Good Riddance

I haven't been in a posting mood recently.

Samara wants less movie reviews and more man reviews. I'll try to oblige but not here.

All I wanted to say is that I am still kicking.

Goodbye 2006, you've been fun but more than a little shitty.

Hello 2007. I just know you are going to be peachy.

x

The Neverending Story @ Rooftop Cinema

Is there any better way than to spend an evening freezing your tits off overlooking the city watching dubiously classic cinema?

I think not.

And now you can! Melbourne's newest outdoor cinema sits atop Cookie and it is replete with deck chairs, faux grass, a bar and bitterly cold winds.

Sounds like a plan.

Steff and I went for the garlic chive dumplings but stayed for the über-germanic fantasy fest, The Neverending Story.

What memories. It still holds up reasonably well but it is interesting how much film making has changed since 1984. The flow of the editing is all very heavy handed and the plot is overly plodding where it needn't be. Important scenes, such as Atreyu's fight with G'mork, which would have been an extended set piece in today's world, are utterly perfunctory.

Still, I loved it. Sliced childhood. Yummy! (And so were the dumplings, by the way.)

Happy Feet (or, Queezy Stomach)

It is difficult to say anything bad about a dancing penguin but I am going to try.

Happy Feet is cute, loveable and filled with super sweet saccharine-coated annoyance.

It's that age old story - a baby emperor penguin can't sing for shit but he can dance like a bastard. Seeing as the penguin world is completely blank and white (and orange) he is ostracised by the Skecksis penguin leaders and has to find a way to assert his worth by saving the entire emperor penguin population from the evils of over fishing. All through the power of dance.

It all sounds very nice, and it is. There are some very important messages tucked away waiting for you to be hit over the head with. Before the end of the film you will learn that it is important to trust in yourself, that dogmatic faith is short-sighted, that humans are oblivious to the plight of nature and that penguins are good dancers.

I'm being harsh, I know. It is just that Happy Feet feels a little slapped together. It knows what buttons to press then it jumps up and down on them with two feet. The animation is fantastic and the voices are reasonable (with the exception of the mewing Nicole Kidman). It is quite funny in parts and very endearing.

Happy Feet isn't a good film but you'll walk out smiling anyway. Everyone else is seeing it, you may as well go too.

Marie Antoinette (or, Mai Oui!)

I don't think anyone was expecting substance out of Sofia Coppola's latest flick but they were sure as hell holding out for a cavalcade of style. And she delivers.

Marie Antoinette looks and sounds a treat. Just don't touch it because it will fall apart.

There seems to be a push in many films nowadays (and I am directly referencing The Queen and Catch A Fire here) to take non-bias to the absolute extreme. Marie Antoinette is just another example of a film maker trying to be so unbiased that she ends up castrating the film, leaving it voiceless and unimportant. Films need to have a voice so that the audience can agree or disagree. They need to say something or the gut never comes into play and everything begins to feel a little effete.

Grumbling aside, the film is extremely watchable. It is a worthy attempt to make one of histories most reviled figures a little more palatable. Coppola's Marie Antoinette is portrayed as a little girl who is understandably drawn into the decadence of the court at Versailles when her husband is unresponsive. It is a convenient take on the content and the new wave soundtrack helps to highlight the modern interpretation. Yet it is obvious that re-interpreting the French court through modern morays is a artistic conceit rather than founded in any historical fact.

Check it out. It is a bit of fluff masquerading as substance but it is alluring fluff.

Babel (or, 21 Grams Part Deux)

Guns are bad.

You don't have to see the film anymore.

If you've seen 21 Grams you'll know what to expect. Gritty depressing but ultimately hollow posturing. And plenty of it.

I've been following Iñárritu since his excellent debut, Amores Perros but since then I have come to see his films as pointless narrative sliced and spliced to appear more interesting. Babel raises this to high art. It is a pity because, structually, when it is done well, the interlocking, interweaving personal drama is one of my favourites. The key is finding the thematic balance and the integrated tone. Babel had neither.

The three stories are reasonably unrelated, with the least related of them being the most interesting. This of course doesn't bode well for the film as a whole.

