Paul. Has it all.

A confession: I do not like ET. I realise it is seminal film for my generation (when I decide to side with the Xers), and a huge part of allowing sci-fi to leap from the fringe to the mainstream. I know it is meant to be this highly emotional and cathartic tale of coming of age and self sacrifice, a total tear jerker - but it leaves me dry. I just find it kind of slow and overly sentimental.

But that doesn't mean I don't love it when very smart, funny (and somehow quirkily sexy ) British boys make a filmic love letter to the movie, and the entire genre.

The poster. Classic over shot, under the UFO light.

 Paul is a fantastic film. The boys behind the script and in front of the camera, Nick Frost and Simon Pegg, have been firm favourites of mine for... a decade? More? Pegg wrote Spaced, my televisual one true love. He and Frost starred there as best mates. They were best mates in the Pegg-penned Shaun of the Dead, the first zombie romantic comedy - or ZomRomCom (possibly the 2nd one being Zombieland). They became best mates in the Pegg-penned village cop - slash - slasher flick Hot Fuzz (note to self: rewatch this. Yarp.) And this real life friendship comes to life on screen again in the Pegg-Frost-penned Paul. They play geeks, on an exploration holiday of famous alien sighting sites in the USA, who happen upon Paul, the green, chain smoking, potty mouthed alien (voiced by Seth Rogen).



Check out the tshirts!!!! Pegg's Empire - a blatant homage. Wiig's Evolve This - you can't see the image of Jesus shooting Darwin in the face.

The three films are sometimes referred to as the Three Flavours Cornetto Trilogy (though Paul is sadly lacking in the waffle coned treat). All three are genre mash ups. Not in the pisstake Wayans  Bros kind of way, but more of a celebration, filled with inside references, allusions and in-jokes that will only be truly appreciated by officiandos of each genre (which is just a long way to say Geek.) And the love letter of Paul is addressed to many recipients. ET and its auter, Steven Spielberg. A few of his other films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and quite a few of the Indiana Jones installments. All manner of sci-fi stuff - The X-Files, Alien, Men In Black... Geeks that are geekier than me (because yes, that is indeed possible) have made lists to catalogue all of the references and allusions.

One gets the impression that these characters are not an enormous stretch for Pegg and Frost. Friendship? Not much need for acting there. Geeks with an indepth knowledge of all things Star Wars and sci-fi novels? Not much research required. The affection they have for the material here is as palpable as their love for each other. All three of these films have the one common bromance - the love between two blokes, platonic and unconditional.

Paul, the character, sets the whole action in motion. Sets the uncertainty and jealousy off between "the writer Clive Gollings" (Frost) and Graeme Willy (Pegg). Propells them from meandering to a more purposeful mission. Changes the whole outlook and attitude of Creationist Fundamentalist (emphasis on the mental) Ruth (the ever fabulous Kristen Wiig), transforming her from a meek, Darwin-hating, devoted daughter to a swearing, toking, crotch grabbing (others' not hers) partner-in-hijinx love interest for Graeme. Her passage of learning to swear brought particular glee for me, especially the brand new term "dick milk." Paul's gestures and voice are pure Rogen. Disbelief is suspended perfectly, and the awareness of CGI nature of the character disperses, like his ever present ciggie smoke. He looks a little like an alienified Lebowski. All slacker boardies and thongs (I refuse to call them flip flops!)

Classic wind fan, back lit, confused expression sci fi shot

Most of the reviews I have read give it a solid 4 stars. And I think that is grand, particularly when David & Margaret can find a point of agreement. Even the usually uber-geeky Empire gave it four. But in my opinion this is too modest. I can see how some more adult type people than me may have a problem with the profanities. Or the drug use. And most certainly, the Christian type people may find the overt and blatant atheism fairly confronting (but I must admit I found it fairly refreshing - such obvious anti-religious film making has not been seen since The Golden Compass, and that was not done with much style at all - at least not with the same finesse as Pullman's brilliant His Dark Materials trilogy. But I digress. Again.)

