I love the Decemberists. This fact makes objectively analysing any new offering from the band much like a parent surveying their child’s cacophonous crap-pile of pasta and glitter and smiling broadly, congratulatory, resisting the urge to delicately ask ‘What is it?’. And so in front of me sits a CD subtitled ‘A Single Series’ and although I know I won’t be able to help myself from loving it, I’m forced to ask ‘What is it?’

As a precursor to their forthcoming fifth full-length Hazards of Love it could be seen as merely marking time until that album’s release. More importantly as three individual singles, with a b-side a piece, it showcases the band to be more than the bombastic, thesaurus bashing balladeers that their last, and yet still brilliant, album The Crane Wife would have you believe. ‘Valerie Plame’ is a bouncy, ukulele-led ditty about the titular one-time CIA operative – a theme which has shades of older song ‘The Bagman’s Gambit’s tale of government informants, but where that ends with a string-led wig-out this climaxes with a joyous ‘Hey Jude’ style la-la-la-along.

Elsewhere ‘O New England’ is a beautiful, if fairly damning, portrayal of the area’s tourist attractions with idiosyncratic vocalist Colin Meloy declaring “I think I’d rather just wait in the car”. The remainder of the tracks are refreshingly simple in form and yet still demonstrate Meloy’s enchanting lyrical dexterity and it’s encouraging that he’s dialled back the florid verboseness he’s prone to – not that previous albums’ audacious rhymes like ‘And above all this falderal/On a bed made of chaparral’ should be something that the band should eradicate completely from their repertoire as it’s all part of their unique charm.

Of the six songs on offer here, only a pointless cover of The Velvet Underground’s ‘I’m Sticking With You’ would sound disappointing on a full-length release. And for this caring parent that’s a great relief – it makes it a lot easier when you don’t have to feign admiration of your loved-ones art.

My name is Guy Pewsey, and I’m an Alphaholic. I can’t deny it anymore; perky Danish pop combos are my idea of musical nectar; toe-tappingly catchy tunes, a pinch of ’80s nostalgia and a dash of ’90s cheese, smothered in a colourful American Apparel wrapper. It’s all just so impossibly inoffensive, if a little uncool, but with

Alphabeat’s massive success in the U.K. with stellar pop songs like ‘Fascination’ and ‘10,000 Nights’ and a nationwide tour which just stopped off at Oxford, I’m clearly not the only one. Arriving to meet the band during a sound-check, I am greeted by a group who are practically vibrating with energy and smiling almost literally from ear to ear. To be honest, it’s a little disconcerting and, certain that their egos will be revealed, I brace myself for a rough ride.

Alphabeat, however, are instantly pleasant as I ask them why they think that they’ve managed to break through the bubblegum pop stigma to success all across Europe, particularly in Britain. ‘With our music, there are people who get into it instantly, and obviously there are some people who hate it from the beginning’ says Anders, the bassist, (three members of the band are called Anders), ‘we’re used to that. Either you like it or you don’t.’

Musical Marmite they may be, perhaps understandable considering that they are probably the cheesiest thing to hit the charts in a while, but there’s no denying the sheer energy of their songs, inspired by early Madonna, even Abba. ‘We like old-school pop artists. Now we’re more into contemporary music but we take the best bits from the old stuff.’ It has been a long time before ‘old school’ has been said in my presence without being ironic, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s the colourful Danes sitting across from me.

After turning down an offer to support the Spice Girls on their ill-fated reunion world tour, (‘It was the easiest decision in the world’ says Anders, the bassist, ‘nobody was really disagreeing with us, it wasn’t the right time for us.’) the band are looking forward to continuing their own tour and working towards their next album. ‘We’ll go in a new direction, but we’re very much into contemporary American music’, Anders says, before being interrupted by Anders (God help me) ‘We don’t want to run away from being a pop band though.’

After playing to Oxford’s sold out Carling Academy, the band have clearly been enjoying their time in Britain, and are relieved that their time spent living in London ‘trying to convince people that we were good’ ended up paying off; ‘We knew we were walking a very fine line between what is cheesy and Eurovisionish and what is just good pop music. But a lot of people have taken it more seriously than we thought.’

Following on from the Eurovision comment, I suggest that they might represent Denmark in next year’s contest, and while they recall the glory days of the European institution, they insist that today’s offerings are too political, even racist, for them to ever give it a go.
Impossibly perky, with effortless charm and a sextet of great cheekbones, it’s difficult to imagine Alphabeat engaging in the usual lifestyle of a musician (singer Stine, a tiny blonde pop queen, quotes her personal motto as ‘keep dancing for a better tomorrow’). Anders (Stine’s fellow singer) insists, though, that they’re not as boring as I assumed, informing me almost proudly that ‘we were supporting a band and we got into a fist fight with them. It was a drunken night, and we didn’t really like them.’ He looks guilty for a moment, then adds, ‘They started it.’ Rock and roll guys, rock and roll.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed in Alphabeat’s behaviour. Half scared that the most innocent band in music would actually be amoral crack-heads, half hoping for an exclusive look into the evils of Danish pop, a pit of sex and filth. Either way, I have clearly failed to kick the habit. And in case you were wondering, my favourite member of the band is Anders.

There are a number of very good reasons to avoid trying to turn a book called Blindness into a film. A blank screen is the second taboo of cinema (the first being Adam Sandler), and when broken, is usually done so in such a heavy handed manner that it serves to undermine any message the film might have, rather than shore it up (Nicolas Klotz’s Heartbeat Detector being the most recent example). To be fair, Meirelles persistently avoids leaving the screen blank, and his failure to handle the on-screen representation of blindness is only intermittent and interspersed with moments of insight that are remarkable – if only for proving that CGI isn’t just for explosions and pitched battles.

What is perhaps more troubling is Meirelles’ attempt to control the unresolved allegory behind Saramago’s novel. Rather than have the blindness descend all at once, it comes back to each person individually – a device that seemingly imitates the cultural logic of the Saw films: you’re going to enjoy your life, even if it kills you. Furthermore, the rape scene is terrible to watch, probably the most traumatic moment to have been caught on celluloid in the last ten years.

Julianne Moore’s performance is particularly impressive, bringing a much needed human element to this somewhat farfetched but compelling film.

Four stars

The prudish and easily offended take heed – Clark Gregg’s adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Choke is not a trip to the cinema for the kids. Sam Rockwell is Victor Mancini, a sex addict stuck on step four of his recovery and more likely to be found slaking his lust in the public toilet with a fellow addict than sitting through group therapy.

By day, Victor is an 18th century, Irish indentured servant at a historical theme park, by night he is duping unsuspecting diners at restaurants all over town to break out their best Heimlich maneuvers and rescue him from choking on his food. When these good Samaritans save Victor, he makes them into heroes, giving them a purpose in life while simultaneously filling his pockets with the money they send him out of sympathy and attachment.

Victor’s money goes to housing Ida, his dementia-afflicted mother played by the scene-stealing Anjelica Huston. Ida is tended to by Dr. Paige Marshall, played by Kelly Macdonald, a detached yet earnest young physician who develops romantic feelings for Victor. Victor, along with his best friend Denny, a chronic masturbator and fellow theme park employee played by Brad William Henke, attempts to extract the identity of his biological father from Ida before she slips into a state of dementia from which she cannot return.

Choke’s casting directors deserve praise for finding actors who were able to capture the tone of Palahniuk’s writing. Rockwell seemed born to play Mancini, effortlessly delivering each line of tactless dialogue with just enough heart to make you root for his successful reform. Huston’s Ida Mancini is a pitiable, sick woman who continually fails to recognise her own son. The film succeeds in presenting Victor’s back-story as a plausible catalyst for his present-day lifestyle. However, there are several plotlines which call for the total suspension of the viewer’s disbelief including the initial, far-fetched suggestion of the identity of Victor’s father.

The film’s twist in the final stretch is unexpected, but it does not pack the same punch delivered by Tyler Durden in the successful adaptation of another of Palahniuk’s novels – Fight Club. Choke is not a life-changing piece of cinema but it is diverting in that it allows the viewer to put their own struggles aside for ninety-minutes and explore Victor’s depraved world.

Three stars