Detective Story

I can't say that I've ever really been hugely into detective fiction. Sherlock Holmes and Arthur Conan Doyle have never really pushed my buttons. I did like The Great Mouse Detective, Disney's rodent version of Sherlock (maybe that is where my irrational phobia of rats comes from.... Damn Rattikin). And when I was in London town, I did do a little bit of sniffing around Baker Street tube station with its Sherlock silhouettes, complete with pipe and flappy hat.

Those silhouettes don't really look like Robert Downey Jr though.

An edition of Empire magazine when I was travelling last year hinted at 2 different feature versions of Sherlock Holmes feature films that were simultaneously in production. But the one that made me just a little excited was the Guy Ritchie one. He does clever action very well. Lock Stock was a phenemenal film - the multistreamed narrative, interwoven with coincidence and cockney rhyming slang. The unfortunately titled Snatch showed Brad Pitt to have a wicked sense of humour about himself, and the Pikeys and pigs held this film together.

Let us not mention his other films, 'cause Ritchie kinda dropped the ball on those ones... Including Rocknrolla, his supposed 'comeback' film. Oops, I wasn't going to mention it!

But he's done a fantastic job with this Sherlock Holmes. The action is fast and witty. Downey Jr is brilliant - and plays Sherlock as autistic, which makes vast amouts of sense really. The hyper-observant detective is multi-talented; science, boxing, weapons modification. Plus he is totally hot. His traditional sidekick, Dr Watson (Jude Law), is much less insipid that I usually imagine him to be. In fact, Sherlock tells the good doctor that the violence he brings is very useful.

The pair from Baker Street bust up a serial killer with dark, mystical, ritualistic overtones. The hints of modern politics and terrorism, the vague references to Masonic cults and the vaguaries of vigilante crime fighting make the Victorian tale a little more relevant than just a period/action flick might otherwise be.

Rachel McAdams is mostly kickarse as Irene Adler. She does some great technical stuff, and some wicked criminal stuff. But as the only female character in here, she does occasionally get demoted to the Damsel In Distress. To the film's detriment. But how else are they going to convey Sherlock's emotional connection to her than from saving her from some impeding destruction (again with the pigs, Mr Ritchie?) than swooping in to save her...? Surely there is NO other way to convey deep and irrational affection from an otherwise rational being like Sherlock than an act of daring heroism.

Do not see this film from the front row. Yes, Boxing Day is the biggest cinema going day in Australia. And yes, the first session we wanted to see was sold out, so we bought tickets early for another session - but we still ended up being late enough to have to sit in the eye-bleed section. And as per Guy-Ritchie-usual, there is a lot of speedy camera work. At the risk of sounding a little bit like David Stratton, I did feel a little sea sick.

Ritchie has done a great job. Downey Jr continues to impress. A great Boxing Day flick, for literally, all the family.

Zombies only want you for your brains

So, zombies, huh?

Seems like they are kind of everywhere. The omnipresent undead

Jane Austen has been busy again (almost as if she is a zombie herself, posthumously prolific, this chick), with the help of Seth Graeme-Smith, creating the deliciously disgusting and post-modern Pride & Prejudice & Zombies. Ever wondered why Darcy so suddenly turned from "she is tolerable I suppose" to "she is the most handsome worman I have ever met"? Its because at the ball where he DIDN'T dance with her, there was a zombie attack, and the kung-fu trained Bennett sisters went NUTS. And Eliza is apparently the best fighter of all.

Have you wondered why Darcy convinced Bingley that Jane wasn't interested? It's because he thought she had been bitten by one of the manky terribles!

And why did Charlotte settle for the really inpleasant and unhumourous Mr Collins? It was because she had been infected by the plague, and wanted to experience married life and have an honourable burial before she died.

The zombies are used to kind of explain all the bizarre conventions of Austenesque society, plus the incorporation of gratuitous violence into a bonnet-tale is a welcome refreshment.

And last night was Zombieland. In the vein of the fanfuckingtastic Shaun of the Dead, this is also a zom rom com. The nameless of characters of Columbus, Tallahassee (once accidentally referred to as Florida), Wichita and Little Rock join forces to cope in the post-apocalyptic ruined nation of the USA.

This film is gratuitously gory. More blood and guts and offal and sinew than any human needs to see. After about 15 minutes, you have to get used to it, or you may hurl (as my companion almost did. Still smiling), you pretty much have to make a decision to see it as tomato sauce and pieces of foam.

It is also high-camp ridiculous. Complete suspension of disbelief is required.

But it is great fun. Join the ride, and shoot the control box to let this film take you away. Killer one liners, really lovable protagonists and fantastic titles that are incorporated into the action the whole way through. Heaps of fun, but not for the weak of stomach.

PS The future of the zombies in pop culture is pretty safe, too. The P&P&Z film is in pre-production, and Zombieland II is set for release in 2011

School Camp and A Smile Plays On The Lips

It has been long since I have posted. Things have been crazy busy - Orienting next year's year 7 Boys at the Factory, taking the Year 11s away from the Factory to the Gold Caost for school camp.

Aside from the Factory, there has been little to report. Much like most of my life for most of the last 2 years. A constant state of Report Monster/The Marker/Prep Woman as my alter-
egos.

But there may be changes afoot. Flux may be occurring. There will not be chickens counted yet. Though the scent of possibility leaves a grin playing on my lips that I just can't seem to budge.

Those XX Chromosomes

Many many moons ago, in the era of the 9-5, the post-uni, pre-backpacking, Before-Teaching (BT) version of myself saw a film. A fantastic and beautiful and hilarious film called The Women. 1939, directed by George Cukor. Inspired by that viewing, I did one of the things I am most proud of in my life to date; I directed the stage version of it (it was originally a theatre script). In that 8 weeks of rehearsal and performance I learned a few important things about myself, gained an obsession with all things '50s. And made friends with some of the people I still love best today.


This weekend, I got to see the film again on the big screen, and it was such a fabulous! I am still totally and completely in love with this movie. It is gold.


West Bubblefuck cinema once a month has a Silver Screening - and I think it refers to the colour of the hair of the patrons. A Sunday matinee, with tea and bikkies at interval. Being West Bubblefuck, there is never much publicity that it is on. You have to hold your head the right way to hear a whisper on the breeze (or read the back of the toilet door at the cinema). But I got wind of this one months ago, and have been so so excited about getting to see it once more. (I have been trying to track it down on DVD for years, and it is possible to ship it from the States, but I haven't yet done that)


The film centres around a coven of Manhattan wives, and the scandals that are created by the idle hands of the wealthy females. The group of "friends" learn that Mary Haines husband is cheating on her with Crystal, a perfume sales girl, and there are bitter schemes to reveal it to Mary. It is basically a study of the relationships between females, and the lowdown, nasty things we can do to each other, without hardly even trying. Being based on a play means the whole thing is dialogue based, and if you blink your ears for just a minute you will miss the comic gold spun fine as thread, and weaved fast. Trite one liners and snippy insults fly thick and fast, and the bitchiness on screen between the rivals, played by real-life rivals Norma Shearer and Joan Crawford, is almost palpable in its electricity.

Rosalind Russell is just fabulous as Sylvia, the cat that lets the secret out of the bag. Her slapstick humour and rubbery face makes her a predecesor of the Lucy and Debra Messing brand of female comic. But with a little less ham. No wait, there is heaps of ham. And cheese. But no laugh track

The cattiness and bitchiness of these New York money-hags is the driving force of the narrative. The issue of competition between women, as though there are a finite number of men, jobs, dresses, apartments and resources that we need to battle for is not new, and nor is it one that is now resolved. The definition of female friendship will always be problematic while we compete against each other, a point made pretty solidly in by the ladies in the '70s. And this film was made (and the play was written) well before Germaine was touting about the sisterhood in bell bottoms.