I'm probably being harsh. Babel is a film I have been hanging out for and it disappointed on so many levels. The performances of Cate and Brad are less than unremarkable and their characters are not even one dimensional. The film, despite its title, has little to do with language and when it tries to deal with language directly it comes across as flippant. And it is boring.

Don't bother.

The Queen (or, We are quite amused)

Watching Helen Mirren as HRH Liz II is an eerie experience. She is that good. It is uncanny. And yet, the world that director Stephen Frears takes us into is so "behind doors" that we can have little understanding of how factual it really is.

And then Mirren makes it real. It is an amazing accomplishment of writing and performance that The Queen rings so true. In fact, there were very few, if any, moments during the film when I even thought to question its veracity.

Apparently the screenwriter spent a year on one of the royal estates slowly picking off the royal employees and grilling them for the facts. The result is an intimate portrait as the royals in their utter domesticity, drinking tea and squabbling. Their world, though recognisable, is run by rules from another era, and this forms the films driving conflict.

And the royals are up against some pretty stiff competition. The Blairs, in all their upper middle class glory are our grounded in reality champions of the people. Cheri spends her time ranting against the irrelevance of the royals while Tony makes excuses for them. What is our world coming to?

The Queen plays out rather like a freak show. Look at the funny royals, sonny! Yet their inability to see the world for what it is becoming makes the freak show a compelling one. Perhaps not compelling enough to carry the entire film (it does seem to peter out near the end) though that could be down the the understatedness of the films tone. Without the whistles and bells Frears resorts to some appallingly meaningful stares at the animal kingdom, and while this doesn't get the heart racing it doesn't belittle the grand performances or the film as a whole.

See it for Mirren's performance. She'll take home the little gold man for this. See it for its scathingly balanced take on an phenomenal situation. See it to see if you believe it.

Highly recommended.

Comments Amnesty

"Thank you for being a friend..."
UPDATE: If you read this post, MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE A COMMENT! I hope that doesn't sound too rude but that is kind of the point of the post. I love you all, but it is tough love!

UPDATED UPDATE: To comment you need to click on the link that says how many comments there are (not the envelope). It looks like this: 9 comments

I was shocked the other day to find that one of my new (but well loved) London friends has been keeping tabs on my by reading this very blog. Astounding, I know.

In all honesty, I was quite pleased - especially since that was the reason for cranking this whole contraption up in the first place (albeit from the other side of the world).

I am so grateful that I have so many wonderful friends littered across the lands. It has been a pretty tumultuous year. There have been some uppity ups and some very low downs. I don't think I am overstating when I say that it has been one of my most eventful years. At least in all the trauma I have met some amazing new friends and seen some amazing new sides to some amazing old friends.

So, I thank yous all from the bottom of my heart. Thank you all for your support and advice and hugs and laughs and everything in between. I couldn't have gotten through it all without you.

Now, it is time to reply...

Friends, lurkers, stumblers, lend me your comments.

If you come by the page in the next week I challenge you to say hello. Send a Christmas greeting, if you will. (Hell, I'm not doing cards this year.) It'd be nice to know who's out there.

If I don't know you, introduce yourself. If I do, tell me what you're up to.

Go on, you know you want to.

I'm going to be ambitious and keep bumping this post till we reach 50 comments so get cracking.

It is not hard to do. You don't have to sign up or leave a credit card number or anything like that. Just click on the comments link below and say something nice.

X

I Need My Head Read

Me + ex + Q + A + Shamil/alcohol + stupid questions = trauma

Being grown up is utterly chops!

¡¡¡Feliz año nuevo!!!

I'm starting my new year before this one is over. I've just decided.

Things are looking up.

The job thing: Some very nice opportunities popping their heads up, including a possible inroad into a decent advertising company.

The house thing: A nice little number in Fitzroy coming available in late January. Looks promising.

The hand thing: Fuck it, I can use it.

The boy thing: Only one cure for that...

I'll keep you posted. ; )

Happy New Year!!! Let's kiss that last fucker goodbye!!!

Bleed Me Dry

Breakups, don't we love them!

At times like this I turn to music to bleed me of all that all-consuming inner turmoil.

This time around Idlewild's American English is featuring prominently along with one of my all time favourites...



I'm not going to claim that the lyrics are particularly relevant to this specific situation but Björk's sentiments always fortify me against any lovelorn listlessness.

