Wonderland (or, Where The Depressing Things Are)

Blah, blah, blah... Y'all should know by now that I love Michael Winterbottom. Well, Wonderland is the film that started that love affair. I was killing time over at Andrew's place the other morning while I waited for Zöe to tear herself away from her gaydar profile, so I decided to put it on. (It was there because I'd lent it to one of Andrew's friends.)

When I first saw Wonderland, I was a lovesick, lonely, introverted people watcher. It is no wonder that I fell in love with the film. Wonderland is about a family of lovesick, lonely, Londoners, who spend their time wandering around on Guy Faulks weekend going about their typical Londonesque existence. That is pretty much it. It is pretty boring really. It is just that it is so perfectly observed.

Back then I identified with the characters, now I identify with the city. Wonderland is London. It exudes London through every frame. It is depressing as all fuck. It is monotonous. It is hard.

But then there are the little snippets of life. The affirming moments (helped in no small part by Michael Nyman's musical eloquence) that create the soul of the city.

By the end of the film, Andrew, who was planning on going back to London (not that Andrew, the other Andrew, the Andrew Andrew lives with) had all but decided to stick here in Melbourne. (Of course he didn't in the end.) That is how London it is.

While it didn't strike as deep a chord this time around, let's face it, the orchestra has had a reshuffle. I'd still thoroughly recommend it. A beautifully crafted piece of cinema but not one for those who are easily distracted.

Car Maintenance, eXplosives and Love @ Gasworks Theatre

Okay, I'm being published again. I'm chucking some reviews the way of The Program, an Australian arts portal focused on repackageing the arts media for the youth market.

My first review went up today. You can check it out by clicking on the text below...

"From the opening, angle-grinding moments of Car Maintenance, eXplosives and Love it is clear that there are going to be more than just sparks flying in this very one-woman show."

Hey, it's a start.

Fidel's Cigar-tainted Karaoke

Shamil is no longer 32.

We no longer have any shame.

Three observations:-

i) Never believe Andrew when he says he won't sing - you will have to pry the microphone from his bleeding fingers;

ii) Never let Shamil talk about the wait-staff with a microphone in his hand;

iii) Never sing a song that consists almost wholly of Fred Flintstone's catch cry.

The night was an absolute blast. I couldn't speak the next day, though I, along with everyone else, blame that on the very quiet microphones.

Hmmm.

Thanks again to karaoke-wallah for the impressive frivolities.

No Answer

You know the drill by now. I end up staying the whole weekend away from my computer and leave you postless. Poor things!

I am still at it, doing the tourist guide thing with one of Andrew's travel buddies from FNQ.

Here is a happy snap to tired you over. It is one of the artworks commissioned by the city to grace one of Melbourne's treasured laneways. It comes installed with six speakers to beep and blip and make telephonously ringy sounds.

Happy Ozlandia Day

I love Australia Day.

Not because we get to wave flags and feel proud of our achievememts.

I love Australia Day because we can go down to Edinburgh Gardens and sit in the park and throw frisbees and eat barbecued food and drink wine and throw gum boots and play croquet and talk with friends and listen to the Hottest 100 and dance barefoot.

And everyone else it out doing the same thing.

I don't love Australia Day because some of my friends who don't look "Australian" have been told all their lives to be especially careful on the 26th of January because their parents used to receive death threats every year.

And I don't like that our illustrious leader doesn't think Australia is like that.

Dreamgirls (or, I see some drag acts coming...)

Bill Condon (I bet he got ribbed at school - okay, that was uncalled for) has done it again; he has taken a successful stage musical and turned it into a successful movie musical. Hoorah. Sorta.

If Dreamgirls isn't as successful as Chicago before it much of the fault lies with the musical itself. Yes, some of the performances could have been toned down just a touch - Jennifer Hudson belting out her torchsong at the end of what I suppose would have been the first act borders on laughable as she hoofs around the stage hysterically screaming to herself - but on the whole the film has the right look and feel. It is just lacking a decent score.

The whole scenario is pretty much lifted (inspired by?) the rise of Motown Records and Diana Ross and the Supremes (with bonus adulating Michael Jackson). It is a tale of business, fame and betrayal, in that order. The performances are uniformly excellent (excepting a few OTT blips) especially Hudson and Eddie Murphy, who should win the Best Supporting Actor nod just for that look - see the film, you'll know which look I am talking about, it is a harrowing moment. It is just a pity that the source material couldn't keep up.

With Chicago or even Hal Prince's Cabaret before it, there was a clever choice to remove or adapt many of the "non-performance" numbers. Chicago found us drifting into Zelleweger's fantasy world and allowed us to cleveryly sidestep the "excuse me, I'm excited/distressed/reflective, I think I may spontaneously break into song" moments. Don't get me wrong, I love those moments when they are done well but to do them well the switch from speech to song needs to be clean (think Dancer In The Dark) and the song needs to be worthy (think, dare I say it, Evita). Unfortunately, Dreamgirls was often lacking on both counts and much of this was down to the original show.

Here we have a musical, which has actual performances within it. The songs that are "performed" need to be structured differently to the the more recitative-based numbers and less obviously related to the narrative of the book. Instead we get Beyoncé singing to Foxx that she is going to assert herself and we are to believe he is listening to her recording it in front of him. That has to stress the suspension of even the most hardened musicals fan's disbelief.

Growing up with musical theatre means taking a lot of shitty music and even shittier lyrics and learning to forgive the mis-steps for the sake of the whole. On stage or in a recording, that is all well and good but celluloid straps boots on these mis-steps and they echo thunderously. Dreamgirls has some truly cringe-worthy numbers that should have been cut, instead they have been cheesily orchestrated and left to batter our eardrums and offend our intelligence.

Thankfully, the lighting, cinematography, editing and art direction more than make up for these inadequacies. Dreamgirls is a, well, dream to look at. It glitters and sparkles in all the right places. Some of the scenes are jaw-dropingly gorgeous. It is glossy but still textured and nuanced.

I think I'll leave it there. On a high note. It would be easy to bitch and moan forever but in the end Dreamgirls is enjoyable, even memorable. It won't be a classic of the genre but I'd certainly recommend it for a night out.

Daredevil (or, I wish I were blind)

I borrowed the dvd of Daredevil from Glen about, well, long enough back for him to forget I even have it, I'm sure. Actually, I didn't even know that I had it until I returned to Australia to find it snuggled in my tubs of dvds. I borrowed it because when I saw it in the cinema I fell asleep. When I tried to watch it on dvd, I fell asleep. I tried to watch it again and fell asleep.

I've always wanted to see it. I always fall asleep. That has to be somewhat telling.

I watched it again yesterday and found out something even more telling: I have seen Daredevil all the way through. I have seen it all the way through and it still didn't make enough of an impression on me for me to recall that I had seen it.

Why did I persevere? Jennifer Garner. (That reads, Jennifer Garner FULL STOP, by the way!)