The characters and storyline of The Women is still current today. In fact, aside from some acting techniques and camera work, this film has hardly dated at all. Oh, and the 15 minute fashion show/interval in the middle, with the "futuristic" outfits of the pirate and the see-through hat. Similar obsessions still run through modern pop-culture. These women are just the middle aged versions of the martini-swilling teenagers in Gossip Girl. They are the urban equivalents of the little ladies in Mad Men or their suburban counterparts in Desperate Housewives. This story, and the witty one-liners that Clare Boothe has written, are timeless.


There is not one male that appears in the movie. Aside from a picture on the back of a magazine. For 1939, that is something phenomenal. Hell, it is pretty phenomenal for the 21st century!


The only let down to the whole story, and it is a let down ideologically as well as filmically, is the last shot. The ending. If you can get your hands on the DVD, stop the film as Mary walks out of the powder-room at the casino. You will feel much better for it.
This film was tragically remade last year, with fish-face Meg Ryan as a very unsympathetic Mary. And Debra Messing also appeared, not in the hysterical role she is most suited to but as the rather fertile and befuddled redhead Edith. You must must MUST avoid this imitation, it is pale indeed. But the '39 version will make you laugh and cry and cringe and love women all the more.

High Trash

Not as in high brow trash. As in trash of the trashiest order.

I feel a little bit dirty when I think about how much I love Gossip Girl. It is hideously predictable. Heinously overacted. Hilariously unlikely. I mean the chances of such hot hot HOT humans actually being on 16 years old is laughable. And them being served cocktails in New York bars (legal age = 21 there, right?) until their spines turn to tequila is hysterical.

But, like all my other TVDVD addictions, I am well and truly hooked. It could be the traditional tale of fish out of water, the divinely-jawed Daniel Humphries from Brooklyn with a scholarship to the Upper East Side. It could be the inherent bitchiness of high school that is portrayed with accurate hyperbole. It could be the lavish party scenes or nonchanlant way these children talk about jumping a private jet to Europe, filling me with such envy that I need to vicariously live through them. It could be the incredibly and impossibly gorgeous Blake Lively with her stunning blonde tresses and her healthy and voluptuous butt that are both just hypnotising. It could possibly the the angles of Chuck, with his sculpted eyebrows and lineated eyes, and the muscle that he flexes in his jaw.

But it is probably just because I have a penchant for the melodramatic. Gossip Girl is almost a bonnet drama - unrealistically tight dresses, overly embellished curls of hair, inexplicable social mores. It is very Dangerous Liasons. Like a TV version of Cruel Intentions.

And now I have churned my way through season 2, what's a girl to do?
You know you love me. XOXO

Modern Tragedy

I haven't seen a film like The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus before. That isn't to say there aren't films like it. But it is different to everything else I've seen. Director Terry Gilliam hails from Monty Python heritage, so it stands to reason that his films should be quirky and inexplicably confusing and random in its plot and execution. Plus having one's star die a very public death before the completion of filming is bound to force a director's hand to some less than conventional film making tactics.

Said dead star - Heath Ledger - is pretty phenomenal in this film. The fact that he didn't get to do any post recordings for the sound means that his cockney accent is pretty flawed - his Aussie nasal twang dips in and out. But his physicality, and his oniony character in this film - a vulnerability coupled with conniving, manipulative schemes - forces the audience to confront the idea that he was a brillant actor. That he was robbed of his Oscar for Brokeback. And it ignites the possibility that he could be posthumously nominated for awards for MULTIPLE films, considering how amazing he was in The Dark Knight.

His replacements (plural) work pretty well, with the shifting realities used as the reasoning behind his change in appearance. I wonder how much footage Ledger shot of these 'interiors' as David calls them in his review. But Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrel capture Ledger's Tony, each with their own spin on his character. I may have audible swooned when Johnny Depp came onto screen. It's a reflex. I can't help it. Tom waits makes a pretty wicked Devil, bowler hat and all, though Christopher Plummer's drunken Dr Parnassus is a little too drunken, callous and repetitive to really win me over.

The Imaginarium is a beautifully lush film. The design on it is quite extraordinary, sliding between centuries and realities and cities and artistic movements. Plus, as my brother said, "rangas in green are hot." And indeed Lily Cole is smoking as Valentina. All of the costumes and sets, the make up and props were just breathtaking.

The plot, however, is a little holey. Or just not quite clear enough. I never really knew when we were inside the Imaginarium and when we were not. And when we were in a flashback, and when we were not. Whether this is Gilliam in his fantastical keep-up-or-get-left-behind mode, or because the plot structure had to be dramatically tweaked without Ledger there to finish it off, I am not sure. There are a lot of things left unsaid, or possibly they were just glossed over and I missed them. Like what the markings were on Tony's face when he was 'dead'. Or why he knows how to speak Russian. Or how he ended up on the front page of The Sun (also referred to as The Mirror).

Underlying the whole film is the knowledge that this is Ledger's last. There will be no more acting credits added to his all-too-short list of 23 on IMDB. The final scenes of Tony (at that point played by Farrell) hold a poignance and a bitterness of truth that seem all too tragic to comprehend.

This movie is not for those who like to go to the movies to switch off. It is not a rom-com escapist or a mindless action blockbuster (not that there is anything wrong that... some of my best friends are mindless action blockbusters). It is a movie that will get inside your brain and move stuff around, so the next time you go to process a thought, you might forget how to do it properly.

PS/ That poster does NOTHING to sell the film at all. It looks more like a cross between Harry Potter and the Polar Express...

It's all about Sexy Vampires

I have always had a bit of a fetish for a good vampire story. Can't say I am a huge fan of the damsel in distress style sob story. But a kick arse chick in a vampire story is usually enough to pique my interest. And yes, by this I mean that I have no time whatsoever for the Twilight series. Yes, I read it. All 4 books. But I hated myself for it. And I can't get behind the film. Even the previews make me feel slightly stabby.

Buffy I guess is my original inroad to the vampire thing. From there, there was some Bram Stoker, and some Anne Rice. And of course Angel.

And now there is True Blood.

Set in an alternate reality, where vampires have lived among humans for years, but have recently 'come out of the coffin', demanding equal rights as humans. Most of the action takes place in the 'small' town on Bon Temps in Louisinana. It's all Alan Ball and his obsession with death (he was the guy behind Six Feet Under). It's pretty high in the melodrama, and as a result, pretty overacted, but it makes for some compelling viewing!

The cast has a fair whack of the antipodean - Ryan Kwanten (of Home & Away fame) has trimmed down and must be on some kind of incredible regeime, because he is totally ripped. You know that line of muscle that runs down the inside of a boy's hip - commonly known amongst my friends as the 'sex bones'? Kwanten's Jason Stackhouse has sex bones to climb over broken tiles for. And Kiwi Anna Paquin might have what I am now calling 'shoulder boobs' (they just seem unfeasibly high and perky) and she might do a terrible screen cry, but her Sooky Stackhouse (shit name, right?) is cute as a button and totally self righteous. Plus the token Brit is the very broody (because you can't be a vampire love interest hero without being broody, right?) is Stephen Moyer's Bill Compton. Who kind of looks like Jon Bon Jovi on his imdb page...

The whole premise works as a metaphor about prejudice and justice and shifting power bases. The race card is played often - and beautifully - by Sooky's childhood friend Tara (who has hypnotically beautful skin) and her incredibly camp cousin Lafayette who also plays the homophobia card too (was there any doubt about his orientation when his folks chose that name...?). The show also deals with issues of addiction, with vampire blood working as a narcotic on humans. And there is the serial killer/murder mystery/Nancy Drew component. All this on top of the usual fare of high melodrama - star crossed lovers, unrequited love, casual sex getting serious... I think they were trying to do a something for everyone arrangement. Oh, did I mention the hard core sex scenes??