You think you're denying me of something
Well, I've got plenty
You're the one who's missing out
But you won't notice
Until after five years
If you live that long
You'll wake up
All loveless
I dare you
To take me on
I dare you
To show me your palms
I'm so bored of cowards
Who say what they want
Then they cant handle
Can't handle love

Of course, these songs usually give way to more optimistic numbers, like Modest Mouse's Float On or Grandaddy's Now It's On.

Things always begin to look up.

Code 46 (or, Just add charisma)

Another day, another Tim Robbins film.

Why do I do it to myself?

Well, it was directed by Michael Winterbottom, one of Britain's most eclectic directors - and one of my personal favourites. Oh, and Samantha Morton has been a fave since she played one of the victims in Cracker.

So, yes, I've been keen to see Code 46, Winterbottom's take on sci-fi, for a while now. I was especially interested in how he would manage to portray the future with his trademark low budget, and he did surprisingly well. Winterbottom's effective use of language and stylistic tweaks to familiar surroundings create the near future elegantly and effortlessly - far more elegantly than the cinematic heavyweights like Lucas and Spielberg have managed in recent years with their tedious exposition and overladen special effects.

It is a beautifully simple, Spanish, French, Arabic and Chinese words are blended into the English dialogue along with newly coined terms, whose meanings gradually become understandable as the film progresses. The linguist in me loves how effective the use of language is in building the future of Code 46. The movie-goer in me loves Winterbottom's chuck-em-in-the-deep-end ethos. But - and it is a big but (and I cannot lie) - there is a serious problem with the leads.

No chemistry.

At all.

Robbins and Morton seemed to be going through the motions. It is not that the story is not compelling. The politics of love in the shallow gene pool of the future was more than interesting enough to hold my attention. Interesting but cold - which is rather unfortunate in a film about the future of love.

I've come to realise that I am becoming hypersensitive to the lack of emotional motivation in films at the moment. I forgive Winterbottom because I get the feeling that he had other priorities in bringing the film to the screen. While Code 46 is not particularly successful as a whole, it is a success on many levels. I loved the script, the ideas, the pacing, the editing. All it needed was a little soul to bind it all together.

Worth checking out. It is sci-fi on a budget and done well. Watch it in the spirit of the experiment that it is and you'll enjoy it on one level (and mourn the film that it could have been on another).

Ho, Ho, Fucking Ho!

I have come to realise that I am a bit of an Ebeneezer Scrooge this year.

I am sure there are a number of factors and if you have been following the trains of thought here on NNM you will know exactly what I am talking about.

One I haven't mentioned though is that I have just finished reading Sam Harris' vitriolic work, The End Of Faith. the reasoning is pretty simple: you can't justify believing in something just because it is convenient or feels good to do so. Religious fundamentalists and the moderates and liberals who allow them to thrive are set to destroy our world because of their misguided faith. Now there's a cure for any religious feeling whatsoever.

Harris got me to thinking. Seeing as I don't believe in God, Yahweh, or Allah (so stone me) why should I persist in this deluded celebration of the Christian ethos. Call it whatever you want - family gathering, celebration of love, blah, blah, blah - it is still perpetuated as the birthday of S.B.L. Jesus.

Maybe it will give me a chance to debate with my religious relatives.

Actually, xmas is looking up.

The pic above has been ripped unceremoniously from Harris' site. It is a promotion of his new "pamphlet", Letter To A Christian Nation, which is just like The End Of Faith only shorter.

Catch A Fire (or, Is importance more important than art?)

It is rare for me to step into a film without knowing what to expect. In case you haven't guessed, I am a film junkie and I have always taken it upon myself to know what is coming out, when, and how well it has been received. Not so with Phillip Noyce's latest film Catch A Fire. Perhaps it is my ambivalence to Tim Robbins or that I haven't been in the mood for "issues" films recently, but this one just slipped under the radar.

Yesterday though, out with Steff, we decided to catch it because it was the next unseen film on the bill. Clean slate. No preconceptions. Difficult film.

It is problematic to treat Catch A Fire to a regular review because I don't think it is a great film artistically. Yes, it has a resounding social importance and, while it deals ostensibly with the workings of the ANC during the last days of South Africa's apartheid era, it is still dangerously relevant to today's global situation.