I like comic book films and Daredevil came with such good press, pre-release. A dark comic book film. A solid comic book film. No... it was just another lightweight, watered down, connect the dots, crap comic book film.

I'll drop the dvd back to you, Glen. Post haste!

Diary: Kill Kilkenny

More diary. The first half of this entry I must have written when I was insanely drunk.

Such a fucked up event. This guy not only fucked me up for a good few months but turned me off Kilkenny and Irishmen for quite a while.

4 October
Ok on to some new and more interesting topic, my love life or lack of it. His nace is Ciaren (spelt something like that) and he is the firest guy that I have met that I actually wanted to see again. Because of this I chose not to sleep with him of teh firest night, how puritian of me, Instead we just comandeered a couch in the back of connections and just went for it for about an hour an da half i think though I am not entiresly sure of the time. You must ecvuse all of the spelling mistakes nut I am writing this as I am falling asleep so I am not actually looking at the keys or what is coming out on the screen. Yeah so here we are in the seedy part of the nightclun laying down on the rid vinal couch and and oh, he had the most beautiful eyes and he wsa soooo cutem so Irish and he said I reminded him of Richard Gere, I don’t know how I should take that one but anyway. I was so enhoying al of this when I decided to go to the toilet adn he followed me in there and tryid to DRINK ME as he put it. It really freaked me out, not because of the act itself, to each his own I wuppose, but because I was looking fo r a normal guy who I could spend some time with, Anyway I moce off and ha and took time out nect to the dannce floor nut I just couldn’t leave him so i asked him to come our for a coffee and we did at some dodgy little cafe in lake street where we had a long conversation about life and love, I found him very confromting but i really liked that because usually I am on the dealing end and it ws interesting to be on the recieving end for a change. He tried again to get a ddrink out of me on Lake street but I avoided that again and he went back to his hostel, I gave him my number and left much to his dismay. I ended up dropping him a note expecting him to have lost the number and we met up again at the Brass monkey and ended up snogging in the court then he came back to don’s place and we shagged each other rotten well sort of...

4 October
It was sort of a bit more like him taking what he wanted, which included just about every fetish in the whole book from feet to arse, and any sort of bodily fluid he could get his hands on. He wanted to play out this domination fantasy, so every few minutes he had to remind me to step on his hands or hold him down and it was just a little bit too much for me, it is just not inside of me to enjoy that sort of stuff even though I said I did and in some instances it was interesting but in the morning I found myself in such a state, I went from anger to depression to frustration. By the time I got home I was nearly bursting into tears every five minutes. I was a total mess and had pretty much decided never to get in touch with Ciaren again.

I told Byron all about him and he was understandably saying, forget him. He was nice, like- he said I am so eligible and blah blah blah, which I just don’t ever really see until someone says it to me. I have really enjoyed my time down here this holiday, probably because I needed it more than usual and I am living more in a style that will probably be a part of my life in years to come. Does that sound silly? I mean I don’t know if I will ever live in a city, well no I am sure that I will, maybe after next year. But it has been good to just be a normal gay guy in the city for the first time (if normal is the word- I suppose it is as normal as it is ever going to get for me).

That was the only entry about it all but it did stay with me for a long time. I think it gave me a few insecurities that I carried with me for a good many years.

I'm over them now, I think.

I even visited Kilkenny.

And I like their beer.

And I am seeing an Irishman.

I guess that means I'm over it now.


Previous diary entries:
I Wanna Play
Confessions of an Amateur Melodramatist
Before I Sleep a.k.a. Diary Drowsiness
Goodbye 1996!!!
Back To The Bush
How Time Flies
End Of An Era
Kissy Kissy
Diary Tonic
Diary: Losing My Religion Virginity
Diary: May Burst
Travel Fallout
Return Of The Killer Diary
Diary Musings From The Top End
Separation Anxiety

Marching Proud

Look how proud he is! That is because he's spent his afternoon watching the gayest of Melbourne's community groups marching through one of Melbourne's gayest precincts.

I jest. But it is true that the Pride March was a heart swelling event. I prefer Melbourne's march to Sydney's parade. It is less flashy, more grounded. There is a real sense of the GBLTI community thanking and praising the movers and shakers that make out community what it is. Of course there is not as much eye candy (even less this year because of the miserable weather) or music but the general warm glow more than makes up for that.



We headed down after saying farewell to Steff. The tram down Nicholson Street was already crammed full of homosexualists of both persuasions and we got to nattering about Friday night. And the rain fell. Heavily.



Luckily, by the time the parade opened with the traditional Dykes on Bykes the clouds were holding their payloads. It didn't rain on the police, or the lesbians parading their bubs for political propaganda. It didn't rain on the gay Greeks or the gay Italians. Hell, it didn't even rain on those butt-fucking koalas that were censored from the Myer Christmas windows this year.

Even though we arrived minutes before the start, there was plenty of room. Attendance was a little disappointing but it didn't hamper the good spirits. It was great to see a few friends marching and, when the parade had finished parading the crowd that followed along revealed itself to be quite sizeable.



Drinks at the POW afterwards, a supper with Shamil and a brief jaunt to see what was happening in the park and then it was all over. Pity about the weather, it would have been a lot more festive without the wind and rain but you get that.

Bring on Carnivale!

Krampack (or, Nico and Dani)

This was the film we watched instead of sitting through the end of Breakfast On Pluto.

I'd seen it plenty of times before but Andrew hadn't and he's trying to improve his Spanish at the moment, which is why I bought it for myself in the first place.

I first saw Nico and Dani in Cordoba. I'd been enticed in by the poster and when the Spanish title, Krampack wasn't in my phrasebook, I looked it up on imdb.com. The details were scant but it confirmed that it was gay so I went along. No subtitles on the print. No Spanish in my brain (I'd only been there a few weeks). No understanding of what was going on at all.

In retrospect it shouldn't have been all that difficult. The story is pretty basic. Two young guys spend a week together while their parents are away. Young guys, alone, you know the drill. The complication is that there are girls on the scene as well and one of the boys is, well, confused.

Like I said, pretty basic. But that is part of the film's charm.

To keep it real, the kids in the film really are kids (though their ages were upped from the original play). They make impulsive decisions, stupid comments and have all the anxieties that we had in those days of yore.

It is a fun summer movie without the campy shallowness of many gay flicks. Check it out.

Breakfast On Pluto (or, Next...)

It doesn't happen often but I couldn't sit through this Neil Jordan's latest film. Actually, I probably could have but Andrew was feeling as underwhelmed as I was so we decided to ditch it.

It all started promisingly with a couple of quirky robins commentating the action. Nice camera work and an off-kilter sensibility all said all systems go. But it didn't ever take off.