With its inherent geekiness, its self referential pomo references and its science-over-God attitude, I reckon this is one of the best films I have seen in ages. Right after I saw it, I kind of got the feeling that I didn't want to consume any other culture for a little while. Kind of like the same sensation you get at the end of a delicious meal - you don't want to muddle the flavour with more food or wine or water, but savour the taste, and let it sit on your tongue a while longer.





Tangible proof of memory

Nostalgia is a funny thing. According to the wisdom of the internoodle, it comes from the Greek words for Homecoming and Pain or Ache. The idea of the good old days. The notion of "living in the past! Hung up on some clown from the 60s!" (cannot help but slide into Seinfeld when the idea of living in the past comes up).

When I came home from South West Rocks, it was not a pain (aside from my errant and wilful sinuses and ear canals. And the mountain of marking to embark on.) Sure, I was glum that my escape to the seaside was over, and that Sparky had to be up before the birds for work the next day. But being home, not so painful.

There was a few gifts to greet me.

In preparation for an upcoming move (perhaps some grey nomading?), my parents have decided that I am grown up enough now not to store all my stuff a their place. Three neat piles of boxes and bags of irregular sizes and states of disrepair. Full of what can best be described as Stuff. I think this is where the Miscellaneous Crap from ALL of my house moves has ended up.

I call them my Nostalgia Showbags. ('Tis the season for the Royal Easter Show, after all.)

I found my Year 10 formal dress. The cowboy boots I wore to my 21st party. An essay I wrote for Year 11 drama about Cosi - the play I will be teaching to Year 12 at The Boy Factory next term (I got an A, 19/20. I don't think it was worth that much. I would have only given me a 15... But I've been told I'm pretty harsh!) My university assignments from the first year of my BA. My birthday cards from my 21st.

More fresian cow print than I care to admit.

That indistinguishable mass at the back is a pyjama top.

I seem to have kept every ticket, program and flyer for all the shows I've ever seen.

This is just some the flyers from the latest Edinburgh trip. But you can just see (top right) a ticket stub for The King's Speech.

Last night, my bedtime story was reading my journal from age 17 to 20.

Full of teenaged angst and really awful poetry. The English teacher I am now wants to take the hand of that cliched over-writer and show her how to use a red pen. Ah, the power of the red pen. If I knew then...
Of course, as with most half-arsed writers, I only ever wrote when I was in the throws of emotional turmoil - more often than not over a Boy - or too bored to think of anything else to do. Part scrapbook, part journal, part artwork... It is an artefact. It charts the rise (but not always getting off the ground) and fall of a number of significant relationships of my past. Romance and love and unrequited lust and friendships. It is truly a tome of the last moments of the 20th century. But this is Not a book that I want my parents to read. Or anyone I actually know. For when I die, I may well put it on the Burn Before Reading list, and organise a buddy to get to my home before my parents do to destroy the evidence. Like an arrangement some blokes have about destroying their porn (or maybe that is just on Coupling.)

And then there are the letters. And birthday cards. And notes. The signs off my door in college. 21st birthday invitations from that season of about two years long, where almost every weekend was a road trip somewhere in the state for another. Posters from all of the plays I have been involved in. Boxes of photographs.

Basically, if you know me, and you have ever sent me a birthday card or given me a drawing or written me a note, chances are, I probably have it.

I've had a good time living in the past. Finding new homes for my old rubbishy things. Deciding to ditch the stuff I really really don't need. Reading unsent letters, covering the full range of emotions from puppy love to vehement spite. Kind of makes me wonder how I'll feel when I read this blog is 10 years time...

But there is no Home Pain here. I'm really pleased I'm not that girl I once was (despite all the lovely messages on my 21st birthday card saying "don't change, your awesome!" (sic).

