of "Mad Men," my only problem with "The Good Shepherd" is the women in my world just didn't look like that, which means it was eerily real.
I won’t delve too much into The Good Shepherd aspect because much of it is conjecture, albeit conjecture based on high probability. Dad has expressed a desire in this last chapter of his life to tell me his story, and I would like him to feel free to do so without fearing that it’s going to end up in a blog side by side with some willfully salacious anecdote that involves sodomy, haute couture and Class A drugs. Suffice it to say, there is a reason the period we lived in Rome is referred to as the anni di piombo, “the years of lead,” referring to the flying bullets and the bombings that seemed to be a part of our daily lives. After we left in ’79, things calmed down in Italy considerably. Hopefully that was just a coincidence. Continue reading