The Louisiana accent is so addictive. After only a few episodes, I found myself thinking in the Southern drawl. And when Bill says "Sooky" (it kind of rhymes with 'sucky' if you say it right) it is enough to make your insides melt. If you could just get over the giggling.

I've only seen season 1. And I can't wait to sink my teeth into season 2!

More of a Slide

Gotta say, I thought this was a bit disappointing for Nick Hornby. Slam has a very beige blurb on the back cover. The premise of a talking Tony Hawke poster is lame beyond belief. The tale of teenage pregancy is cliche beyond reckoning.

But High Fidelity and Fever Pitch were such good treatments of what otherwise could be considered cliche topics the midlife crisis of an underachieving music fan (who doesn't know one of them? or isn't one of them?) and the difficulties of being a passionate football supporter. Plus they made for some fanbloodytastic stimulus for films. John Cusak? Hell yeah! Colin Firth? Uh-huh! There is an extra B in Hornby films.

So I decided to give Slam a bash.

And was underwhelmed. Usually, Hornby writes with bite and pith and moments of clarity of recognition of one's own life on the page. With Slam, his first "teenage" fiction he has dumbed himself down. I would have thought as an English teacher in his previous life that he would have known that in order to write a really good novel that will appeal to teenagers you SHOULD NOT DUMB DOWN. EVER.

The crazy narrative structure and time travel governed by a poster that regurgitates the autobiography of the world's most famous skater make the book a little more complex, but not more interesting. Having said that though, the characters were slightly compelling. Not in a Harry Potter or Lyra Belaqua or Eliza Bennett Need-To-Know-What-Happens-NOW kind of way. But in a Oh-It's-Bedtime-I-Might-See-What-Happens-To-These-Kiddies kind of way.

If I had a job in a bookshop, this is NOT one that I would put a staff recommends sticker onto.

Holiday By Numbers

2357 kilometres
101 Year 10 trial papers
57 shots of coffee (approx)
40 facebook status updates (wow, that is kinda sad)
30 year 10 True Stories projects
28 year 8 poetry essays
25 Year 7 fantasy film projects
27 pieces of sushimi (approx)
21 Year 11 report comments & grades
19 bottles of Pure Blonde (approx)
17 Year 12 practise essays
16 days without school
10 tweets
10 episodes of True Blood
9 hours of paranoia about overheating Henry (my car)
8 vodka lime & sodas (approx)
7 Year 8 Drama group projects
6 games on Wii
6 to-do lists
6 blogposts (including this one)
5 episodes of Arrested Development
5 Three Cheese Omelettes (with a side of tomato, capsicum & mushroom)
5 nights in Sydney
4 tanks of petrol
4 playtimes with Darby Girl
4 pieces of tofu in Tums Thai pad thai (score!)
4 trips to the cinema
4 schooners of Coopers Pale
3 episodes of Seinfeld
3 gym visits
3rd place in Trivia
3 afternoons in Gertrude & Alice
2 and a half glasses of pink wine
2 birthday parties (and a birthday coffee)
2 batches of brownies
2 tutorials
2 new bedside tables
1 and a half bowls of Tori Nachos with her magic Guacamole
1 new laptop
1 night in Millthorpe
1 plate of Green Eggs

Whip It: Good

Drew Barrymore is a little bit like ordering at the West Bubblefuck Thai take-away. Sometimes it is really good - flavoursome, succulent, noodles cooked to perfection, just the right amount of spice. Othertimes it is decidedly average - like when they put too much of that weird red sauce in the pad thai, or when they use too much oil in the chicken cashew.


Sometimes Mz Barrymore is spot on. Fifty First Dates and The Perfect Catch (or Fever Pitch if you want to be all American-remake-that-doesn't-acknowledge-the-Nick-Hornby/Colin-Firth-original about it) for example.


Other times she is very much NOT on the money. Never Been Kissed and Ever After for example.


I do love the fact that she has overcome that whole alcoholic at age 4 or something rediculous, and growing-up-in-the-paparazzi-eye to become a film producer with her own (very cheesily named) production company Flower Films. She has gone "I've got some money. I've put up with some shit in my life. I'm going to do something with it." Kudos to you, Drew.


But it was with a raised eyebrow that I learned of her directorial debut; Whip It.



Then David and Margaret pretty much gave it a luke warm review, and I wasn't sold at all. In fact I thought I would give it a miss. Even though it has the very adorable Ellen Page in it. And even though the subject is roller derby - something that has always fascinated me.


But then I did a movie marathon with my bro (Monday and Tuesday!) and we saw the preview. And it looked *AWSOME!* (you really need to sing that in a high pitched voice to get the full effect of the sentence). And so on Wednesday, we went.


And it was good. (And ever since then, I have had Devo's "Whip It" in my head)


Sure it might have been the fact that I was just in the mood for some silliness of a predictable sports film. And possibly it might have been the fact that the treat of 3 dates with my bro in a row was a treat I couldn't help but be delighted with. And the fact that I was hyped up on sugar and post-gym endorphins also probably assisted my jubilance. But I loved it!!


The plot is pretty much based on the same old sports film structure. In fact, change a culture, and a sport, and this could be Bend it like Beckham on skates. Fights with mother, lies and sneaking around, gorgeous skinny boys in the love story sub-plot (and seriously, Landon Pigg is a dead ringer for the delectable Jonathan Rhys Myers).


Ellen Page was indeed adorable. She is an entirely believable actress, especially with the coming-of-age genre. And Alia Shawkat (Maibe Funke in Arrested Development) as the best friend was so hot. And fabulously obsessed with cute boys.


As soon as the opening credits started, I leaned over to my bro and said "This is going to be a killer sound track", and I was not disappointed. Heaps of indie gold, a bit of old school rock... Of course, no outlet in West Bubblefuck will stock it, so I'll have to order online and wait a few days.


And then there was the skating. I have been a little obsessed with all things 1950s design for a while now. Give me a full skirt, or a cherry motif, a cinched waste or a high ponytail and you can pretty much bet that I'm in. Roller derby has the blunt fringes, the fishnets and the frilly knickers thing poached from 50s design. But it is also a contact sport for girls. Which my mother reckons is just soft porn. But I think is pretty awesome. Plus there is the whole tough-names-with-puns thing. And we know what a sucker I am for puns. Bloody Holly, Smashley Simpson, Babe Ruthless... The derby scenes were pretty haphazard (Margaret complained that she couldn't keep up with the action - I just reckon she isn't sports-brain-wired) but so much fun. And I could only see ONE stunt stand-in in the credits (and that was for Barrymore, possibly because she was a bit busy, you know, directing and stuff). I laughed so hard when the Hurl Scouts (the team we were meant to be cheering) got floored by the Flight Attendants (coached by none other than Har Mar Superstar).


I've played one game of hilarious rugby in my life. I used to play basketball (which could get pretty rough) and I plan on playing soccer again next year (even though West Bubblefuck doesn't have women's comp!!!! Seriously, how backwards is that??!?). I'm not averse to some push and shove, and I do love showing off a haematoma. So all in all, I kind of want to play. Not only because it looks like a mega amount of fun. But also because I know it would annoy my mother...?

If only I could skate.

(Apologies for the apparent addiction to parentheses in this post. Possiblity of too much caffiene causing my brain to work tangentally)

The importance of being earnest

The Australian film industry seems to be going through a bit of a stage. There was a while there were all that was made was quirky comedies. With heart. And some were fantastic! But some were just lame. Like that one where Claudia Karvan and Guy Pearce swapped bodies... Lame and unoriginal.

But lately, we are making Important Films. Untold stories that MUST be told. That MUST be seen. Didactic tales of injustice and humanity's disgrace.

Sampson and Delilah.

The Last Ride.

And last night I saw Balibo.