Escape to the Seaside

After ten and a half long weeks of molding (or moulding? - could I be coating their brains with greenish scum?) young minds, confiscating spray deoderant, failing to track down a thief and helping to write 120 essays, I was exhausted. Just smashed. Like close to tears for no reason all the time kind of tired. If someone had have pulled the "Teachers get too many holidays" line on me in one of those last weeks, I would have sconed them, Glasgow Kiss style. Then I would have sat on their chest and tried to drown them in my irrational flood of tears, Alice in Wonderland style.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is in the shape of almost three weeks off - Easter and ANZAC Day conspire to give us an extra long break. And what better way to escape the Boy Factory and West Bubblefuck than to hijack Sparky's brother's family holiday at South West Rocks? Ah, nothing. There is no better way than that.

Sleep little town, with a few cafes (where the coffee is just passable for the addiction and to keep the whinging at bay) and a few pubs with great counter meals and a few days of sunshine to ease the pain of  marking those 120 essays that I helped to write. Beachside markets for a new raffia fedora, and a gorgeous trinket for Mum's birthday. Sparky distracted by (largely unsuccessful) fishing trips. Cold beers, chilled cider, wickedly good gelato. A few dunks in the ocean (already more than I got in my Almost A Disaster summer floody road trip.) Time to paint my nails and read some pages and watch some trashy DVDs... Holidays? Yes please!

However, South West Rocks brings me just one gripe. I have NEVER understood why it is called South West Rocks. Yes, it is indeed rocky. There is a plethora of rocks. No misnomer there. But exactly what is it South West of? The USA? The moon? Fiji?

Really, if that is my biggest problem, then I seem to be going OK, right?

Travel Plans

Warning: Serious First World Whinges may be contained in this post.

Week 9 in an 11 week term is pretty brutal. The kids are tired, the staff are exhausted. But there is too long left in the term to down tools, and there is not enought juice left in the tank to keep powering along. (Too many mixed metaphors?) My general state of busy is demonstrated by how damn long it has been since I posted anything...

So how do I distract myself from the dramas, traumas and fairly insignificant whinges of the end of term?

Travel Plans.

Usually at this time I would be building in excitement and anticipation of giggles at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Catching up with old friends, drinking my body weight in amazing coffee and transporting away from The Boy Factory through the magic of standup comedy. And this year, as the sun sets earlier, and the days of blasting heat are beginning to abate, thoughts of Melbourne keep arising. It's almost Pavlovian.

But I'm not headed to Mexico City this year. Despite the fact that I was promised an AFL game, and despite the fact that there are new tiny friends to meet. And it's because 2011 has some richer variety of travel plans.

First jaunt, Easter - The East Coast Blues & Roots Festival. Or Bluesfest.

The lineup is cracking. Bob Dylan. The Cat Empire. Elvis Costello. Clare Bowditch (she doesn't know it yet, but I have a mad girl-crush on her)

I haven't been to this fabulous festival for YEARS. Possibly since before I turned 18. It is a tradition for the extended clan, and there is a tribe of folks from the Big Smoke making the trek all the way to Byron town. And they have a HOUSE booked (read: hot shower & actual bed). It won't be a cheap weekend, by any stretch. But if I keep control of my pennies, it shouldn't have a huge impact on The Big Trip.

Ah, The Big Trip. When my head teacher mentioned a senior history excursion to the battlefields of Europe, my first question was "Yes?"

We go to Gallipoli, Ypres, the Somme and Paris. Then I have taken a sneaky week off to flit up London to see some of the best people I know. Plus some theatre, some warm beer and an extra week of "summer" in my year. Right now I am using this trip as my crutch - when the weight of being Mum to 110 becomes a bit too much, when the pile of marking threatens to smother me alive, when the piles of disorganisation on my desk in the staffroom are in danger of toppling over into a lava flow of unfiled paperwork, I get quotes for travel insurance. Or check prices on flights and train trips. Or research what plays are on at The Globe for 5 quid.