Noyce's film basically documents the development of Patrick Chamusso from committed, yet apathetic, family man to crusading "terrorist". There's the rub - Catch A Fire is a document. It doesn't set out to say anything, merely to tell a story. Inevitably the audience is able to glean meaning from that story, and this is probably how the film has won praise for is even-handedness but in removing any overt agenda, Noyce has left the film flat, unimpassioned and voiceless.

It is a pity because the performances are uniformly excellent. The problem is that they quickly hit a wall. Robbins' Anti-terrorist agent is given no growth, no arc. Yes, this is possibly a realistic portrayal of men in such situations but we never get to see how this life affects him. Similarly, Derek Luke's portrayal of Patrick is admirable but ultimately brittle and under-explored.

Catch A Fire is a film you will want to embrace but it will give you little to hold on to.

Eyes, Lies and Illusions @ ACMI

After such praise from Richard, and having an afternoon dangling, I visited ACMI for their latest exhibition. Eyes, Lies and Illusions promised to deliver a cavalcade of mind-bending illusions from the pre-cinematic age. And it did, but I’d seen most of it before so I left feeling less than whelmed.

It is a clever little exhibition, well curated, quirkily set out, but it is much more hands off than it needed to be. Part of the fun of these illusions it their ability to animate with the tug of a string or the flick of a finger and the countless “hands off” signs made it abundantly clear that the powers that be weren’t very amenable to that.

What does manage to shine through from behind the Perspex is the ingenuity of the human mind when it comes to creating diversions and the charming naivity of the human mind for being diverted so fully by such things.

Check it out but try to sneak in because it isn’t really worth the entry fee – you’re not living in the 18th century, you’re not going to be stunned.

Eragon (or, Harry Skywalker of the Narnian Rings)

Farm boy, dragon, princess, mentor, evil tyrant.

Been there, done that.

There is not new ground to cover here. In fact, at times the ground is so well worn that the sides of the furrow come up to your armpits. Eragon sitting on the hill staring at the Tatooine’s Alagaësia's setting sun; Cloaked Eragon entering Jabba’s Durza's palace; the attack of ring wraiths Ra'zacs – at times scenes seemed to be a direct and open homage to the classics of the genre.

Eragon, for all its clichés is an engaging little film. The leads are likable, the effects passable, and the narrative will easily keep the attention of kids and kids at heart. A little charmer is all it is going to be though. Like the Potter films (excepting Cuarron’s effort) and The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, Eragon suffers from being adapted from a best-selling book. Scenes seem to have been shot because they had to be and the end result is less cohesive for it.

It’s a few weeks before school holidays and if this is your bag then catch it before you have to share the cinema with a gaggle of screaming brats.

Bewitched (or, She's no Elizabeth Montgomery)

I feel dirty.

Oedipus, hand me that spoon. I don’t want to see ever again.

Why, Sweet Baby Lord Jesus, why did they make this film?

Credit to the production team for trying to remake a tv show and treading new ground at the same time but no, No, NO!

Nicole Kidman? Eugh! But snaps for making even Naomi Watts look vapid.

Will Ferrell. I love you but it’s not that kind of movie!

Shirley McLaine. Your star power isn’t enough - you also need to act.

Michael Caine. Michael Caine.

Steve Carrell. I love you, let’s make babies.

Do not touch this film. Give it a wide berth in your dvd store. Don’t even walk down the B aisle.

Scar Tissue

I neglected to let you all know about my trip to the hand therapist last week. It has been playing on my mind since then and not just because I was neglecting one of the prominent and more informative threads of NNM.

Apparently everything is going well. I still can't make a fist but the fingers are gaining movement steadily. If my hand continues to improve at this rate then I may be able to dodge going under the scalpel again. It was good news but unfortunately I realised how little work I had been putting into my hand. I had pretty much resigned myself to another operation.

More putty, more exercises and more massaging to work the scar tissue.

Scar tissue - forming even now and will do for another year or so. I found this immeasurably upsetting. It fucked my head up no end. In my mind, I was on the uphill trek, about to crest the hill and see the sunrise.

