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)