I was last in the UK in 2008, for The Best Thing Humans Have Ever Invented Ever, usually referred to as the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. And my time with The A Team and new friends there was brilliant. Hard work, and hard on my liver (seriously, I still don't think I have recovered). I am just a few weeks early this year, and so I will miss TBTHHEIE. A shame, for sure.

The excitement is building for this looming trip. It is my distractinator for sure.

OscarsFest 2011: Psychotic Ballerinas

Believe it or not. I used to to ballet. For 7 years, I donned tutus, and leather slippers, and pale tights. I slicked my hair back into a bun. I turned out my toes, and plied with the best of them. It may be difficult to comprehend, what with me not being the most graceful or coordinated of humans in my current state. I am the klutziest person I know, with falling apart joints and more scars and dings than I would like. But I used to be quite the lithe, flexible thing, with limbs under control. Of course that was before puberty hit. And an independent social life. And, as if by some strange coincidence (by which I mean no coincidence at all, in fact closer to the direct cause), my exit from the world of ballet coincided with the introduction of en pointe shoes to the class - the satin ones with the clonking great chunks of wood in the end.

Where I grew up, The Insular Peninsular, dance was a pretty big deal - the Morrison family had the monopoly on teaching all forms of dance in the sleepy suburb, and my high school had a pretty awesome track record at the Rock Eistedfordt. And then I encountered The Dancers at uni, another breed of female altogether.My views of them at the time were less than positive. They were always giggling, always wore their hair in a high, swishy ponytail, and in the theatre classes were always making inane comments that demonstrated limited knowledge of (in my not-so-humble-at-the-time opinion) of the far superior subject matter of the dramatic arts (as opposed to rolling around on the floor. Ooops I mean, modern dance.) When I went back to uni a few years later, a little older, wiser and far less arrogant, my opinion of The Dancer changed dramatically (pun entirely intended) as I worked with them in education classes. This is how prejudices are destroyed.

Black Swan does nothing to dispel a negative image of The Dancer. Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman) is a devoted ballerina - 28 years old. Young in comparison to the retiring Beth (Winona Ryder - a little bit of art reflecting life? She is playing the washed up has-been. And unfortunately it is a slipper that fits), but little effort has been made to disguise Portman's well earned wrinkles. She is given the once in a lifetime opportunity of playing The Role of Swan Lake, the twin blades of the weakling, fearful White Swan, and the vindictive, seductive Black Swan. She is a technically brilliant dancer, precise and detached - basically the White Swan is captured in her dancing perfectly. But she fails to evoke the passion and unpredictability of the Black. And this frustrates her misogynistic and autocratic director, Thomas (Vincent Cassel.)

The nightmarish experience of dealing with self-doubt, director's criticism and a smothering mother (Barbara Hershey) is the strength of the plot, as we a drawn through he experience along with Nina, never knowing what is real or what is her imagination gone haywire.The extreme pressure, or perhaps the predisposition for psychosis, but poor Nina drops fast through paranoia, hallucinations and full on schizophrenic episodes, in the quest for the perfect performance. The deterioration of her psyche is literally reflected and refracted through the ever-present mirrors that confront her everywhere she goes. The first act is weaker - establishing the misery of her strictured life through the power of a hand held camera is not nearly as interesting as her descent into madness.

There are a number of concepts arising from this film that have already been a bit of a preoccupation for me. The fact that I was aware of this in the middle of watching the film may say something about my level of absorption (is that even a word?) in the story, but I became more soluble towards the end I think.

First up, the whole idea of performance, of engaging the audience in a moment on the stage is certainly not foreign in my life. One might call my focus on the theatrical akin to obsession, especially about 10 years ago. And some of my friends from these heady days have actually become more than a touch successful. I am positive that all of my other friends are sick and tired of hearing the CLUNK of my name dropping about my fabulous tribe. But I digress... My point is that I have come to see up close just how the life of a performer is affected by them becoming their occupation. There is a bar scene in the film where a guy asks Nina who she is, and she answers "a dancer," because it isn't just what she does, it defines her absolutely. I have seen how this happens to real people, not just the elite New York prima ballerinas. I have seen relationships disintegrate under the pressure of the inward focus required of a performer. Portman and director Darren Aronofsky have captured this all-consuming introspection pretty perfectly - for Nina, she is the centre of the universe, and it is probably her pushy, ex-ballerina mother's fault.