Cillian Murphy whisps his way through a series of adventures as the cross-dressing protagonist. He is an interesting, if somewhat one-dimensional, creation and his Cillian's acting is impressive but he is given nothing but inconsequential diversions to deal with: a glam rocker, a magician, a womble (yes a womble). It all becomes a bit too much.

Yes, I admit it, I hate road movies and Breakfast On Pluto has everything but the road. It is episodic, characters pop up and disappear for no reason, you know the drill. Tedious. Not even the cream of Ireland's acting talent could save it.

I'll no doubt finish it one day. For the moment though consider it, or at least the first hour and a half of it, not recommended.

Midsumma Opens

Midsumma is here, though they should have changed the name this year. Not much was summery on Friday night. It was warmish but also very muggy. Not that that detracted from the night. Easily one of the most impressive openings I've been to.

Somewhere along the line they decided to jettison all of the crap acts and replace them with artistically credible performers. It was quite unsettling. There was not a rapping Bette Midler impersonator in sight. I was quite disoriented.

Not that we spent all that much time watching the acts. We were too busy watching the bottom of our plastic Becks cups.


Sam came along and she was in fine form. Somehow she managed to plant herself firmly in the centre of every one of my photos. Not that I am complaining because she is dangerously photogenic.

Before the crowds came we managed to catch the skill tester tent set up by Penny Machinations, who brought us last year's Berina of Mystery. Andrew (not that Andrew, the other Andrew) was proclaimed a level 2 psychic even though he couldn't telepathically collect the image of Margaret Pomeranz or any of the numerous penises.



By the time we were ready to move on, we were well-sauced and ready for a tram ride to the Xchange hotel, home of drag shows, go-go boys and a dancefloor of unmixed Nineties classics.

See:



It was a blast of a night and a fitting opening to what promises to be a Midsumma of fabulousness. (Did I just say that?)

Anyone For Tennis?

Okay, so we went to the Australian Open tennis last week. We managed to squeeze in an evening on the outer courts between the sweltering heat and the flooding rains. Our evening was perfect.

The outer courts were a hotbed of tennis rivalry. We caught the end of a few matches involving some seeded players. Narabandian, Grosjean and Gonzales (who went on to beat Hewitt).

The one we managed to see from start to finish featured Germany's Tommy Haas and Serbia's Ilia Bozoljac. Tommy had the crowd's hearts and voices. It must have been difficult for Ilia. He put up a decent fight in the first set but then he lost his head and the match was over relatively quickly.

I'll leave you with that now. The photos are coming. At the moment they are stuck on Andrew's camera.

Let's Talk About The Weather...

It's been a weird week for weather here in Melbourne. The mercury has been, well, mercurial. Tuesday saw Steff and I sweltering by the pool with half of the Melbourne Storm rugby league team and then, while the temperatures stayed up, the rain came down.

Ondine and I sheltered on the lawn inside Madame Brussels, drinking Pimms and eating toasted ham and cheese sandwiches. It was all very British. It is a great idea and the location (up three flights of stairs inside a dowdy building at the top of Bourke Street) only adds to the atmosphere.



Unfortunately, seeing as we were the only ones there and the bar staff in their tennis kits weren't enough to keep out attention, we ended up picking faults with the decor. I'll definitely be heading back there to see how it works in the evenings.

The weather held out while I caught up with Em at World Wide Wash. Great venue, great company.

So you can see that I have been biding my time waiting for this work to come in. I am getting more and more frustrated as the days go by but it gives me a good excuse to catch up with friends.

Word.

Feed Me!

I was alerted to strange behaviour in my feed recently.

We worked it out. It is that I have been republishing some old posts with blogger2's label system.

This means two things:

1. You can revisit all the fun of the first year of NNM
2. I can advertise the feed again

In case you don't know, RSS feeds help you to... look I can't be bothered explaining it. There is a tutorial of sorts here.

FYI, the you can feed NNM at:
feed://noneckedmonsters.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default

Pan's Labrynth (or, El laberinto del fauno)

Of the triumvirate of Mexican directors taking the world by storm at the moment Guillermo del Toro is certainly the most fantastical. He already has two comic book flicks (Hellboy and Blade II) under his belt along with some other big budget Hollywood fright-fests off the strength of his debut, Cronos. Up until now though, I would have said my favourite of his works was the Spanish gothic-horror The Devil's Backbone. Up until now.

Now I'd have to think about it.

Del Toro's new film, Pan's Labyrinth shares much with its younger brother. Both are set against a backdrop of the Spanish Civil War; both are seen through the eyes of young children in overwhelming situations; and both dip deeply into the world of grotesque, highly-stylised fantasy.

It is that same tried and true story, girl travels with her pregnant mother to remote outpost to be with her new "father" while he hunts down republican guerillas, only to discover that she is really the princess of an underground world. How many times have we heard that one before?

Don't be put off, or dismayed, but the majority of the story takes place in the "real" world. Ofelia's struggle to come to terms with her new life (both real and fantastical) is paralleled by the the struggle of the housekeeper, Mercedes to support her brother and the rebels in the surrounding hills. Maribel Verdu is excellent (yes she has managed to rip herself free from that sex sandwich double dance in Y Tu Mama Tambien to grace the screen again). Actually, all of the cast is top notch but Verdu is a standout.

The beauty of Pan's Labyrinth is that it is not a fairy tale for kiddies. Guillermo is a geek, through and through, so this is more of a masturbatory outing for adults whose inner children have grown up into little freaks. It is gory, at times look-away-from-the-screen gory. The fantasy scenes are quite creepy, especially the monster at the feast.

It isn't a perfect film. The pacing is a little off, there are some unmotivated plot developments and many have criticised the lack of more direct parallels between the two storylines. I can understand the concerns but for me it didn't detract too much from the film as a whole.

Done! See it!

Now, let's get geeky: who would win in a fight between Pan's Labyrinth and The Devil's Backbone? Hmm. It's a tight match. There'd be two pulpy messes after the bout but I think that The Devil's Backbone would probably win out because it had just a little bit more texture and menace to it. Certainly don't let that stop you from seeing this film. I'd recommend it wholeheartedly.

Let the Sunshine In

Some marketing company is trying to go grass roots with the new Danny Boyle flick.

I'll play along. Here is the new trailer for Sunshine. Boyle has teamed with Garland again. Sure he wrote that abomination of a novel The Beach but he also gave us 28 Days Later so I am waiting to see what he can pull together with this one. Apparently the dialogue is quite stilted but from the trailer the action looks pretty tight.

Embed This Video | Visit Fox Searchlight

Fingers crossed.

At the very least we know that Danny Boyle can make even the most appalling screenplay intriguing. Just look at A Life Less Ordinary.

Another B&S Quote

Brothers and Sisters has become my guilty pleasure since Alias went by the wayside - well, Brothers and Sisters and Heroes. I think there is just enough schlock and schmaltz in the two shows to more than make up for the preposterous outings of Ms. Bristow. The good bits are made up for by Battlestar Galactica (now with added Alias alumnus).