No. They are still pouring cement into my hand and I’m still sinking. (Okay, I was dealing with a breakup at the time as well.)

I know these are only symbols but I put a lot of stock in them. I walked out of the therapy wing realising that I hadn’t come nearly as far as I needed to, physically or emotionally. I’ve been living in a fantasy world for the past few months. It has been fantastic but ultimately illusory.

The road goes ever on…

Tags: hand therapy, injury, recovery

Casino Royale (or, Blonde, James Blonde)

You've heard it all before, no doubt: Casino Royale is not your regular Bond film.

Unfortunately, that is patently untrue. Casino Royale is like every other Bond film you have seen: car chases, sexy women, big stunts and bizarrely advanced technology, which beeps and blips when it really shouldn't.

What is so different about it then? It's done well - it's well acted and it's well plotted.

They really have taken the formula and perfected it. It should come as no surprise that shedding the layers of cinematic cliché that have caked onto the franchise over the years and harking back to Flemming's original source material would provide a well needed shot in the arm (or pulse on the defibrillator, as the case may be).

Daniel Craig's Bond is craggy (sorry), obstinate, egocentric and posturing, not the suave, double entendre totting pretty boy we have come to know and love tolerate. There is a hardness in Craig that suits the role like a glove and there is a certain elegance to the gestation of the Bond of the future.

On the topic - elegance, thy name is Eva Green. She was fantastic as Vesper Lynd and she carried the whole film along with her psuedo English accent. Her chemistry with Craig was electric even if her lines (and his) were a little wooden. Their relationship will hopefully prove to be the core of what will be an extended rebirth of the franchise.

It is encouraging to see that the production team that has foisted the last few Bond atrocities on us has actually managed to deliver a somewhat more sophisticated and developed film. It gives some hope that even though Hollywood has lost its way, there are still some breadcrumbs for them to follow back to the path.

Recommended

Tags: movie review, Bond, film

Mercury Muddies Meredith

I'm not really in the writing mood but I thought I'd drop this one in before I hobble of into obscurity for a few hours/days/weeks.

Meredith was hot. Dusty and hot. Hot and Dusty.

It is a pity that that is the lasting impression of the whole festival. It was a blast, and driving up with the "boys" and camping out was a great laugh, but it was too hot and too dusty.

You can see all the photos here. Note the distinct lack of nudie shots from the Meredith Gift because we, like most of the campers, decided to leave before they ran the infamous naked dash because it was too dusty and hot.

There were a few band that we braved the heat and dust for. The New Pornographers have cemented themselves as a great recorded band. They can't carry a tune outside the studio. I forgave them in London but twice bitten forever shy. The Presets were fantastic, and so much more classy than I gave them credit. See the pretty picture above. Midlake were pleasant from afar, as were Tapes 'n' Tapes. Combo La Revelacion latined things up well and got the crowd moving as they have done every year of the festival. Dallas Crane were extremely tight, played to perfection and have an awesome presence, it is just a pity I don't like their music. (Much to the disgust of those around us we decided to sleep on an abandoned couch.)

Then it was home and showers.

Andrew

I know Andrew only ever read this blogger (sic) to check what I'd written about him, and I promised I wouldn't write anything bad, even after we broke up. Well, time has come to put that into action.

Things that burn bright expire quickly, I suppose.

It is so strange, we didn't really get to say goodbye, we just went about our morning routine in the knowledge that we wouldn't see each other again. That is really hard to cope with. Sitting here now, I already miss him in a way that is hard to put my finger on. There is a little hollow in my chest. It is scary that he could burrow himself in there so quickly, especially since I was not open to it after all that had gone on.

Too much, too soon. That was half the problem but it does make it hurt a little more.

And there's an end.

The Prestige (or Where did the little birdy go?)

Sometimes a movie has everything. Stars, direction, decent plotting, art direction, and yet it falls short.

Enter The Prestige. Looks great, compelling premise, great cast. Just didn't work.

Why? No emotion. There was nothing to tie the audience to the characters. There was nobody to empathise with because all of the characters, even Michael Caine, were pretty repellent.

On many levels The Prestige edges towards overcoming this fatal flaw through its labyrinthine (yet predictable) plot and sumptuous look but ultimately, when a characters motivations are called into question, there needs to be some belief on the audience's part that these characters feel deeply, and there was not even an inkling of that.