The possibility of friendships - genuine, supportive and completely lacking in competition friendships - between women has also been something I have considered carefully. I think I first examined the issue when I was directing a show about the topic. Second wave feminism (oooh, I used the F word!!!) was in some ways striving to break down the barriers of competition - striving for the same men, the same jobs, the same money - and the intra-gender resentment that went along with that competitive streak. In the high-octane arena of performance - especially a female dense (read: bitchy) environment such as ballet - the competition is fierce. The thinner, the stronger, the more technical, the more artistic, the more passionate, the more reliable... the better? But what if that isn't the same person? The company director Thomas (pron: Toma. Under no circumstances should you pronounce the S!!) plays on this, by pitting the dancers against each other, and using their insecurities to his own ends - that being artistic adulation for him. Plus his over-use of the casting couch is more than a little unethical. A performer's ego is fragile and when there are younger, more vibrant girls lining up to stab you in the back (or drug you out of contention), the pressure is bound to be immense.

And speaking of the gender see-saw in the dance world, Thomas is really the only male of significance in the show. Sure, there are the 2 ballerinos, but they barely share 5 lines between them. Thomas is the centre of this microcosm, and he has surrounded himself with delicate flowers. Dance, as an industry, has never really had the reputation of being feminist friendly, even aside from the cut-throat competition and ambition. Anorexia is rife, weight pressure must be immense, not the accepting and welcoming environment for all shapes and sizes. I mean, one hardly gets the impossibly high cheek bones, razor sharp shoulder blades and the neck of a swan on a diet of hot chips and beer, right? And there is the sheer fact of The Gaze - Ballerina as The Viewed, not as The Artist. Thomas is the genius, and Nina is his moving canvas. There is very little empowerment for her, aside from the recognition of filling her potential within her director's vision. And how does this compare to the film as art? Director? Male. Writers? All male. Producers? Out of the 15, only 2 are ladies. Cinematography (the eye of the gaze)? Bloke. The production design, costume design and set design are all XX chromosomes, and they have done a particularly good job in it too.

I guess my point is that this film seems to be about a female character, incapable of dealing with the pressures of reality and her life, as contrived/observed by males. And I guess there is far too many of those films out there that I don't think that more examinations of the issue actually solve it. As has been said on Cougartown (an underrated comedy, I feel) "Them bitches be loco!!" But there doesn't seem to be much examination of WHY we bitches be loco, and what can be done to un-loco us, or at least un-loco the future bitches of the world.

But enough of the existential navel gazing. Sure this film made me think about things I have already thought about. But more importantly, what do I think it will do in The All Important Oscars stakes? It could get in on editing, and there is a chance for cinematography (it certainly is noticeable), but I highly doubt a director's or best film nod.

Best Actress though? Portman could well have it in the bag. She already has the SAG (teehee!) and the Golden Globe. And she is pretty darn phenomenal. Lots of reviewers (and my facebook friends) have commented on the weirdness of some of the plot points, but I think she carries these less-than-conventional horror scenes well. Her dancing is phenomenal, when the hand-held camera work lets us see it - wait, I think I am beginning to sound like David Stratton here... Anyway, from what I remember of ballet, she was pretty technically perfect. Excellent form, beautiful lines, elegance, poise... anyone might think she has been doing it all her life! She is capable of both the fragile and the passionate; she does not have the same battle that Nina has between the White and the Black sides of the role. Her confusion and frustration with her life, especially as it descends into chaos, is almost palpable, and I defy anyone not to be taken on this exceptionally emotional journey with her. Granted, I haven't seen any of the other Actress in a Leading Role performances (partly due to the shithouse delay on Australian releases, partly due to West Bubblefuck cinema being hopelessly inadequate in getting films not from the Family/Action/RomCom sections of the cine-file), but I think I will put my bet on Portman's sublime performance in this film.