Of course, this means I am now having to watch three shows a week instead of one but, thanks to the vagaries of American programming, they are never all on in one week.

Aaaanyway, I just wanted to share another insubstantial quip from the show. You may remember, this was edging towards being a regular feature for a while, and it probably would have been but for the aforementioned vagaries of American television programming.

Sarah: He's bi...
Kevin: No one's bi. Have you ever heard of a seventy year-old bisexual. At some point you make a choice, thus the expression: bi now, gay later.

Pride And Prejudice (or, Just Prejudice)

I caught a few moments of the BBC's excellent Pride and Prejudice last week and I was inspired to finally watch the ex-rental film adaptation I bought in Brighton last April.

I shouldn't have.

That's all.

Apocalypto (or, Alotacrapto, sorry couldn't resist)

See Jaguar Paw run.

See Jaguar Paw fight.

See Jaguar Paw hide.

I know, it is my fault. I knew what I was getting myself into. Richard's reveiw was more than enlightening and already had me wanting to pluck my eyes out. But, a film is a film. I gave it a go.

I've seen Braveheart, which I loved despite the heavy handed direction. Yes, it was bloody, historically inaccurate and overly simple but it had some wonderful characterisation and, through that characterisation, some rousing cinematic set pieces.

I felt that Apocalypto was bloody, historically inaccurate and overly simple. All that, coupled with a complete lack of characterisation, left me feeling that I was watching a spectacle at the colosseum. Send in another extra to be chopped up. Send in another extra to ditch over the waterfall. Send in another extra to be mauled by a jaguar.

If you don't give a flying fuck about the protagonists, it is all just gratuitous violence. And watching violently bloody scenes hasn't interested me of late.

Everyone else seemed to enjoy it though. Then, action films have never been my bag.

Spanglish (or, Language divide divides audiences)

Spanglish is an audience divider. One of those films that you either love or you hate.

I am one of the lovers but every time I have seen the film there has always been a hater.

Last night, our audience was divided at exactly the one hour and twenty two minute mark when Andrew remarked, "This is shit, I'm going home!" See what I mean.

Stuart loved it though. It is just one of those films. Andrew is right, the characters are caricaturishly paper thin. Watching Adam Sandler's heartfelt chef, Tèa Leoni's emotionally repressed health freak mother, and Paz Vega's beautiful windswept beauty of a Mexican housekeeper interact is like watching a cartoon (hell, the guy did write The Simpsons) but I've always felt that the sum is more than the parts.

It is cheesy and heavy handed but it is also heartfelt, if you are game enough to buy into it. And who could pass up the opportunity of seeing Cloris Leachman on screen, especially when she is given lines like - Lately your low self esteem is just good common sense.

Spanglish is one of those films that suffers because the line between drama and comedy became a little too blurred. Is it a dramedy or a comedrama? I suppose it is what you choose to pull out of it but that doesn't help you when you are looking to pull something off the shelf at your local dvd conglomerate mega-store.

I'd recommend it, Andrew wouldn't, Stuart would, Byron would, James wouldn't and if memory serves neither would Donald.

Take from that what you will.

The Maltese Falcon (or, First, first, first!)

I caught The Maltese Falcon at acmi the other day. Richard has taken it upon himself to accompany on a brisk walk through early noir cinema. It all started with Double Indemnity a few weeks ago and it looks like it is going to continue very soon with To Have and Have Not.

Anyway. Loved The Maltese Falcon. Loved the creeping menace of the film. Loved the dialogue, especially Bogart's final speech. Loved Peter Lorre's gayer than gay character (as highlighted in The Celluloid Closet).

It is easy to see why it is considered a classic and championed as the beginnings of noir. Though it was a shame that the print acmi is showing is rather decrepit.

I don't suppose I can lay claim to not having seen a Bogart film any more. Or a Huston film. I can only consider that a good thing.

Dated Diary: Separation Trauma

Back into the diary. We arrive at the bombastic ending to my life in the desert.

I suppose I should set the scene a little more clearly for those of you who haven't been following along. This was my fourth and final year in Jigalong, a small Aboriginal community in remote Western Australia. I was the longest serving teacher there and by that fact alone was afforded a reasonable amount of respect by the local community, to the extent that they would often refer issues to me (through Larry, the school chairman) rather than the school principal. It was just the community way.

Well, a few months before my contract was up, there was one hell of an issue...



8 September
Shit, shit, shit... Just when I thought I may get a nice smooth end of to the year this kind of shit happens. Where can I start? We had a carnival in Marble Bar (yes again) and it was fantastic. The kids had a ball, the whole thing went off without a hitch, Brianol even won the runner up to champion senior boy. Then on the way back Ainsley lost control of the car and rolled it onto its roof. Unfortunately there were five kids in the car with her, fortunately nobody was injured. The community were, rightly, upset with the situation but were pretty much of the opinion that the teachers were not at fault and they were all cool with the teachers, excepting of course a talk with the Martu workers.

Anyway, life is going on as per usual when we get a message from the co ordinator that some of the teachers have been threatened with spearings and the like...

10 September
Sorry, I fell asleep (not for two days mind you).

...all of the teachers end up in Kevin’s house talking through the situation. This information all, apparently, came from Larry and in consultation with Jo was checked out with Lizzy and Katigan (the first signs that all was not well in the Larry relations camp). So it fell to us to pack up and lock up our houses within twenty minutes to effect an miniture exodus to the promised land, Newman.

Throughout this little episode I had been none too happy and had even been thinking of staying in Jigalong but I end up going along for the ride and getting really morbid on the drive in, thinking about the whole situation that had been thrown up right at the end of my time here. Newman was cool in a way, I didn’t have to work, or when I did work it was pretty cruisy, just hanging out with Kane and Kim and their kids from Kalannie who were up in Newman on school camp, the food was delicious and the weather was great. On the down side I had to listen to all of the other teachers from Jigalong falling apart around me, realising hour by hour, or rather dinner by dinner, that they were all far too caught up in their “white” lives to feel anything but affronted by the unwaranted barbarism of the reaction of the Martu. So my reaction was to call things as I thought they stood, you can imagine how well that went down. Needless to say I was chastised by Jo after my comments had left Marita in tears.

So we wait, and on Monday the cavalry arrives from Karratha in the form of Bernie Rider, Albert Pianta and an Elder from Roeburn who grew up with Larry who it now appeared was the main trouble maker in the whole situation, it was assumed that Larry had made the threats of punishment independent of the community feelings on the matter. So these guys were travelling out to Jigalong to assess the damage and whether it was safe for us to return home. Another day wandering around Newman doing fuck all but by this time Karen and Ainsley couldn’t even look at me and were hard pressed to answer a good morning, Jo was walking around with an expression which could not be described as anything but brick wallish, Marita was either avoiding me or being brusque, Reg was frequently breaking into outburst covering topics as diverse as how the teachers could never be expected to return to teach the Martu to how he would take a shotgun to anyone who tried to stick a spear in him and Tuesdee was pretty much furious for the same reasons that I was disallusioned.