Based on the true story of the invasion of East Timor by Indonesia, mere moments after independance from Portugal was declared. And the rest of the world knew that it was happenening. But thought it easier not to get involved.

There aren't many films that paint the journos as the good guys, the ones with integrity and courage. Five young guys from Channel 7 and Channel 9 were hungry for the story, hungry to tell the truth of the people who were voiceless on the international stage. So they went to the front line to film the invasion.

And they were captured. And killed. (Shouldn't really be a spoiler, it is a true story after all).

Roger East (another journo, brilliantly played by Anthony LaPaglia of Without A Trace and Sydney FC fame) is convinced by the incredibly charismatic Jose Ramos Horta (activist and future Timorese president, even more brilliantly played by Oscar Isaac - possibly the most beautiful face I have seen in months) to come to Timor to find the missing journos and tell the Timor story.

The film is beautifully shot. The edit is a little confusing, but I think that adds to the chaos and confusion of impending war. The bookending of the film with interviews of survivors of the Indonesian occupation is pretty unnecessary, but I guess it gives a bit of "this is where we got our story from" credence to the tale.

The plot makes the Indonesians look pretty bad. But then, the fact that Australia - only an hour away did NOTHING to assist the Timorese in '75 makes us look even worse really. (The film even asserts that Australian intel was used to help the Indonesians.) At the end of the film, IO pretty much felt like the human race is pretty much FUBAR.

...Think I'll need to get something light and fluffy into me soon!

Swing and a miss

As far as seminal films go, Swingers is up there. It is like a peek inside the mind of the 20-something human male. Before Miranda had her epiphany of "He's just not that into you" courtesy of Burger, which liberated her from the angst of over-analysis on Sex and the City (that spawned the book and then the film of the same name - neither of which I have bothered with, to be honest) there was the "Why didn't you call?... It didn't occur to me" epiphany of Swingers.

[Aside: And what I just realised this very moment: It is the SAME ACTOR!!!! Ron Livingston plays both Burger from Sex and the City and he plays Rob, the golf-playing, Goofy-playing friend who listens to Jon Favreau's endless whining about his ex!!! I just had a Ron Livingston epiphany about his film epiphanies!]

Anyway, that Swingers epiphany really helped settle some confusing questions about human males at a time when such questions were being thrown around pretty frequently. Plus Vince Vaughn at his skinny, hilarious best and his quotable quotes, about baby and money and don't even know it, about being a bear and her being a little rabbit. It's the original Suit Up film - How I Met Your Mother has big shoes to fill. And there is also references to my all time favourite, The Wizard of Oz.

"We're not in Kansas any more... I'm a comedian"

So from the dizzy comedy heights of the predatory human males, slaves to their libidos and their emotions that they can't articulate comes:

Couples Retreat.

I think the best laughs I got out of this film was the laugh of recognition when an awesome cameo came onto the screen. Peter Serafinawicz and his creepy smile were pretty exceptional. The child actor playing Vaughn's youngest son has phenomenal charisma. And of course there were some well written one liners, and some amusing situations. But generally I've gotta agree with David & Margaret, this comedy just really wasn't all that funny. And isn't that meant to be the point?

Possibly, the storyline suffered from some over-editing. In the trailer, there are some scenes with a little background exposition about some of the characters that don't appear in the film. And without those details, the story lacks depth, and just becomes a series of penis jokes. And not very well written ones at that.

The promo for the film is pretty much funnier than the film itself. Giles' (friend from days of yore, and current film blogger for SMH (can you feel the jealousy in the strokes of the keys??))
interview with Vince Vaughn and Jason Batemen is a little bit like comedy perfection.

Or your money back

In the interests of satisfying the urge to post, without taking up too much of my marking time...

The Top 6 Things That Are Guaranteed To Make Me Smile

6. Peeling the top off the butter.

5. The change of tempo in Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out" (previously blogged about here)

4. Clean pyjamas in clean sheets

3. The bell on Friday at 3.15pm

2. Michael Cera's face

1. My dog realising I am holding the lead and leaping into the air with joy.

And you?

It’s True – Everything is.

Usually I have my trusty iRiver to take me from West Bubblefuck to wherever it is that I need to go. But there was a drastic recharging error (ie I put it on to charge and for some reason I didn't make sure all the connections were connected) and the mp3 player ran out of battery with only half an hour of driving left.

And there is a 4 hour drive to look forward to tomorrow with all my worldly possessions (ie a bed, some cooking utensils, an ikea mirror and 2 bean bags) on the back of a ute. The fear of making said drive in the stoney silence of no radio reception filled my belly. So I went shopping.

I knew there was a CD that I had heard discussed on the radio, and as I stood there in Sanity, I had my very own moment of insanity. I couldn't for the life of me remember who it was who made the CD that I had wanted to buy. There were leading questions from helpful friends and shop assistants alike. But to no avail.

Have I publically praised Target on this blog before? If not, a public worship of the house of Target is well overdue. I stood there in the sterile isles, and there he was, like a beacon of musical talent in the dark night of the musically beige and boring.

Paul Dempsey's solo album Everything is true.

(I also purchased Duffy's Rockferry based pretty much entirely on how much I heard Warwick Avenue when I was in the UK precisely a year ago and Coldplay's Viva La Viva based on the fact that I really love the title track. Turns out both albums are mostly beige filler, except for the singles)

I know some Die Hard Something For Kate Fans. One is responsible for the naming of the Mechanical Sharks tour (based on the fact that she threw a wind up shark on stage early in their tour that was promoting the Beautiful Sharks tour and they liked it a lot). One has a number of multiple copies of different versions of the same album in order to own all the versions of the cover art (including several of the same EP with the band hand drawn covers). I love Aussie music and I love 90s rock. But I have never really been a huge card carrying fan of Something For Kate. I don't own any albums, I have only ever seen them at festivals that I have been to, not one of their own gigs.

And then I heard "Ramona Was A Waitress" on the Js over the last few weeks. And I heard Paul Dempsey (The Man Some Of My Friends Call God) on the radio saying that he doesn't really know where the sound for this new album came from, and how it is different to everything else that he has done before. Yes, that would be the radio interview where I couldn't remember the subject of the interview. Me and my stupid brain...

Anyway, the album. Best I have bought all day – but as I said the other two are pretty much filler. Best album I have bought for a long time, really. Dempsey is right, it doesn't sound like S4K very much at all. It is simultaneously more country and less depressing. I realise the paradox of that statement. S4K, while producing some brilliant stuff, does tend to have the whiff of the emo to it. Does tend to smack vaguely of Woe Is Me and Isn't The World A Bit Fucked. This album doesn't really have that. Hell, there is a track called "The Great Optimist" to be my entire case in point. And when I say it is a little bit country, it is more about the riff and the down and up beats than it is about someone stealing his truck and his dog and his woman, and leaving him only with a bottle of booze. This is an album that I could stick on high rotation and leave there, and I haven't heard one of them for ages.

Plus the album art is just gorgeous. If your purchasing opinion is ever swayed by random blogposts, buy this album. Don't just procure it illegally, burn it or download it. Buy the disc, with the beautiful liner notes (Hell, get it on LP if you can, the artwork should be bigger). Give the money to the Aussie artists, and wrap yourself in this album like a lovingly stitched quilt.

Supercoach Out. For now...

The innaugural season as Supercoach is over. The Mighty U13s did an amazing job this year of turning from 14 kids who didn't know each other to a force to be reckoned with in the U13s West Bubblefuck District Soccer competition.

The highlight of this winter really was working with these boys. Oh, and that weekend that Erin came to stay was a highlight too... But really these boys were brilliant to work with. We went from 5th to 3rd in the comp in the last round. We won a game 10-0. We reduced our margins of defeat against the top teams, and fought successfully against the middle order. I lost my voice at least half a dozen times. The boys learned to share, developed a hatred of the hill sprints and worked their way to playing some beautiful football. And the concept of 150% has entered the U13s lexicon.

I'm hoping I get most of them back again next year - though I will probably lose my Supercoach Sidekick (don't tell him I called him that - I don't think he'd like it). The Mighty U14s could take over the world.

Happy Daiz

Spaced has its 10th birthday this week. The unparalleled, most brilliant, genius television show ever created in the history of this universe... without a hint of hyperbole.

Spaced makes other sitcoms seem like someone is using a paintball gun to permanently damage your kidneys by shooting you a million times, from the front. It makes other sitcoms seem like a never ending sweaty room full of baked-on, caked-on, greasy dishes to wash up that goes FOREVER. It makes other sitcoms seem like you are humiliating yourself at a job interview.

Wittier than Bill Bailey and Ricky Jervais put together. More random hilarity than David Walliams could conceive. More quotable than Anchorman. More likeable characters than The Goodies. More intertextual references than Shrek (or as channel4 says, more pop culture references than you can shake a light sabre at).

And I'm not the only one besotted by this TV brilliance. This week other (more serious) writers have been inspired to opine ad nauseum about just how fantastic it is - NME and The Guardian for a start.

In the heady days of Astolat Manor, Spaced was a Tuesday night ritual. In the pokey flat above the pub in Waterloo, Spaced was the room to breathe and the post-work tonic. In the Kilburn sharehouse, Spaced was my educational gift to the flatmates (just down the road from the pub where they did the shooting of the pub scenes, where we turned down getting pissed with David Soul for a lamb roast!).

Spaced is a love affair that has stood the test of time. Boyfriends have gone (and a divorce like settlement over who owned the VHS tapes did ensue) and come and gone again (possibly because he couldn't see what I thought was so incredible about this show), but Spaced stays true.

This kind of show makes you want to buy a miniature schauzer. To smoke a big fat doobie on the way to a pub in Camden. To dance cheesy soldier like moves to a remix of The A-Team theme song. To eat too many twiglets and punch a performance artist in the face. To have a slow motion gunfight in a back alley with teenage thugs. To build a robot and join an illegal robot fight club. Oops, I'm not allowed to talk about that...

If you have seen Spaced, and you feel like I do, then we are destined to be friends. If you have not seen Spaced, then I don't know why you are still reading this when the 3 disc box set is such a reasonable price on Amazon (or other cheaper, less legal avenues). If you have seen it, and you didn't like it, best not mention it to me really. I might take it the wrong way.

Happy birthday, Spaced.

The Root of all Emo

Wow, it has been ages since I posted...

I am a non-believer in the Emo movement. I tend to find people who consider themselves emo to be self obsessed, overly self-conscious and wrapped up in the cliche of not being a cliche. I have been known to scoff at the long fringed, stripe socked and the guy-lined.

But with a sense of friendliness, rather than Mexican-style-homocide-riot-emo-killing kind of scoffing.

Craig Schuftan is the dude who talks on JJJ about all things historic and cultural. He explains to the kiddies how they stuff they love now is based on stuff that has been loved for years and years. He tends to pull up loads of interesting bits of trivia that, as a music trivia fan (nay, expert or officiando... officianda?), I find just delicious.

So when I was trawling through an ABC shop to find more oblong things to spend my hard earned on (seriously, I need to kerb this serious addiction to books and dvds), I saw Neitzche, Leave Those Kids Alone. And based on the title alone, I knew I must have it. We all know that I love a good pun. And a pun based on both a religion-hating philosopher and a Pink Floyd song, well that is just asking to be purchased.

When reading this book, it feels like Shuftan's melodic voice is dancing in your ear. Once I got past his obvious affection for all things Chemical Romance, especially the Black Parade album, the book was a great read. I've never really considered the fact that the emo subculture is pretty much a reincarnation, or a continuation, of the 19th century Romantic movement - a turn away from God, from the betterment of society, from making art to reflect the human condition towards the self. The Romantics were All About Me - MY emotions, MY true love, MY misunderstood suffering... Sound familiar?

And in between were the New Romantics, the Joy Divisions, The Cures, and he of all things self-God-like, David Bowie. The New Romantics knew that they were channelling the Byrons and the Wagners - they even refer to the source it in their moniker. But I kind of get the impression that the emo kiddies - not the emo musos (most of whom reject the label) - think that they just might be the original centre of the universe, and nothing like them has ever come before so nobody can ever understand their pain.

The book didn't change the way I feel about kids with their fringe sliding over their face in too tight jeans. But it did make me think that the musicians I had maligned so much are actually aware of their musical heritage. And if they are not, then at least Shuftan is. And now, I am too!

Funk to funky, We know Danne's now a junky

My love for Life on Mars and its most important character, Gene Hunt has been documented before. The show was intriguing and confusing and compelling. Plus there were car chase scenes and awesome better-than-Arnie one line throw aways.

When I watched the last episode of season 2, the last season I was sad. At the same time I was delighted that the BBC weren't going to keep it going until they were flogging the dead horse with the bones of the other dead horse. I'm happy there was no jumping the shark in this one. They left me wanting more.

So while trawling Google to find images of the Gene Genie for my last post about him, I happened across some info about a SEQUEL!!!!!

Much like with Shameless, I don't want this to end! I am already over half way through and am mourning the loss of this show already.

Ashes to Ashes is also named after a Bowie song (and a very good Bowie song at that). This time the protagonist (who is by NO means the character that I care about the most) is a female - Alex Drake. She's a police psych who deals with negotiations, and has studied Sam Tyler's file so knows his case. She is shot in the first ep, which leads to her time travel/coma hallucinations to 1981 London and the seemy underbelly of the city at this time.

Sure, there are plot holes so big you could drive a semi-trailer through them. Like why are the Gene Genie and his bumbling sidekicks kicking the arse of armed bastards in London now? And where did that freaky Bowie clown come from?

Alex has a perm, and always seems to wear the same off-the-shoulder-shirt-with-brastrap-showing that can't have been the DI uniform for the Met police at the time. She is dealing with some heavy shit, like not dying, and possibly preventing the death of her parents in that same year. She drinks like a college kid, and flirts fantastically with just about everyone.

Gene Hunt is... phenomenal. I actually think there might be a little bit of a whiff of the unhealthy when it comes to my relationship with this character. When I hear his gutteral voice, growling the completely unPC opinions and pushing around underworld figures, it is like a punch in the guts. The sexual tension between he and Alex is great - and pretty much the only thing that makes me identify with her and her pouty, shouty, permed up face. The lines he is given, and the delicious way he delivers them makes me want to go down to the police station to see if I can find myself a portly, pocky fella with a penchant for scotch and sexual harrassment. As I said, this obsession is getting to be a little unhealthy...

I also really appreciate the design of the DVD. The box set is designed to look like an old school VHS case. The DVD menu looks like an Atari game and the opening credits simultaneously pays homage to the 80s icons of veneitan blinds, wailing electric guitar and cop shows. And the closing credits looks like the old Green On Black DOS screen. While I don't think all of these elements of 1981 hang together cohesively, I think points are deserved for effort.

And I think I deserve points for not spending every waking hour glued to the box watching this show on repeat.

Chucked In

There is a special place in my heart for trashy tv. Especially well written, witty dramedy.

A master of this genre is Josh Schwartz. Thanks for The OC. Thanks even more for the guilty pleasure that is Gossip Girl. And the biggest thank you now comes for Chuck.

Who would have thought that the skinny, awkward Jewish boy with a quick wit and not so much luck with the ladies would have me hooked?

Chuck like Seth Cohen from the OC has landed in the middle of Alias without all that creepy Rimbaldi (or however you spell it) sci-fi stuff. There are undercover ops, surveillance, double crossings and awesome fight scenes. Giggles, and action, and that Unresolved Sexual Tension that is the basis for almost every good tele show.

The premise is that this going-nowhere geeky guy accidentally downloads a huge secret computer into his brain, making him an asset to all kinds of organisations, both good and evil. Sure, it isn't the most believable premise for a show, but the zippy pace and the cute as a button characters are such compelling viewing. Plus the hammy melodrama of the retail scenes is so hyperreal you can taste the polycotton polos, and leaves a sensation on your fingers like you have been counting notes all afternoon.

Of course, Zachary Levi (who shall now be known as Cousin Zach) is just far too impossibly cute to be a computer nerd who never gets the ladies. And Adam Baldwin really is just playing his character out of Firefly, with slightly more sanity. But only slightly. And faces from Alias and The OC keep popping up in cameos all the time.

I knocked the whole season over in a few days, and am now desperate for Season 2 to be released on DVD. Another waiting game!

Harry Number 6 - The Film

Written 17/7/09 (have been dreadfully slack with postings. seems like July went by without much of a squeak from me)

When HP6 the book was released, it was to resounding disappointment from the action fans – “Nothing actually happens!”.

But for those of us who aren’t into reading for the action sequences, it was fantastic. Infallible. JK was just pulling back the robes a little bit more to reveal that in the 7th book, all would be revealed.

I went to Gold Class with my Gold Class cousins to see the film version. Only the second day of its wide release. Not only because I was excited to see it, but also because I hate being swept up in the hype of a film and raising my expectations, only to have my hopes dashed like waves against a wild cliff facem, and disappointment deflate me, til I am but a wrinkles sinking, loveless helium balloon. That was like what watching My Girl was like. So I try to avoid reviews, I steer clear of “Making of...” shows, and I just try to get my eyes to it as soon as possible. All the while, chanting my lower-your-expectations mantra “It’ll probably be shit” on the way to the cinema.

And for the book, so shall it be for the film. Not a whole lot happens. There are no showdowns with Voldemorte. No huge battle scenes. The few battles from the book seem to have disappeared altogether. The shift in Harry’s attitude from “Bollocks to you all” to “Actually, would you mind...?” is what this tale is all about. Actually, come to think of it, he is still making that transition in Book 7 too. And now I discover that the 7th book will be made into 2 films. So HP6 and HP7 are really being made into a trilogy. Again, JK borrows from Tolkein...

The focus of this film is not really about battling evil, but about connecting with good. It is more about fostering the friendships and relationships you have, forging alliances and gathering together your resources in order to face the epic quest battle that lies ahead in the final instalment of the series. Which I think is a perfectly acceptable reason for not much action. There is a Quiddich game, and a bathroom duel between Draco and Harry that gets a bit nasty. And the Dumbledore-&-Harry-steal-a-necklace-from-a-cave scene is full of tension and excitement. Oh, and there is a really creepy corn field scene. Is wind through corn stalks not the most scary of sounds?

These kids are hitting 17. Their hormones are running completely amok. They are resorting to the vomitous behaviour of teenagers in love, to hilarious results. This is the most successful part of the film, the parody of teenagers in love. It is a highly honest portrayal of the exaggerated emotion and heightened stakes of first, unrequited and puppy love. (I purposefully tried to make sure I had the Danne Quiet Laugh happening so as not to entirely humiliate my teenage cousin. I told her afterwards that I don’t generally inhibit the Danne Loud Cackle for just anyone and she should feel very very special.) In a film that is meant to be about amalgamating the good relationships you have, I thought it was a great feature.

I have heard (through twitter, because I was still avoiding all forms of reviews) that David & Margaret (though I am thinking more that it sounds like something the stuffy David would say) have levelled the accusation that if you haven’t read the books then the film will make no sense at all. And there is some truth to this. Teenage Cousin had not read the books, or seen any film past Azkhaban (still the best film, I think). We had a bit of a tutorial on films four and five so she would be a little less lost (plus the spaces between the chairs in the cinema are so vast it was difficult for her to ask me questions during the film). And yes, she was pretty lost. Vast tracts of exposition have been discarded. And maybe they will catch it up in Film 7, but there is a lot to cram into that film, and so there may not be space for such luxuries as backstory and explanation of character motive. But if you have read the books, you know why Dumbledore makes those choices, and why Snape does the unthinkable with the unbreakable.

On a completely random-observation kind of aside, I have noticed in this film the use of semiotics of hair colour. The mud has been flung at those with a tinge of ginge in their fringe (thanks Tim) in recent years, particularly in the comedy scene. But not so in the HP films. The baddies all have jet black or snow white hair. Narcissa Malfoy has both. But the goodies don’t have such stark hair. Their follicle shades fall into more of a rainbow –with a high representation of the ranga. Of course the Weasleys up the red count, by virtue of the numbers in the family. Tonks sometimes has red, but she can change on a whim. Luna’s hair could be construed as white, but I think of it more yellowy. Hermione in the book has bushy brown hair, but Emma Watson has much more honey blonde tones (though in the potions scene, her hair does become a delicious texture of frizz with the pressure of not succeeding). Dumbledore and Mad Eye Moody are grey, as is McGonagall. Harry, Hagrid, Nevil, Sirius, all shades of chocolatey brown. The black of Snape is there to keep us guessing, perhaps? To make us think the worst of him, as Potter does? But back to my original point about the ranagas. This over representation may reflect the authorial authority – JK being red as they come!

Big Decisions

I'm really quite bad at decisions. It is the inner commitment-phobe. The one that doesn't like options getting shut off, doors being closed, opportunities being missed. I hate decisions. I like having choices.

I got offered a job opportunity at The Boy Factory last week. It wouldn't make me a permanent employee (yet), but it would make me a fairly permanent fixture at the Factory for at least the next 6 years (if I wanted it). I agonised over it all over the weekend. Questions raised of what I want to do with my future, where do I want to be...

The problems with living in West Bubblefuck don't really extent much beyond the fact that I really find it difficult to live with my parents. Sure the cinema is rubbish, the theatre is only starting to take off now and there are some pretty decent cafes. I have actually found some new friends (sounds so lame, right?) and am feeling like I am connecting to the community a bit with the Mighty U13s.

And there isn't really anywhere else I would rather be. I don't really want to live in Sydney. I can't get a job in Newcastle - because that is where every other bugger wants to work. The other coastal centres where I have mates seem to have withered on the friendship vine or they are ab out to leave themseleves.

So I decided to stay. I am the Year Coordinator for the Class of 2015. And the people high up in the Boy Factory have promised to find me almost permanent work for that time.

The Hardest Thing I Had To Do All Weekend

As far as I am concerned, there is Only One Radio Station. Triple J.

I have always hated ads. No, wait, let me qualify that. I have always hated the kinds of ads that are not clever, not witty, not trying to achieve any other purpose than the lowest common denominator, that being the highest possible profit. The shouty, the repetetive, the badly scripted or poorly acted ads make me want to vomit and stab something at the same time. Preferably stab something with my vomit, just to be efficient. (wow. that is really gross. apologies.)

Every year, JJJ have a music poll to determine the best song of the previous 12 months. It started in 1989 as a "What is the best song of all time?" kinda poll. Joy Division, Love Will Tear Us Apart. The list is here The next year's list looked alarmingly similar. And in 1991 Kurt and the Seattle fellas knocked The Div off #1. (They still came 2nd though, as can be seen here.) And from 1993 they have had a Hottest Song Of The Current year kinda thing happening. As the years have gone by, what with the advent of the internet etc, the process has become larger, more homogeonised and generally caused a great deal of controversy. 1998, the black year, the year that shall not speak its name (mostly because years don't say anything at all).

The playing of the Hottest 100 on Australia Day has become a cultural tradition - a way for the now generation to ignore the Invasion Day conundrum, and set about doing what Australians do best on public holidays - get pissed and hedonistic.