And aside from the fact that she is rakishly thin in this role, she is totally stunning.

Let's not and say we did

All of the good stories have been told. All the good ideas have already been created. There is no originality left, and there is no goodness left in the search for originality. These are pretty much the central tenants of the post-modern world we live in.

But the good news is, in this po-mo wasteland, that if we look at all the good stuff that has come before, all we need to do is mash it together in new and interesting ways to create new and interesting works of art. Everything old is new again.

And this is where we find Easy A.

In the minefield that is John Hughes' resume, there are several diamonds of coming of age films. He is the greatest auteur of the teenage film to date, and I can't see him being superseded at any point in time. Chicagoan high schools have not been examined by anyone else with such detail, insight or poignant  The Breakfast Club plays with the archetypes of high school, all forced together in the confines of a weekend detention. And they each learn about each other, and themselves, before the detention in over.

The seminal 80s flick, Ferris Bueller's Day Off has so many dead ends in plot, so many enormous question marks about the relevance of various elements - as Easy A rightly points out, there really seems no point to the street parade with "Danke Shoen" and "Twist & Shout", but it truly is a great deal of fun. Maybe the point is that in adolescents, so much of the stuff that is done has no other purpose than mindless fun.

And my personal favourite, Cameron Crowe' Say Anything. Film makers and TV show creators have been paying homage to this film for decades now. South Park, Greek, Grey's Anatomy, The Simpsons, House and Lost have all made reference to the oh so iconic scene of John Cusack, boombox held aloft on the front lawn, belting out Peter Gabriel. Of course, the one I love best is the Spaced, with Tim and the gang in a stolen army tank, belting out Take That to win back Marcia into the modern urban family. It is such a shame that Crowe then went on to make such steaming piles of crap as Vanilla Sky (and if you haven't seen that film, please never do - it is two and half hours of your life you will never ever get back) and Elizabethtown. He is great with music though - Almost Famous is pretty brilliant, and at least the soundtrack for Elizabethtown is pretty good. But I digress, in a fairly major way.

And all of these 80s cinematic gems get a nod in Easy A, as the pinnacle of all things aspirational in a teenager's life. Judd Nelson's victorious fist pump, as evidence of his emotional connection to a lass. Escape via a ride on lawn mower chariot. And John Cusack, revealing his innermost soul through ghettoblaster speakers.

The premise of the film is basically this: Olive (Stone) lies to her bestie (whom she doesn't really like - it must a teenage girl thing, because I think I remember that sensation) to get out of weekend camping. Her lie involves a steamy date with a older boy, where she loses her V-Plates. News of her de-plating spreads fast, and she is branded all kinds of double-standard-derogatory-names by the viscious rumour mill of high school. The boys of the lower castes of high school get wind of the fact that it is a lie, and she gets all kinds of favours and gift cards to lie to the rumour mill about various sexual favours she performed for them - so they can get sexual kudos. Meanwhile, her social stock dwindles to nothing, as she takes up the Harlot mantle she has been branded with with great aplomb. But then it all kind of falls to pieces. So she uses the power of the internet to broadcast the truth about the whole sordid affair.

Emma Stone is golden in this film. Her spunky attitude and husky voice have easily made her the sexiest thing about both Superbad and Zombieland. She carries the film well, and delivers the sharp and pacey dialogue to perfection. I am always a sucker for fast-paced chat in any kind of pop culture, and when it is rich in double entendres and decorated with 80s film references, all the better! Why her character feels like such a shrinking violet is a complete mystery to me - the girl is smoking hot.



