Rob Williams

I promised an INDIANA JONES AND THE TOMB OF THE GODS 2 preview page the other day, so, here you go. It’s suitably thrilling and filled with the warm, recognisible Raiders-ish glow of Indyness, I hope. It’ll be in the shops September 10th:

Will our intrepid heroes make it out of this splat-threatening escapade alive? Hmmmm…. probably, let’s face it, but half the fun’s the journey, eh? (Unless it’s a 12 hour flight in economy with a fat bloke wedged either side of you).

In other news, STAR WARS: REBELLION 16 is out this week. Quite pleased with this issue, script-wise. I think there’s some nice subtle character work there, especially with Vader and Luke. And lightsaber fights too. Always with the lightsaber fights. 

INDIANA JONES AND THE TOMB OF THE GODS issue two has been delayed and is now due in shops September 10th, I understand. I received the majority of the finished coloured and lettered pages on Friday, so it’s coming. Honest. Bit disappointing the delay, obviously, but quality’s worth waiting for, innit?

Here’s the cover for issue two, by the brilliant Tony Harris. Please note, the nazi and horse in question may not actually appear in the story but they look good so leave it, yeah?

Elsewhere, STAR WARS: REBELLION 16 should be out last week of August, the climax to the two-part VECTOR crossover. It’s been a blast, this. Dustin Weaver’s made the two issues look outstanding and his storytelling’s been great and always respectful of the script. We’ve been talking about working together on something else and have a pitch in with a publisher at the moment, but nothing’s confirmed. Hopefully it’ll work out.

Elsewhere, I’ve just started a new eight-part DIRTY FRANK series for 2000AD. No Rufus on this one, unfortunately. He’s busy with all things Tank Girl. But the artist who I’ve been told is definitely on board is an absolute gem and someone I’m a major fan of. I know better than to announce names until pencil goes to page these days, but I’ll spill the beans here as soon as I’m able.

I’m currently halfway through the final part of the MEET DARREN DEAD story, EATS, SHOOTS AND KILLS which features the murderous ghost of a giant panda and has been a load of silly fun. The danger with both this and the Dirty Frank scripts is I get carried away with the dialogue. I’m having such a good time, and coming up with completely surreal lines that make me laugh, that I can perhaps slip too far off the narrative’s path. So, I have to keep reigning myself back and asking myself if I really need that scene that’s given me the giggles. It’s all very well these tales being fun, but they have to be strong dramatic stories too. Frank, especially, has to work as an investigative Judge and be believable. 

I’m also just starting up a brand new series for 2000AD called, wait for it, THE GRIEVOUS JOURNEY OF ICHABOD AZREAL (AND THE DEAD LEFT IN HIS WAKE). A black and white supernatural western, this, with one of my favourite 2000AD artists on board. I’m reading Daniel Woodrell and Cormac McCarthy to get in the mood, and overdosing on Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ (no, not that one) brilliantly atmospheric soundtrack for The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford. Great movie, that, by the way. If you’ve not seen it.

I’ll post some preview art from Indy 2 in the next few days, so keep a look out.

The final gripping installment…

So, the drive between Jackson, Mississippi, and New Orleans is around two-and-a-half hours, apparently. yet the travel company who’d booked the trip for myself and the two other journalists who were heading down to Louisiana had, in their wisdom, booked two flights for us instead – an hour long one back to Houston (WILDLY wrong direction) and then another hour and 15 minute flight from Houston to New Orleans. Now, regardless of how much I dislike flying anyway, this was just a logistical pain in the arse. Add the fact that one of the journalists ended up almost having a fight with a grouchy local on the tiny jet taking us to Houston (“I’ll send you back to the UK in a body bag” was the line, apparently) and you have something that can, at least, be described as an intresting experience.

Fortunately, we were treated like kings in New Orleans by the local tourist board, which made up for the travel inconvenience and then some. Huge sedan to meet us at the airport, glorious hotel – the Ritz Carlton executive area, with complimentary drinks, food any hour of the day, wow. This was a tiny glimpse into how the other half live and very bloody enjoyable it was too.

The tour we were given of New Orleans was predictably affecting. Considering the fact that we only had a day and a few hours there, really, to have a knowledgeable local show us around was fascinating. And, thankfully, despite the desire to sell New Orleans as a tourist city open for business, there was a willingness to show us areas like the Ninth Ward, which are still pretty devastated by Katrina. As ever, the disparity of a city’s financial areas was really jarring. From the ruined houses and derelict land of the Ninth Ward, you drive five minutes up the road and you’re surroundedby some of the most gorgeous huge Southern houses you could possibly imagine. Obviously, the levees were higher there…

The building projects we saw were inspiring, though, especially since the new houses were actually being built with an architectural eye on making them fit with the older houses in the area, trying to keep the distinctive character of the region alive. Also uplifting was the musician’s village, New Orleans being such a music town, and so many of them being displaced in Katrina, that a new suburb has been built purely for the musicians. What a great idea.