Baydo's "bucks" barbeque, the day before the wedding day, was more of a family cricket/barbie/hottest 100 party in Cathie. Simon has a notorious party which I am still yet to make it to in Clovelly. I have in the last few years, tended to sit around with my bro in the air conditioning in the lounge room listening and taking bets on the top ten.

And every few years (this year is 20 years since year 1) the wise musical folks at the Js have another Hottest 100 of All Time to test the Musical waters of the Australian Youf. Voting has been open for about 6 weeks. And it closed about 12 minutes ago (gah! I should go to bed!).

I have, in true Danne style, been pontificating and procrastinating on the voting in this poll. The concept of choosing but 1o songs to represent me, my musical democratic vote, reflective of what I listen to, what I believe is good art and who I am as a person. Yes, I probably take it way too seriously. But I have been listening to this station since 1994, I feel like I have invested a large chunk of my adolescence into this radio network and it informs who I am as a human being. (did I mention I know I am taking this way too seriously?)

I sat down tonight to nut out my list. It was a little bit hellish. And yes, I know there are people who are accidentally slamming their octagenarian father's thumbs into car doors on the way back from doctors appointments (get my capacity for guilt from my mother) and I know there are people who have to start full time work with a completely inappropriate new boss, and I know there are people who have just found at that their recent ex has knocked up his new missus, and I know there are kids who I will teach tomorrow that have to deal with abuse, and hearing impairments, and attention defecit disorders. But for tonight... for tonight, this was the most pressing and most plaguing issue of the moment.

The first short list was 121 songs long.
So I culled. All the songs that I just Liked.
The second short list was 42.
And the third was 31.

At 22 I culled Queen & David Bowie, The Beatles, Jeff Buckley and Rage Against the Machine.

I ended up with the list below. By all means it is not exhaustive. In fact, the greatest artists of the last 3 generations are not really represented. It is not The Hottest Artists of All Time. Enough of the excuses.

You Am I - Purple Sneakers

This song is what I listed as #1, mostly because I started with You Am I, and culled it down to The Sneaks from 5 songs. The reason that I listed on the site was something trite about the song being representative of Sydney and its sound, of growing up in the 1990s, and of the beginning of the rennaissance on Australian music. Plus, Tim Rogers is a beautiful tortured soul who can spin and lyric and lick like a master weaver. I wish I was him.

Bloc Party - I Still Remember

Previous posts have alluded to the joys of this song on the road. This whole album is a killer for roadtrips to the city, and even though it came out well after I was in London, the sounds of his voice are woven into my memories of Kilburn and West Hampstead and Finchley road. Plus it is a song that makes me lament lost love with a smile on my face.

Bob Dylan - Subterranean Homesick Blues

I got my love of music from my folks, and I specifically got my love of raspy Bob from my dad. This jangly spangly number with the iconic placard video clip is the one that I loves best from Dylan.

The Cure - Friday I'm in Love
Vid here
Remember Vidiot? Music quiz show on ABC in the 90s. They played the clip from this song as the basis of a series of questions, and I fell in love with Robert Smith and his smeary lipstick. Yeah, the upbeat nature of this track doesn't really reflect the back catalogue of The Cure, but I love it anyway. I also love the tshirt of this song, and am desperate for it to be reprinted so I can purchase and wear pictoral representations of its repetetive but sweet lyrics.

Damien Rice - Cannonball

This song is Dublin and Derry and Belfast. It's internet radio at the casting studios in London. It's belting out drunkenly in the flat in Bondi. It's the very damaged songwriter who doesn't greet his audience at The Enmore, and sings like his sould is written into the notes of the tune. Yeah, it's soppy and bordering on emo, but I love it. (warning: there is poo shots in this clip)

Franz Ferdinand - Take Me Out
Vid here
If I was to make a list of top 10 things that make me smile no matter what, the tempo change at the beginning of this song would make the list (along with peeling the top off the butter... there, we're up to 2 already!). Alex and the gang were the subject of my wee bro's music viva voce - that is he talked about the theory of how post-punk is an amalgamation of punk riffs and disco beats. Me, I wanted to hear about how these two disperate subcultures from the 1970s could possibly be married into music in the new millenium, but apparently that wasn't the point. Another artist that is bound up in memories of London. But also gave a belting set at the Enmore a few years ago, and it was difficult to narrow the choice down to just one FF track. TMO is lucky (lucky lucky you're so lucky!!). Also, a very Scottish band. In no way are they Aussie. Just to be clear.

Machine Gun Fellatio - Unsent Letter

I didn't know who sung this haunting song for a long time. And then Love is a four letter word came out (previously swooned about), and Pinky Beecroft was involved in the killer soundtrack of that show. This song is about lamenting and confusion and the twisting of truth in the mouth and the brain and the lack of reality that exists in human interaction. Plus it reminds me that I have about a million unsent letters. Most of those are also unwritten too.

Paul Kelly - To Her Door

I've seen Paul play about half a dozen times - twice in the UK, and a few times in Tamworth. He is Australia's most brilliant song writer, even if his voice is too nasal, too ocker, too Aussie. An antipodean answer to Bob Dylan. This is a 3 minute narrative about the inception, destruction and resurrection of a relationship, of a family and of a man. It explores domestic violence, unemployment, alcoholism... Plus there is a swearword in it. I love a good curse in a love song.

Pearl Jam - Better Man

Representing the slick of grunge that runs through the veins of every person who was a teenager in the 90s. Nirvana won this poll the last 2 times it was run, and I don't know what the odds are, but I think they will do well again this year. I was always more of an Eddie girl than a Kurt chick. He is more mellow and his grungy angst was actually more for show than Kurt's messy ways - he named his daughter Francis Jellybean, I mean seriously! (this is not to mention the addictions, the suicide or the marriage to Courtney Love). And sure, Vedder's voice might resemble something of a tryhard layer on the mike, or a need to drink less dairy to deal with the mucusy membrane (ew, Danne, gross!) but Pearl Jam were really my grunge band of choice at the time when it was flannos and long dirty hair and torn jeans.

Powderfinger - My Kinda Scene
Vid here
Another of the Great Australian Rock Bands, they make consistently perfect music, and always have. I love seeing them live - they played at the first gig I ever went to - Crowded House's Farewell to The World (along with my other 2 favourite bands at the time, You Am I and Custard). Their gigs are always phenomenal. Bernard Fanning and his multitonal voice makes me want to cry and squeal and dance and shake my long red hair all over my eyes (maybe he is the reason I went ranga...?). Odyessy #5 is a brilliant album. This one is not wound up in memories of London, but memories of before London - of the halcyon days of Astolat and Moonlight Cinema and giant house parties with the beer in the clam shell paddle pool.

More like Stagnation Street

I have finally finished reading Revolutionary Road. Still haven't seen the flick, and really the only reason that I bought the book was the fabulous cover art.

Apparently this is the greatest novel written about the death of the American Dream. (according to the Daily Tele pull out on the published website, so yeah... grain of salt). And it may well be the greatest novel of that type. Except for the fact that I don't much like reading stories about the death of the American Dream.

Frank & April Wheeler are in a fairly loveless marriage in the doldrums of suburbia, being Baby Boomers going against their parents (what is left of them) and trying to fight against the restrictive conventional lifestyle perameters that they are pretending they haven't constructed for themselves. April resents the career as an actress that she never had, and Frank riles against his boring office job, all the while not actually being capable of defining what it is that he would rather be doing.

The antagonistic relationship between the Wheelers is the kind of relationship that makes me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside with the knowledge that I am single. While most of the novel is written from the perspective of Frank, his interpretations of his wife's words and actions is so repulsive and repugnant. I don't know whether it entirely reflects Richard Yates' opionion of women, or whether it is the character alone speaking. Frank's obsession with the concept of what it is to be a man is near nauseating. But again, probably an accurate representation of the post-industrialist schism of identity and masculinity.

The plot follows the actions over the course of the year, flashing back to the reasons the couple are so maladjusted, back to childhood abandonment and involvement in war. As though it was some kind of explanation for screeching arguments, for sexual infidelity, for abhorent treatment of their parochial neighbours. Generally the characters in this novel behave in despicable ways.

As a general rule (d0 most other people have rules about what text types they like their protagonists to lean on the side of good or evil??) I love a play that has a slightly evil hero. I particularly love to work on plays where the good guys are actually downright bastards (see The Women or Sexual Perversity in Chicago). But when I read a novel, when there is a character in my psyche, as there has to be in a novel, when there is a Frank or April Wheeler rattling around in my imagination,, making me identify with them, I like my central characters to be pretty darn good. Not flawless. Not perfectionists. Slightly flawed is fine, but I have to like them.

I didn't find RR as depressing as I thought I would. It wasn't as confronting or as special or even as engaging as I had hoped - what with all the "masterpiece" hype I had read about it. Reading Rev Rd became more of a chore than I like my rec reading to be. And again, Yates' imagery is great, and his obsession with descriptions of lips is simultaneously engaging and annoying. But it didn't make me want to run out and rent Rev Rd, despite the fact that I love a good fifties frock in a film.

The World Game

I love sport. For some reason, I got all the sport loving genes, and my little bro got none. At all.

I love to watch sport, to play sport (but only with a round ball), to talk shit about sport (and attempt to keep up with the sport-shit-talking athletes that are my friends).

And while I think that Australia, and more specifically The Boy Factory, puts too much credence on Sport in general, I do think it is important. It is a pretty amazing feature of our culture. A unifying force in a community. Sport has the ability to create a sense of Belonging (there's that word again...), a sense of family, a sense of common purpose. And yes, it is a crutch that we as a young nation lean upon too heavily to define ourselves. And yes, there are many other facets of our culture and our community that deserve as much or more airplay than sport does.

But I still love it.

And the game I think I love the most, is the Real Football. The one you play with your feet. The World Game. Soccer.

I was once a Sweeper for the Avalon Open Womens seconds team (and later played this for Baxter College girlies). I have never had a huge amount of pace, or ball skill. But I like to think I made up for this in determination to defend - which I can't seem to summon in attack (turns out I work better under conditions of desperation) - and my ample voice - and ability to boss people around.

One of The Most Disappointing things about moving Back To West Bubblefuck is the fact that there is NO women's soccer comp. And while I always talk about West Bubblefuck being a backward hick town (as, indeed, I am right now), I actually think it is big enough to support at least one division of women's football. (Yes, there is a mixed indoor comp, which reminds me I should try to reconnect with that...).

And in order to get a fix of football in my life, I am the Proud Coach of the Mighty Under 13s, who are actually not doing all that badly considering they haven't played together very long, and they don't play as a team until about half way through the second half. I love my boys, and I love prowling the side line on a sunny winter's day, belowing instructions. Even if it does mean a death to weekends away for duration of the season.

West Bubblefuck, and again, in particular, The Boy Factory, doesn't hold Soccer in the highest of esteem. It is "the pussy sport", "the girly game", "faggot ball". This same level of scorn is only reserved for gAyFL. Not only does it show their small mindedness when it comes to sports of the less ruck-and-maul nature, but it also reveals their less-than-latent sexism and homophobia.

The only other fix is watching the game on tele. And seeing as pay tv is a bit like a dirty word in our house, I can't watch the A League. And bloody Fox poached the World Cup Qualifiers from SBS, thwarting my democratic right to watch my national team play.

They have never been a pretty team to watch. Scrappy and argy-bargy with barely a tenuous hold on the ball everytime it comes their way. But I love them anyway. I missed the Qatar game, mostly because it was after my bed time. And I missed the Bahrain (sp?) one because I was exhausted, it was the middle of Report Hunting Season and our family fleet of cars was so depleted that I couldn't get into town to a pub if I wanted to.

So then we played Japan. The Rivals of the Pacific Rim. And despite the fact that friends to accompany me to the pub are fairly thin on the ground in Tamworth, I was determined to watch it. So I took my dad to the Longyard for an overpriced steak, to sit in front of a flat screen to watch the game.

We were the ONLY ones watching it in the first half. For the first 15 minutes, we couldn't get a picture for more than 2 and a half minutes at a time, interspersed with info screens about faults of smartcards of some bullshit. Faulty Austar smartcards (misnomer, anyone?) would NEVER happen during a Socceroos game. But in backwaters like West Bubblefuck, the chances of watching Your National Team play one of the other biggest teams in Asia (cause we're in Asia, now, didn't you know?) whittle away to zilch. Finally Dad got the ex-student from behind the bar to accost another customer into solving the problem.

And the game was as I expected. Scrappy. Messy. Frustrating. A little bit like watching the Mighty U13s, with the big kicks forward to nobody, and the honeypot bunching. Japan were a better team on the day. Our goals were incredibly lucky, with Timmy Cahill - or as Pim calls him The Phantom, or as my Sidekick Supercoach says "he deserves a lycra suit and a cape and a big S on his chest" - being in the perfect place at the perfect time with the perfect hit.

But then the Japanese goal was similarly lucky.

I went home a happy little soccer fan.

Let's hope tomorrow brings a similarly happy soccer Supercoach!

Snot Factory

One of the nastiest things about being a teacher is being exposed to germy germy children. On top of coughy family and sniffly workmates.

Casa del Levy has been swarming with nasties, seemingly for about 10 weeks now. The Brother, The Father and Myself seem to be passing infections with the athletic precision of the 1st XIII that are so revered at The Boy factory.

The English staff at said Boy Factory has been similarly sharing, almost to a point of proving that Communism can actually work in practise.

This is the 3rd time in about 8 weeks that my own personal Snot Factory has been producing round the clock, quality grade product. I'm pretty much over it. I even had the day off school yesterday.

It is certainly one of the bug bears of the job...

Die Welle

It is not often that the Movie is Better Than The Book. Despite what my students say.

As I've already mentioned, I'm teaching The Wave to Year 10 this term. On top of their graphic novel speeches and our Friday discussion of The Chaser and Satire. They are a top class, and most of them are really mature minded and very intelligent. This unit is about a comparative study between the book and the film.

They didn't much like the book. And quite rightly too. The only thing that really interested me about the book is the subject matter - teacher experiments on his class with the notions of autocracy, to disasterous effects. Plus that whole compulsory obsession with the Holocaust that it seems only English teachers have (or maybe the obsession has just been eeked out of the other teachers (esp the History ones) because of restrictive and prescriptive syllabi that lead to rote learning and other such pedagogical disasters... Oops, got a little ranty there). The novel is not really well written, the characterisations and descriptions are less than engaging and the shifting perspective is beige at best.

And last night I watched the film.

The originial incident happened in California, and as such, the book is set in the US. But the film is in Germany. Making this story less about "dictatorships could happen where you are" and more about "dictatorships could still happen in a society that knows they are bad news". The whole question of German guilt is always one I have found fascinating, and the film touches on in, without making it the subject of the story.

Jorgen Vogel is fantastic as Rainer Wenger the teacher who is torn between professionalism, the respect of his stuffy workmates and the connection with his students (hmmm...?). The saturated colours, punk soundtrack and Wenger's fantastic collection of tshirts, combined with the hand held camera work and low budget European beauty give this film edge, character and street cred.

It diverges from the book quite a bit, which is a good thing. The film makers have taken what little character development is in the novel and run with it, creating characters that are annoyingly adolescent and readl.
Plus, it is a waterpolo film - and there aren't many of them about!

The weak ending of the book is completely re-worked to make it 21st century relevant.

So long as I can get my Year 1o "smart" kids to read subtitles, it should be a hit!