There has been some criticism leveled at Easy A for being a less-than adequate remake of Nathanial Hawthorne's antiquated and dry The Scarlett Letter, a la Clueless/Emma. But I don't think it is a REMAKE of the book - a book I think I studied in Year 10 or 11 (and thought was lame and dumb and stupid. Unfortunately, I didn't find the message inside it with such clarity and poignancy as Emma Stone's character did in this film.) It may well be a relook at the themes and events of the book, through the lens of the 21st century. But even then, the approach to adultery is just a little bit too Overly Judgemental for my liking. I mean, I realise that most of my time is spent with Boys in this here Factory, and the film mostly focuses on the Girls and their perspective. And perhaps in Australia, teenagers have a slightly more cavalier attitude to sexing than in the mostly-white suburbs of California. The whole notion of being branded a "super-slut" after reportedly sleeping with just one guy is a bit difficult to swallow. But I do still know the awesome power of the rumour mill, which is still alive and kicking in West Bubblefuck, even if it is slightly less judgemental in the adultery stakes.

But that is basically the butt of the satire here - people treat sex with such a strange mixture of fear, excitement and hypocrisy, and the human desire for salacious gossip is really its lowest form of entertainment. The twisted Chinese Whispers games of high school actually don't change much as life goes on. It crosses cultures and countries and generations. And it really shows the nastiest side of human nature when it happens. Don't get me wrong, I've been a Grade 1 Gossiper in my time, and have been stung from the rumour mill myself.

The Evangelicals are also susceptible to some scathing parody in this flick. Amanda Byrnes is brilliantly over the top as the incredibly pious and uber-bitchy leader of the God Squad. She seems to have forgotten the Golden Rules of Do Unto Others, and Judge Not... And instead delves into the mucky gossip with great gusto and furious piety. I read somewhere that she came out of retirement for this film. How old is she? And WHY is she retiring? I mean, I know she only has a repertoire of 7 facial expressions, but she is really very good at all of them. The Bible Bashers don't often cop a beating of their own, especially in mainstream Hollywood fodder. And I think it is interesting how the Kumbayah mob are really shown to be shallow and judgemental rather that sharing, caring Christian souls. And when it comes to High School Holier Than Thous, I have seen, and I know where the truth truly lies.

The Real Love Interest (rather than all the Red Herring Fake-Shags) that Olive has is Mascot Todd - the delectably-chested (if tiny-nippled) Penn Badgley, also seen being broody and clever in Gossip Girl. And while he is incredibly good looking and pouty, he still hasn't quite shown any depth of talent, other than skin deep. Really, give me John Cusak any day of the decade.

The highlight of the whole film are the slivers of scenes with Olive's parents. Patricia Clarkson and my super-fave tiny bald man, Stanley Tucci are just delicious in the scenes of suburban bliss. They are the kind of parents that don't get on celluloid very often - witty and slightly awkward but not embarrassing. The biggest difference between Olive's folks and mine is that I still can't extract salacious details about my parents youth from them,but Olive's are all about the overshare.

Oh, and the tagline of the film was already in my everyday vernacular - "Let's not and say we did"

Physics in action.

And I'm an English teacher.

I was never much good at Physics at school. I am ashamed of how little I know about amps and watts and terminal velocity (other than the Wesley Snipes film, which is appauling).

But I seem to recall a little pithy piece of information from the dark recesses of my Physics memory.

It is more difficult to gain momentum, than to keep momentum.

As in Physics, so in life.
This week (and it is only Tuesday, mind) has heard me tootling along in my off-key voice "The first week is the hardest," bastardising Rod Stewart for my own ends. And it is. I know we teachers get great masses of holidays, but I firmly believe they are earned. We work damn hard those weeks that we are on, and we do a job that The Haters wouldn't touch with someone else's tax file number.

And nobody likes that Back To Work feeling, post blissful summer. Not the Boys, whining in their trussed up ties. And not the teachers, with their soon-to-be-faded thong tans on their feet.

Don't get me wrong, the prospect of being back in a classroom is exhilerating. And the notion of My First Ever Drama Class has me excited out of my skin. But as much as I love my job, "It's always better on holidays." Thanks Franz.