I’m hardly making an original point here but New Orleans really is a characterful city with a feel like nowhere else I’ve been in the States. The French Quarter has roughly the same bohemian feel of Greenwich Village in New York, but Bourbon St was surprisingly skanky, which shocked me a little.

Still, the meal we had in the evening was wonderful, even though everyone on the trip seem completely befuddled by my vegeterianism. They obviously don’t do that in the south. I’ve never eaten so many salads. The tourist board representative and her husband were great company and then we finished the evening, and the trip, off with a trip to a jazz club. Well, you have to, don’t you?

Six flights in five days. I was back in Heathrow by 9.30 on Friday morning. A ludicrous trip. And, of course, I couldn’t sleep on the flight back so felt wretched. But, the whole thing was an absolute highlight. Everyone we met was hugely helpful and inspiringly friendly. The type of fresh experience that slaps you across the face, wakes you up and makes life worth living.

Just wish the films on Continental were better, that’s all.

Fats Domino’s house in the Ninth Ward.

It occurs to me that in the first part of this blog I placed all the blame for the What Happens In Vegas taste disfigurement at the feet of Ashton Kutcher but let Cameron Diaz off scott-free. This was unfair as she’s 50% responsible for this monstrous puss-filled atrocity. What happened to Diaz anyway? When she first made it in The Mask she followed it up with smart left-field indie choices like The Last Supper (good movie) and seemed far brighter than the average blonde. These days it’s grey-cell avoiding catshit like The Holiday (a film so bad it actually aspires to be a Bridget Jones sequel, ponder that for a second). Cameron. What happened?

Anyway, back to Mississippi. After landing in Houston and a four hour stopover I was strapped to a leftover rocket from a fireworks display (it was a very small jet) and fired in the general direction of Jackson, Mississippi, the hottest place in the world FACT (NB – this may be untrue). The next morning, along with several other journalists and cameramen, it was down to Millsaps College, just across from the stadium where the great Walter Payton played his college football, to watch the New Orleans Saints training camp.

These people actually practice in 108 degree heat which is, let’s face it, silly. Sillier than the thought of Ashton Kutcher doing Hamlet with a bag over his head. The place was so humid and there was no cover from the sun – you stood up a bit fast and you felt woozy, and not in a good way – yet there they were running sprints, hitting pads and generally being very big and vaguely superhuman.

No fatalities occurred, among the players, the crowd or the media, thankfully. So then we walked down to the press area where we interviewed several players and coaches. Drew Brees was particularly impressive, showing a charisma and intensity that I’ve rarely encountered before. Only spoke to him for a few minutes but came away with a feeling that here’s a guy who could make a serious run as a politician one day.

Repeated the whole process in the afternoon. Attempted not to die in the sun, then player interviews. The main reason for me being there was to interview Reggie Bush, but Bush is an enormous star with a $60 million contract and more endorsement deals than can be healthy for any man’s timetable. So, the interview was going to be in the morning? Fine. Nope, Reggie’s now too busy. it’s going to be in the afternoon? No problem. Uhhh… Reggie’s disappeared. I was starting to worry a little. I’d been flown out to the surface of the sun, Mississippi, pretty much purely to interview Reggie Bush, yet Mr. Bush had done a Lord Lucan. And the player power aspect of professional sports was being spelled out very clearly. Some of these men are multi-millionaire superstars – no one is able to tell them that they HAVE to be at a certain place at a certain time, or they have to do an interview. If they don’t feel like it, it doesn’t happen. Regardless of the heavily sweating Welshman waiting in the press area who’s lost half his bodyweight that morning alone and has travelled halfway around the world to talk to them and been assured that Reggie knows about it and the interview is, like, definitely happening.

Eventually, Reggie emerged, post shower, and jumped in his golf buggy, started it up, and drove the 15 feet or so to where I was standing in the press area (now that’s Hollywood). He looked at me, silently patted the passenger seat, ordering me to get in. He was the most muscled human being I’ve ever seen in my life. Just being around that level of macho was completely unsettling. How could I not obey? Yes, reader, we did the interview in Reggie Bush’s golf buggy. This was not an average week.