A good film but one which is doomed to look at greatness from behind the electrified fence. So near, yet so far.

Who's Crazy?

Sitting on the last tram to Ascot Vale after an evening of delightful repartee with Shamil and the gang, I drifted off to the dulcet tones of Julie Andrews***. Something touched my knee. I opened my eyes to find a man's between my legs, mullet and all.

"Sorry man, just cleaning up the tram."

And he was. He had a huge plastic bag full of litter that had been, well, littered over the tram during the day.

"I don't see why we should have to sit in this, everyone wants to ride in a clean tram."

True enough.

"It isn't my job but I don't mind doing it. Do you know why?"

Because you're crazy?

"Because I know when I get home I can have a joint and a beer and get shitfaced!"

Excellent.

He went off and continued cleaning the tram in his exuberant people-friendly manner. All I can say is that, when you think about it, who is crazier the guy cleaning up the rubbish or the people who happily sit amongst it because it is not their job to tidy up after others.

***It's not my fault. It is that fucking Gwen Stefani track with The Lonely Goatherd sample. I had to get it out of my head. I know, I know, the fact that I have it on my iPod is slightly incriminating. In my defense I put it there for this exact eventuality.

A Mile In Her Shadow @ The Store Room, North Fitzroy

Is it possible to effectively illuminate the experience of a dislocated mind on stage? An upsidedown set, evocatively menacing sound design, a black scrim, erratic lighting. Yes, I suppose it is.

Does it make for illuminating theatre? In the case of A Mile In Her Shadow, no.

Promoted as an examination of the ravages of dissociative disorder in the landscape of a relationship, A Mile In Her Shadow played more like someone had choreographed the ramblings of a lunatic. That may sound insensitive. Don't get me wrong, it was a very verbose and intelligent lunatic, and a lunatic with very valid, even structured experiences. Ultimately though, the script delivered an hour long train of diseased thought, which unfortunately left little to hook any emotional response to. In a work that relies so heavily on a relationship, the lack of an emotional core leaves an intraversable chasm between the audience and the experience.

When it worked, it worked well. The few lucid patches in which we saw the relationship from without rather than within revealed a real chemistry between the actors, who were superb throughout. But these connections were few and very far between.

A Mile In Her Shadow marked the reopening of The Store Room as The Store Room Theatre Workshop, a company with a newly found focus on development. As Artistic Director Ben Harkin explains, "One of the great problems facing new work is that there is just not enough time given to creative development. The aim of SRTW is to allow that time for play. Time for imaginations to soar, to come crashing to the ground, to pick themselves up and start all over again. SRTW promises audiences an exhilarating adventure into the unknown.”

A Mile In Her Shadow is a perfect candidate for such treatment. There is an very solid work waiting to step forth. At present the play is far too tangled up in the mind to garner any emotion response, or indeed to develop any true sense of the the effect of dissociative disorder in the physical world.

Tags: theatre, review

A Scanner Darkly (or, See Dick Run Mad)

My biggest question is WHY GOD WHY???

Rotoscoping is pretty and flashy and awe inspiring for about ten minutes then it simply becomes irritating and nauseating trickery.

I'm no fool. I understand that the whole freaky drug mindfuck film is probably the closest that rotoscoping is ever going to come being artistically justifiable. I was hoping... but no, it just didn't work. It is not that the process was a failure, it was more that I couldn't shake the feeling that the film would have been much more effective with crisp images and regular, run of the mill special effects. Hell, I'm not usually one to advocate for big budget CGI but I really think it would have been a more savvy choice here.

Now that my bitching is over. I'm a big fan of Dick (tee hee) and A Scanner Darkly is a solid adaptation of his most personal work. There is a good deal of mindfuckery going on around the cast of Hollywood's pre-eminent fuckups, Winona, Robert and Woody. Keanu almost-acts his way through the role of Frank/Robert/Bruce (actually I think the rotoscoping really works for him) though it isn't terribly demanding.

Given that over a decade has passed I would have thought that A Scanner Darkly would benefit from the drug-fuelled paranoia of Trainspotting but I left the film feeling that punches had been pulled and that, given the state of Dick when he wrote the novel, the film didn't enter into the headspace quite as well as well as it should have.

Recommended, if only because you'll need to make your mind up for yourself.

Spider Senses Are Tingling... but in Spanish

Almodóvar's latest hasn't even hit Australian screens yet but there are already reports filtering down from the magical land of Blog that Pedro and Agustín have settled on their next project and it looks like it is going to be more Matador than Women On The Verge....

La piel que habito is going to be very loosely based on the French novel Mygale in which a plastic surgeon exacts a terrible revenge on the men who raped his young daughter. Actually Almodóvar claims that only one scene from the book remains intact. That's pretty loose. I suppose that warrants an "inspired by" rather than a "based on".

Penelope Cruz is all but confirmed to star.

And the cogs start a turning...

A few years back Antonio Banderas was harping on about how his next project would see him reteaming with Pedro in a film titled Tarantula. The film, also starring Penelope Cruz, was to deal with a plastic surgeon who exacts a terrible revenge on the rapist of his daughter by locking him in a basement and reassigning his gender only to fall in love with her.

Hmmm, well, Almodóvar has said that La piel que habito will be "immensely tough and complicated, targeted at select audiences, the kind of film that's discomfiting and doesn't tend to win many awards." Sounds like a match to me.

This seemingly recent interview with Antonio has Shrek's pussy saying, "The last communication I had [concerning Tarantula] was through Penelope Cruz, who said, “You’re going to receive some calls from Pedro soon.” Excitement growing...

And to cement my hypothesis, I offer up that mygale is the now defunct genus of large hairy tropical spiders to which tarantulas belong.

I've been hoping that this project would see the light of day and now it seems it will. Almodóvar seems quite adamant that it is going to be very different from his previous work so I am interested to see if the gothic themes and noir source material will win out over Almodóvar's penchant for melodrama and kitsch. I sort of hope they don't but colour me intrigued.

Thanks to Solace In Cinema for the heads up.

(Clique Clique) Bang Bang!

Most of the weekend was spent, as per usual, hanging with Andrew.

I say hanging but it is more like drinking and recovering. Especially when his friends are involved. Jaysus, the Irish can drink.

Saturday found us at birthday do for Sue and Eimear, with cakes and all! Everything was going gangbusters until St Jerome's closed its doors. We got the hot tip of a club to go to named Clique Clique, or something along those lines. Unfortunately, after we arrived after the arduous trek through Melbourne's laneways we were greeted with a surly bouncer, the knowledge that the club was full and a suggestion to head down the road to Bang Bang.

Bang Bang indeed. There, over the power-riffs of nu-metal from indoors, staring intently at our brightly coloured clothes, the bouncer tried to warn us. "You know what kinda scene this is? It is full of 18 and 19 year olds who have only been going out for a few months..." He could see we were about to step into deep water and we hadn't come prepared with the pre-requisite flotation devices.

Yes, there was a sea of black shirts, black eyeliner and black approximations of "punk", "emo" and nu-metal. (The bouncer in the lemon-yellow Tegan and Sarah top seemed to revel in the incongruity of her apparel.)

Thankfully, vodka and Red Bull proves to be a remarkably virulent tonic.

And the night turned out swimmingly. Upstairs had some more recognisable tunes and downstairs was a dancey dance floor where The Presets got a revolution or two.

It wasn't all beer, vodka, Red Bull and skittles though. I did get clocked by some projectile from some unknown origin. I am sure someone got a laugh out of my bewildered look. By the end of the night the tiled floor, covered in alcohol, had the surface friction of an ice rink. I managed to slip over and sprain my wrist. Some lovely punter reached out his black sleeved hand to pull me up and I stumbled off in search of my dignity.

There was a photo competition going on between Andrew and Sue so everything is documented. I'm sure you'll get to see them soon.

Overheard in the GB toilets (01/12/06)

I love mah jong.

I am good at it.

I used to be addicted to it.

Hmmm, I can't say I was expecting to hear that when I walked into the toilets. Don't mobile phones make life just that little bit more intriguing. (I prefer to think he was on a mobile phone; sitting in the cubicle talking to oneself about mah jong would be downright creepy.)