And then the rescue team returned with a solution which they felt was incredibly satisfactory to all involved. Basically, after talking with a group of community members whose kids were involved in the accident and some of the elders, the guys found that the community was not upset, rather they were bewildered that the teachers had left and they assured them that there was no way that Martu law would ever be effected on a white person. On top of this the community made a point of saying they were going to hunt out who had made these accusations and deal with the problem themselves.

Keeping in mind that all of these guys were law men themselves and must deal with the Jigalong mob every year when law business is being carried out. They had to be extremely sensitive in how they dealt with the situation because if they overstepped the invisible boundries in representing the teachers and dealing with Larry they could be seriously threatened physically when they took up their law roles later this year. That said consider Karen’s reaction to their tidings...

Classic comments include (with added vehemence and liberal tears):

On initial reactions to the solution...
“How can we go back to the school and work with that bastard?”

On Larry in general...
“I don’t understand how one man can be such a bastard and cause us so
much pain and just get away with it”

On why the community doesn’t know who made the accusations...
“Do you mean to say that that prick is such a gutless wonder that he
wouldn’t even own up?”

Over reaction? I say so, but then I don’t really know the other shit that has gone on between the three of them (Karen, Jo and Larry). But I thought she really outdid herself when she asked what we could do to have him removed from the community so that she could feel safe. For fuck’s sake, removed from the community, it is his fucking country, his birthplace and she thinks that her feelings are more important than his, I mean really. That is like someone going down to Perth and asking her father to move to the Central Desert because they didn’t like the way he didn’t like working with them.

The guys from Karratha were a little bewildered to say the least, and then Reg started up again. I basically had a splitting headache and didn’t say anything because I was realising more than ever that I was almost totally alone in having a differing opinion (the only other teacher that shared my view was Tuesdee and she knows all of this because she has lived this life since she was born). Thank god I was able to speak to Bernie Rider after all of this shit went down. FUCK he gives the most amazing massages. I have never had one before, well not the shirt off lay down on the bed kind from someone who has studied the art, phwooor!!! He ended up cracking the stress our of my spine (wierd sensation) and letting me know that I have still got a long way to grow, physically in my upper body (thank god).

Anyway after the massage Tuesdee and myself had a chat to Bernie and he basically told me everything that I already knew. That most of the women were being childish and not caring about the community. That many of them were threatened by the fact that I have been around the community longer and that many of them were thinking of not returning. Of course it was a huge ego boost as well because he basically said that there are very few white people like myself, accepting and understanding enough to be an ally to the Aboriginal community (I really needed to hear that at the time when I was realising that many of the people I believed to be like me were far from it).

So Brian Samson comes out to Newman and invites us back to the community and all of the teachers sit and say, thankyou sir and everything is back to normal...NOT!!! (pardon the gross Americanism, it just slipped out). Remember that everyone is still pissed off (either with Larry or with Me or with everyone else) not least Ainsley and Karen who still cannot bear to look at me, and that pissed me off. I was ready to say something to them both, something petty and narky and sarcastic but I decided not to be my usual self and to try the kind caring thing instead. Actually I thought before I totally fuck up relations I should set Ainsley straight because I felt that she was pissed off with me for what she had heard me say through other since I hadn’t spoken to her at all, not a word apart from, “Are you alright?” when it first happened. Well just setting up the talk was a chore apparently, Beth went in on my behalf and let Ainsley know I wanted to talk to which Ainsley responded by putting her hands over her ears and made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me. But eventually she got over the shock and actually agreed, which I must admit was pretty brave.

So I walk in and she says, “I just can’t stand you at the moment!” and she totally meant it. It took about twenty minutes to break through that by explaining why I was upset that she was taking this attitude without having heard me herself. Her main upsets were that she didn’t understand how I could deliberately set out to hurt people with my words, that I use words as weapons to which others have no defence and that I thought that all of the teachers should have just shut up and taken the punishment. All I could say was that I never set out to deliberately hurt people though I did feel upset at their views and so what I said was mainly tumbled out of my mouth through utter amazement and shock not through malice, that I do use words as weapons but I wasn’t acting on that particular facility over those few days in town and I didn’t say that the teachers should have accepted the punishment but that they should accept the threat of punishment as a normal Martu reaction to the situation, a situation in which their children were nearly killed.

It was then that the unexpected happened... Ainsley asked if she could come and sit next to me (no this situation does NOT end with Ainsley asking if it is wrong for her to lust after my body, you can rest assured of that) and she put her head to my chest and said sorry and we talked about the accident and how she worried about me (I shall have to delve into that with her later), how she was shocked at how much she craved male comfort on the morning after we were evacuated (to which I replied that I did too!- Ziggy’s did not count). Then we went on to talk about past traumas and how we have been affected by them. At one stage she said to me of my relationship with my father, “God, it sounds like Cat On a Hot Tin Roof!” (I borrowed the movie from her) and I just said, “Yes very much like it”. I actually felt like telling her that I was gay, it was just that saying it so bluntly seemed to lack panache. It was a bizarre gambit of emotion in little over two hours.

So we are almost up to date, excepting of course mentioning that Jo and Karen have both fled the community on stress leave possibly never to return, both with the same VERY hostile attitude towards me. I would really love to talk about how my world has been shaken by all of this but after talking with Ainsley yesterday and talking to my mother just then I will have to leave it for a little while.

Previous diary entries:
I Wanna Play
Confessions of an Amateur Melodramatist
Before I Sleep a.k.a. Diary Drowsiness
Goodbye 1996!!!
Back To The Bush
How Time Flies
End Of An Era
Kissy Kissy
Diary Tonic
Diary: Losing My Religion Virginity
Diary: May Burst
Travel Fallout
Return Of The Killer Diary
Diary Musings From The Top End

Saturday Night Was A Drag

I admit it. Sitting around Andrews' place eating from Sue's deliciously cooked no-frills barbecue, I was less than impressed when someone mentioned that the plan was to go to the Greyhound afterwards. Less than less than impressed.

But I went. Actually, by the time the time had come I was tippsily up for it.

I am so glad. It was such an enjoyable night.

We dance-staggered to classic pop songs by the likes of Vanessa Amorosi, S Club 7 and the Minogues stagger-danced to the bar to drink some more. As always, Andrew's hat did the rounds.



The drag was hilarious. And sequinny. My personal highlight was the dance rendition of "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" performed by singing portraits of the Madonna and Child. Priceless.

Cyrano de Bergerac (or, Make Love AND War, But Mainly Love)

Last week, I think it was Monday or Tuesday, I ate snails.