In person, he seemed like a nice guy, but the whole process is so professional it’s tough to tell too much from a 15 minute talk. I’ve learnt over the years that, apart from rare instances, you’re not going to get too pally with people in an interview. It’s a transaction. They know it’s part of their job to talk to you. If you prod a bit you can sometimes get past the exterior and see the person they are away from their gameface, but with sportsmen like this, they do sooo many interviews, the main battle is to try and steer them away from the “I just want to give 100%” cliches. Hopefully I did.

It was a thrill for me – I’ve loved the NFL since it came on UK TV screens in 1984-ish – so to interview players like Aaron Glenn and Mark Brunell… I’ve played these people on the Madden PC game, for goodness sake. I’ve been a journalist now for 14 years, and I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a job so much.

Returned the next morning for our final session with the team. Was hoping to get a few words with Jeremy Shockey, who’s always good for a quote or two, it seems, but even though we waited for over an hour after practice, and was told he’d be out any time, we were eventually informed that he’d ducked out through the back door. Probably in his own souped-up golf buggy. With a big American eagle and the stars and stripes painted on the side.

Then, after just a day-and-a-half in Jackson, it was time to leave for New Orleans. Final part to follow.

“Get in my damn golf buggy”

Yes, I was in Mississippi last week. No, I was in no way involved in Morgan Freeman’s car accident. Let’s get that out of the way up front.

Got back on Friday morning after a fantastic, hugely hectic few days. The somewhat muddied last-minute organisation of the trip by the PR company working for the NFL meant that I arrived at Heathrow on the Sunday morning with just a printed off flight schedule and no ticket. I was convinced the Continental Airlines people would turn me away and tell me it was all a wind up. But no, my e-ticket number worked and I was shocked to find myself on a flight to Houston. The sense of this all being something of a “You’ve Been Framed” experience only grew when the pilot came over the intercom while we were taxying and said: “Morning folks, this is Captain Kirk.” Cue me violently storming the cockpit and demanding to know where the secret cameras were hidden. Not really. Turns out he really was called Captain Kirk. Weird world sometimes.

Continental, it turns out, have APPALLING taste in movies. I genuinely couldn’t sit through any of them for more than ten minutes, which is a problem on a nine hour flight. (That Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz Vegas film made my pee dry up and come out blue it was so contrived and covered in wrong, and what’s going on with that Narnia, Prince Caspian monstrosity? And the blonde posh bloke? Gah! Who the hell hired him? In the words of the great acting arbiter Calculon from Futurama: “That was so bad I think you gave me cancer!”). So, I ended up sitting through three episodes of House MD back to back.

Never seen it before. I really couldn’t be arsed to invest my time in yet another hospital drama. But this was great. Smart, smart West Wing-style dialogue, some nice, if overtly obvious character work on House himself and Hugh Laurie, it turns out, is fairly mesmerising in it. OK, it’s very formulaic and House has a big old Columbo revelation to save the day every episode but it’s amazingly watchable.

Now, for anyone who grew up in the UK in the ’80s and was used to Laurie playing the gormless idiot, self-depricating toff in countless shows (he was very good at it, and was obviously a very talented comic actor), this is completely amazing. Off he goes to America to become this simmering ball of tortured intensity and gargantuan self-confidence and you can’t take your eyes off him on screen. The Brits don’t really do this type of Olympian star vehicle inner belief, and the Americans don’t really do foppish “oops, I really am an idiot, excuse me for accidentally setting fire to your husband’s moustache Mrs Montague” personal embarassment, yet Mr Laurie seems to be an absolute genius on both. I know I’m so late to this particular party that the building where it took place has been demolished and a pretty park has been built on the ground where it took place but, still. I watched three more episodes on the way home even though the screen was faulty and I could only see half of what was going on (Yes, Continental’s movies are THAT bad. Damn you, Ashton Kutcher and your evil, carcinogenic lowest-common-denominator witless drivel) and ordered the season 1 box-set immediately on my return. Another US TV series to lose my life in. Bugger.

I also read Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell on the flight. Again, hugely recommended. The guy can write as well as Ashton Kutcher sucks arse. And I listened to the new album by The Hold Steady – Stay Positive. It’s not quite up to the standard of Boys & Girls In America, but it’s great nonetheless. See, good things can be read/watched/listened to when you’re trying to fight off deep vein thrombosis at 40,000 feet. Take note Continental Airlines. Just because we’re in economy doesn’t mean we’re idiots. Maybe.

Then we landed. God, this blog hasn’t even reached Mississippi yet. More to follow (if anyone’s still reading). For now, here’s a picture of America’s brooding sex symbol, Hugh Laurie: