The AI-generated "script" actors were given for the Glasgow Wonka event is.. something. Aside from featuring staging and effects that would be impressive for a moderately-sized West End spectacular, its stage directions also dictate precisely how delighted the audience will be.
Theory. Praxis.
I get that lazy and uncreative people will use AI to generate concepts. But if the script it barfs out has animatronic flowers, glowing orbs, rivers of lemonade and giggling grass, YOU still have to make those things exist. I'm v confused as to how that part was misunderstood.
Throughout, there's also these wee flourishes which I can only presume were added by the prompter to give things a human flavour. Mostly, they're deadeningly shit bits of "something for daddy" ribaldry, straight out of Don DiMello's playbook.
Having established that Wonka's secret sweets are meant to taste like spicy soup and human mucus respectively, the script then tells us that the guests will then try them, and that they will like them, and that they will confirm this by saying these exact things.
Worth circling back to emphasise that this script was given to performers *two days before the event* and aside from describing hundreds of effects, props and sets the organisers knew they could not provide, it also suggested that actors carry out acts of *literal magic*.
For those wondering who The Unknown refers to above. It's this dude. An "evil cholate maker" who "lives in the walls" This was a young actor doing their best so I'm glad they're masked, but the lore of this character is so bewilderingly demented it bears a little more attention.
The Unknown is an evil chocolate maker - who never mentions chocolate - and has stolen Willy's "anti-grafitti gobstopper" - but never mentions grafitti - as part of a devious plan to stop... mums from cleaning their kids' bedrooms.
There follows a showdown in which Willy defeats The Unknown and takes back his sweet - called the anti-Graffiti gobstopper although graffiti is never mentioned in any context - so it can clean bedrooms. He does this via practical FX that would cost millions of pounds to achieve.
The script's final line confirms that the whole event has been not just brilliant but also very cool and - quite speculatively, I would argue - that "the power of unity and the endless possibilities that lie within the realms of imagination and innovation" have been reinforced.
We know what AI art is: vapid, deadening garbage without worth or function. But I fear we'll keep learning just how many tedious humans can't work this out for themselves, as they assault us with this awful, garbled shit until the bubble bursts.
And yes, for the avoidance of all doubt, I wish I'd seen it. I treasure my kids' happiness, and sums of money up to and including £35, but I would happily forsake either for the chance to have stood smack bang in the face of this disaster so I could drink it all in at the source.
Anyway - know what's NOT AI-generated? My excellent, hilarious and award-winning book, which I wrote all by myself like a chump.
Buy it now and feel the power of unity and the endless possibilities that lie within the realms of imagination and innovation: mammybook.com
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Yesterday I published this column about my son's thin grasp on the merits of Father's Day. It was - I thought - a fairly sweet piece, and initial reaction from readers was very positive.
It got picked up by Men's Rights accounts, where it was posited as a clear-cut case of misandry because of the use of the term "lesser parent" - a reference that is clearly couched in ironic terms even in the headline, but which is perfectly well explained in the article itself.
It eventually became clear that the original account thought I was a woman which, doubtless, accelerated their ire. But soon I was getting mania in my mentions, and a fairly revealing glance at an ecosystem of angry men primed to take offence at the misandry they see everywhere.
When I was 7, my teacher told us to write an article about “world cultures” for school over the weekend. I remembered it late on Sunday so in a panic I made up something called the "Icelandic Fish Festival", figuring said teacher wouldn’t know either way.
Sr Veronica was one of my favourite teachers. She was a Glaswegian nun who wore a leg brace due to a childhood bout of polio, and would tell us all about it. She was funny and kind, and always encouraged me writing things. This kind of homework would have been very usual for her.
I wasn't gonna let her down. So I stayed up all night making sure the essay delivered on the premise. As it got later and later, it became a bit more unhinged. Filled with asides and personal reportage. I believe I quoted "the King of Iceland" as if he'd spoken to me personally.
Despite having offered my thoughts on the THOUGHT of Wild Mountain Thyme ahead of its release to @kn8 18 months ago, I am only now watching it for the first time. I can confirm it's everything I hoped and feared at once. vulture.com/2020/12/why-th…
First thoughts, screen legend Christopher Walken has not yet utterd a line of dialogue we haven't laughed at. Not one. The accent is like a black hole of comprehension. Nothing hits through. We're watching with subtitles. What (a) was he thinking, and (b) is he saying?
It's stagey in good and bad ways, the dialogue I could absolutely imagine working in a live scenario, as I believe it did. Here, every line feels too deliberate, like there's a fortnight between every sentence. And it looks like it's shot on video, like a live episode of 30 Rock
A lot of people are sharing this today - which is fair enough since it makes some relevant points - but it doesn't apply exactly to what's happening at the moment, and the reasons it doesn't are important.
The current horror show is certainly underlined by Brexit/Irish Sea Border stuff, but it’s inseprable from the same old cycle of neglect and exploitation Northern Ireland has suffered under from both London and Belfast governments for as long as I've been alive.
Ordinary Northern Irish people again being treated as disposable batteries; faceless, futureless cyphers who can be cajoled, connived, traded and radicalised in the interests of their political leaders.
There should be no equivocation here, this is the DUP’s mess.
Huge news at my dad's house, as a robin has moved in. He has, somewhat inevitably, been named Pablo, after the novelty robin ornament he bought some Christmases ago, which had telescopic legs and a kind face. This robin too, appears friendly and professional. More updates to come
Pablo has been a visitor to my dad's garden for some time, but began entering the home this weekend. He flies back out the window frequently, but always returns, and he is now a free-roaming member of the household, gallivanting from room to room on regular tours of inspection.
Pablo loves music, with a particular predilection for the Northern Irish Country Music™ for which my homeland must be thoroughly, and regularly shamed.
For this, my father now loves him more ardently than any of his eleven children.
In today's column I talk about my experience of Halloween growing up in Derry, and my son's rather limited go of it. But I *also* traffic in some thoroughly debunked Irish halloween myths, so I'd like to correct the record. theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2…
Although Samhain did denote the start of winter, conflating it with Halloween is a relatively modern invention, without much actual evidence. Also, Irish emigrants to America did celebrate Hallowe'en, but so did the English, Welsh, others.
The conjecture that the veil between worlds was more permeable on Samhain, hence beasties, costumes and trick or treating, also seems to have appeared in the early 20th century. A nice story, but bolloxology alas.