Don't think I didn't tell you because I was ashamed or anything, it is just that I was waiting to show you the photos. Seeing as I have taken to not carrying my camera around with me as obsessively as I once did, I tend to rely on others to upload theirs to their chosen corner of the web before I can adorn my posts with their prettiness.

So here it is, courtesy of Steff.



It all went down at Bergerac's, a French restaurant on King Street, where we were served by the magnificently French Mathilde. (I think she may have known someone at the table because she was terribly familiar with us and at one point even drank our wine, ZUT ALORS!)

Aaaanyway, as far as long winded introductions go, very few people at our rambunctious table of ten (How do you ask a deaf man if he wants to buy a chicken?) had any idea of why there were numerous portraits of a nasally endowed gentlemen adorning the walls of the establishment.

I took it upon myself to educate at least one of them. I enticed her in with promises of Tuna Surprise and the chance to see me in tears.

I love Cyrano de Bergerac. It is one of the many films I revisit often if I want to give myself a good cry session (though I did manage to refrain this time around). It is one of those films that takes me right back to those introverted days, when I would pine away at the thought of love but never dare to dream of grasping at it.

Deppardieu is resplendent as Cyrano, the self-proclaimed grotesque with a soul full of poetry, a hopeless case of love and a handsome protege/mouthpiece. It is his film. He commands the eyes and ears in every scene. He gets to run around being swashbucklery in countless vistas of beautiful French countryside as well as a chateau or two. He gets to recite his heartfelt poetry to the stirring strings of the magnificently lush score. His plight is plausibly heartbreaking, and made all the more so through the dramatic irony that we know that his love is far from hopeless.

Of course, it is difficult spending a whole movie wanting to slap sense into the main character but the dramatically tragic ending more than makes amends for all that pent up admonishment.

Add Cyrano de Bergerac to my list of films you must see before you go to another French restaurant.

The Celluloid Closet (or, Cry Me Up, Cry Me Down)

I sat down, or rather lay down, and watched The Celluloid Closet last week whilst I was waiting for that work to be emailed to me. (Still waiting, by the way.) The doco, based on the book by Vitto Russo, has always been a staple of mine, which gets pulled out when I want something to watch when I am doing something that is going to divide my attention. Film is often the mirror of a society's soul and the grab-bag of film clips in that are hung out in The Celluloid Closet follow a line that traces the representations and prevailing attitudes towards homogays and lesbianas over the past hundred years. It is somewhat like an incidental history. I've seen it probably 20 times, maybe more, and it still ignites a fire in my blood each time I see it.

Why?

This time I think I have figured it out. Apart from the fact that it is all about film and gays (two of my favourite things), I think that the true artistry in The Celluloid Closet is that it taps into the coming out experience. The progression of the representations of our community from the butt of jokes to rounded human beings, via loathing and derision, is often the very same path we take in our own journey towards self-acceptance. The film manages to evoke the fear, the eventual freedom and exhalation of the coming out process, helped immensely by Carter Burwell's evocative score. By the end there is a pervading feeling of optimism and potential, not unlike that moment when you have finally done the deed and you realise that it was not the big deal that you thought it was.

It is an intoxicating reminiscence at a primarily emotional level. Yes, I am in tears by the end of it. And usually during it. It is a catharsis that reminds me that there is always a way out of that gloom and that out society has an immense capacity for change.

The Celluloid Closet is delightful tonic in these increasingly puritanical times. If you haven't seen it, you must, you must.

Hey Now, Hey Now - The Boyfriend's Back

I don't know if you'd figured it out or not but the past month has been rather emotionally tumultuous at this end.

Breakups are chops.

I know I have mentioned it once or twice, but to protect the innocent I have refrained from bellyaching about my emotions, post after post, which is more than I can say about my conversations with friends. And total strangers too. Sorry. I know I have bored you all to tears over the past few weeks. It has been pretty much Andrew this and Andrew that. It must have been terribly tedious.

Well, apparently Andrew was feeling the same way as I was (the missing each other crazy part, not the tedious part) and last night we decided to pick up where we left off. I'm still getting my head around it.

Feels strange.

Very strange.

But very good. Such an insanely descriptive word: good. I'd try to think of a better one but I'm too tired.

How Much Damage Has Howard Done?

In the early 90s Keating made a concerted push to strengthen our economic and political ties with our neighbours and to locate our nation firmly within the Asia-Pacific region.

Howard, of course, set out to unravel all of that.

Why am I bothering to bitch about that now (especially when that "man" is the cause of so much more evil our country *cough* Hicks *cough* gay marriage *cough*)?

Don't worry, it is nothing if not self-serving.

I want an iPhone.



Or more correctly - I want an iPhone-loompa NOW!

I stayed up this morning to watch Steve Jobs' keynote at Macworld San Francisco and this device is truly revolutionary. It is stunning.



Music, video, photos, phone, email, real web browsing - all in one device. Elegant touch screen technology. Full OS X operating system. I love that Apple has surpassed even the most outlandish speculations people had put out there in the lead up to the announcement. This is going to do to smartphones what the iPod did to the Discman.

But it doesn't come Stateside until June (or is it July?), Europe until the fourth quarter and Asia until 2008.

2008. And we'll only be included then if Fuck-knuckle hasn't undone Keating's work.

On the upside, by that time they may have ironed out any kinks, upped the gigage to more than 8 and improved the battery life (or even a removable battery) because 5 hours won't cut the mustard.

If you want to be amazed, you can stream the Keynote speech from here.

Warbling Homogay Wants To Rule Europe

Just when life looked like it couldn't get any more fulfilling. James reports (via email) that the BBC reports that Mozzer is keen to take on Eurovision this year.

Morrissey seems to think that he could croon Daz Sampson into the ground, and if you've been hanging around NNM long enough you'd be inclined to agree.

He's obviously been fantasising about it. Check out the vid for last year's You Have Killed Me:



Now, Morrissey just needs to top Jordan... there's an image I don't need. I'm off to pluck out my eyes.

Actually on second thought, even better than having Mozzer sing in Eurovision would be listening to him bitch and moan about not getting the public vote. It's a win-win situation, ladies!

Fucking Freaky Stars...

I spent last night with Neale and Dani, checking out Bebida’s tapas menu and getting my palm read. When she last read my palm Dani predicted I would have a long life as long as I got through a life threatening incident.

I suppose I’ve had one of those now.

Interestingly, the scars on my hand cut straight through my love line and apparently, baring a little confusion early on, it may be plain sailing from here on in, emotionally speaking. Comforting.

In other news, from the encouraging world of crappy newspaper astrology, things may be lining up nicely on the job front:

It’s hard to relax when macho Mars is belting through your brilliant career sector. And why should you? The ideas flow is potentially lucrative and you’re too hyped to be mellow. Monday/Tuesday is especially profitable/inspirational. If you are seeking a date for one of your hideous Piscean “honesty-in-love” bursts of rad candour (just to freak out people used to your pass-agg mysticism), try Friday. Setting aside all logic, what do your instincts say re a particular path?

I’ve often been shocked at the relevance of my star signs to my life. Sometimes I even wonder if it may not be time to start putting stock in them. Can’t do any harm this week. Bring on the inspiration.

Bad Poetry From A Bad Place

My reading of fiction has slowed recently due to a bad choice of novel (yes, I still insist on finishing every book I begin). It was abominable “comedic” novel, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. My comment to Byron was that if any Nazis came by, they could burn that book first. It was one of the books that my dear housemates/friends, Angela and James brought me in hospital. I can’t blame them for the choice though because I’d been eyeing it up in the bookstore a few days prior. It won awards and shit. It just didn’t float my boat, I’m afraid.

I’ve decided to pick up Jamie O’Neill’s At Swim, Two Boys next, as it has been highly recommended by both Richard and Donald.

That is not the point of this post though. In choosing which book to pick up (and I have already collected about a dozen to choose from), I found the poem I wrote in the back of Quentin Crisp’s How To Become A Virgin. I wrote it in the second hospital in Amsterdam, a few days after the incident.

It reminds me of how fragile I was back then.

You can recover when you get the blood from under your fingernails
Recovery is walking in thongs and braving the looks of the undamaged
Recovery is forgetting the glass and the teeth and the paranoia

It is easy to laugh in the face of evil but you’ll probably pay for it
Love can only take you so far and when it turns in on itself it can swallow universes
But not the smell of vanilla or the smell of dried blood

That is for recovery
And forgetting
And time

Diary: Musings From the Top End

More blasts from the past. Seven years ago. We’re catching up quickly.

This entry is a little more of a review so I am sure you’ll find it rather dull. At the very least it has the story of how I managed to catch up with Byron again.

1 August 1999

True to form hey! What 5 months and I write again now. I don’t really have much to write about, well nothing recent anyway, I was just reading through the rest of the diary and thought that I really should write something before it comes to the end of the year and I am talking about leaving and all that. I am going to find it so hard to leave this place and yet so easy as well. I think the hardest thing will be the first week away because it will be the first time since university that I will have nothing to go back to after the holidays. Jigalong has always been the place I could be sure I was going back to, I could always leave the kids and my house safe in the knowledge that I would see them again and that is not going to happen this time. The thing is that if I can get over that in the first few weeks (being in the city and all that) I think that I will be able to cope... I am sure we will go into this more in the months to come.

I have neglected to rabbit on about anything that has happened in the last few months haven’t I and surprise, surprise, it revolves almost entirely around men. Well, what did you expect? No nothing serious, my sister has given me too many hang-ups for that (and I do mean to get tested soon) and I have decided that the next guy I sleep with I will know somewhat better than a quick dance in a nightclub, well I say that anyway. Well, I did get in touch with Byron, I sent a letter to the Builder’s Arms addressed to the DJ with a letter inside addressed to Byron. Anyway, it got to him and he wrote back, unfortunately the bastard is moving to Canada so I probably won’t see him next time I am in Melbourne. Still I don’t know what I am getting so upset about, I hardly know the guy, fuck it is so crazy, of course I would hate you to think that I am going barney, stalkly mind-twisty fucky in the head and thinking about him all the time or anything, but it is still crazy to want to meet him again?

On to more immediate events, we have just returned from our conference/holidays in Broome and Darwin and I have some fantastical stories from both places. Quick rundown... Marcus’s mate, pissing on a window at Buzz Café, the queen at Brave, the speed offer and the long sleeved shirt debarcle, the trip to Katherine (or the trip back), the rock art, the fireworks and Tuesdee’s discussion with Marcus (but he’s a fish man and he will just slip through your fingers), yes we had blow-up number three. Darwin was nice but a little too rednecky and it had an uneasy balance between bush and city (the worst of both worlds).

Broome on the other hand was fucking fantastically awesomely ace! Yes and BIZARRE, well more bizarre than I had expected. I suppose I shall start with a brief description of the days... dinner-movies-pub-nightclub-recuperate by the pool... and once more with feeling, yes it was fun. It has made me realise that the Kimberly will be my next posting if I come back to teaching. The Nippon, castle of bikers, surfers and hippies, was the last place I expected to pull but it was all there one Wendnesday night/Thursday morning. No sooner had I started dancing than this big fat black guy asked in a most camp way if I minded him dancing with me... and then another blackfella but a gorgeous one and one who could MOVE!!! and then two other guys... there were five of us drawing stares and comments from the crowd by the middle of the night, it was a riot.

Of course I passed up a fuck, the guy was cool but it was just a fuck (I think the come on line was “Wanna fuck?” always a classic) but I beat myself up over it for the next three days. Now of course I am totally at ease with my decision but I really could have done with the contact before coming back to Jigalong. And then there was the blackfella, the one who could dance, who fell over in the toilet! It got me to thinking, could I do it? I mean I would love to and all that but there would be so many problems dating (like I have actually dated anyone!!!) a community man. It just got me to thinking, having the offer so palpable, well the offer wasn’t really there in any real form but it could have been if you understand- and of course you do. And then I turn up the next night and the blackfella is back and we exchange a few words which could have been “Are you the guy in the black shirt from last night?” but I fear that was misheard and that it was actually “Are you a teacher from Jigalong, in the red shirt?” I answered yes in any event so I suppose both are right. The greatest irony is that I fear the guy, who was dancing up my arse the night before, is the uncle of Zyrack who I saw in Broome the day before- but then I can get very paranoid...

Previous diary entries:
I Wanna Play
Confessions of an Amateur Melodramatist
Before I Sleep a.k.a. Diary Drowsiness
Goodbye 1996!!!
Back To The Bush
How Time Flies
End Of An Era
Kissy Kissy
Diary Tonic
Diary: Losing My Religion Virginity
Diary: May Burst
Travel Fallout
Return Of The Killer Diary

Sweet Bird Of Youth (or, Don't castrate me, we're in Hollywoodland)

You've got to hand it to him - Tennessee Williams lurved melodrama. With a passion.

You know the drill. Steamy settings, sublime overacting, posturing, drugs and illicit sex.

Sweet Bird Of Youth is like the camp version of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, which is a favourite here at NNM, as you can probably tell. (As if it needed to be any more camp!) Paul Newman spends half his time bare chested and Geraldine Page spends so much time flicking her hair out of her face, grunting and gesticulating wickedly that she could open an over-acting school to rival that of the great Piper Laurie.

Like most of Williams' plays, all the good, juicy bits have been excised from the film version. It gets a happy ending for goodness' sake. I am sure it was still rather shocking in its day but I would still have liked to see Newman castrated with a blowtorch. Call me a literary puritan.

If it is your bag, check it out. Very OTT but, like I said, you know what you're getting into.

The Science Of Alcohol

When the rate of alcohol consumption is greater than the rate of alcohol absorption into the bloodstream, you're on a one way trip to Drunksville. Or in my case, a two-way trip to Airport West.

Cocktails and champagne at The Long Room turned into cheap white from a tumbler at St Jerome's (with ice and dancing). Actually the dancing was good, haven't been out dancing in a while.

Flesh was bared, Steff got her pash but renegged on the dash, we chatted to some lovely guys and then it was time to head home.

It was only 11.

Perhaps it was the fact that I haven't been drinking much recently. Perhaps it is that the Veuve and the cheap white were having a class battle in my stomach. Perhaps it was the heat and the heady nightlife. But by the time I was sitting on the tram I had to close my eyes to refrain from redecorating the upholstery. It was just like high school (except that I didn't drink at all back then and Perth has no trams - unless you count the Burswood tram, which didn't exist back then).

I opened my eyes to be greeted by a kindly young man saying something about falling asleep and heading back into the city. Because I never fall asleep on trams, I politely dismissed his comments and ensured him that I knew exactly where I was. And I did... right up until the tram doors closed on the wrong side and it moved off in a completely contrary direction.

And my iPod was playing the soundtrack to Somersault - decidedly fitting but I never cued it up. Strange.

I got in the front door at 1. I had to ring Byron because I had lost my keys, which turned out to be in my pocket. I also lost my phone, which turned out to be on the lounge next to me.

Good times!

Blood Diamond (or, Romancing The Stone)

If you have been keeping up to speed with my movie going habits, you may have noticed a couple of trends. I have been resolutely unimpressed with many of the more serious films I've been catching recently and I have been snapping up the light and fluffy fare. (Byron is still utterly perplexed at my apathy towards Babel.)

You may have also noticed that I have been more than a little concerned about the flat, all-too-real, all-too-balanced tone of many films being released at the moment.

Then, along comes Blood Diamond.

In many ways Ed Zwick's Di Caprio starrer is cut from the same cloth as the hamstrung films I've seen of late. It is an "issues" film - it deals with the turmoil in Africa and is quite harrowing in its depiction of the violence. It also tries to position itself squarely in the real by focussing on ambiguous characters.

Where Blood Diamond stands out is in its plotting. It is an ambitious film. Three story arcs, which constantly interweave and compete for screentime. Everything is tangled together, there are three journeys, three characters who are constantly working together or playing each other to reach their goals. The motivations of the characters become the essence of the film. Like I say: ambitious.

Do they pull it off? Not really, but it is an intriguing attempt. The biggest problem is that there are too many movies crammed in there. At times it feels like a firm character drama, at others it feels like a Tom Clancy actioner, then it is a deeply personal take on troubled Africa. Blood Diamond is a confused film but it eventually ties together in a way that makes sense. The duplicitous actions of its characters grow into real relationships that edge towards believability.

All in all, you should check it out. It is worth seeing for Djimon alone. Connelly is solid too. It is an interesting film and while it is not as moving as it could have been it is certainly visceral and thought provoking.

Dress Ups

Thanks to my very good friend, I went to my interview today decked out in a suit worth more than I have in my bank account at the moment.

Dress ups are fun.

Interview went well. I'm going to be sent a brief on Monday morning for a trial project. Can't ask for much more than that.

All in all, I expect to spend the next week sweating like a bitch, worrying if my skills are up to the task.

Hopefully, after that I can afford to buy my own ridiculously expensive suits.

The Devil Still Wears Prada

The promotional fairies in charge of The Devil Wears Prada want y'all to know that there is a brand spanking new dvd out for you to wrap your eyes around.

I'm sure you all rushed out and saw it after I rapped it big here at NNM.

The special features feature a commentary commentated by just about everyone who worked on the film, except the key grip. There are plenty of deleted scenes, some of which should have stayed deleted, others that are quite entertaining. There are also a clutch of featurettes that are informative enough but bland, in that E! news "style".

The best thing about the dvd is of course the feature, which holds up extremely well on second, third and fourth viewing.

Buy, buy, buy!!!

Disclaimer: I got a free dvd out of this.

The Holiday (or, England and America are different, don't you know?)

As far as movies go, seeing The Holiday was a bit of a goodwill gesture. I love Kate, Cameron, Jude and Jack so I thought I would give it a go even thought it looked a little vapid.

I was pleasantly surprised. It is never going to be held up as a cinema classic but it is an interesting enough story, told well. The hyper-Englishness is laughable but ends up adding a certain joy to the film. I loved that Kate Winslet's cottage was so Ye-Olde-English-cottagy that it looked like it had been made from Emma Thompson's stools. Best of all, it was only 40 minutes outside London and Kate managed to do that commute (and the twenty minute walk to her door) every morning and evening.

Thankfully, director Nancy Meyers knows that Americans collect dvds, while the English collect books, otherwise the whole country swap thing would have been incredibly confusing. I loved that Cameron Diaz was a film trailer editor and that she was cutting trailers for films to be released on Christmas day just days before their release.

The Holiday is a lot of fun because of its cultural idiosyncrasies and its charming performances. It is forced and preachy but that is all part of its charm.

A worthy piece of holiday viewing.

Double Indemnity (or, Could someone PLEASE draw the venetians!)

Richard's apartment has venetian blinds so it was the perfect place for a first time viewing of Billy Wilder's 1944 film noir classic, Double Indemnity, at least it would have been if he had let me smoke.

Watching old films, such as this one, it is easy to slip into "I've seen it all before" mode and forget that this is where it pretty much hit its peak. With Double Indemnity this couldn't be more true. It is the archetypal noir, you don't get noirier than this.

The best thing about it is it still seems fresh.

Such a good film. So tight. So gripping. And the script is to die for. As is the insurance money.

All in all, a good way to whittle away the wait to New Year's Eve.

Thanks Richard.

The Return of the Killer Diary!

Many things have fallen by the wayside here at NNM over the past month. The end of the year wasn’t the best of times for many reasons, which I have hinted at here, obtusely or otherwise, while 2006 was whipping its tail.

Now that 2006 is dead and buried, it is time to lace up our Speedos and dive, bollocks and all, into 2007.

First up on the repatriation line of wayward features is the dusty diary. What better way to start the new year than with the gestation of my Melbournian friendship group.

18 April 1999

Well, I am writing again on the changes in my life, and not as anticipated in the previous entry on the other teachers in Jigalong (as you can imagine that slipped from my mind or I decided to put it off for just a little while too long). And so, I will start with an excerpt from a message I wrote to Becky in Bristol...

Anyway, back to my life. I can't remember what I wrote to you about last but I think that you hadn't been able to read it anyway. So I will try to keep to the things that happened in the last few days since I left Melbourne, a sordid description of my drinking habits over the last three nights (alright it isn't sordid, or even interesting but you are going to hear it anyway). Well it all started on Thursday when we (my sister and I) went to the Cirque du Soleil for my sister's birthday. Have you heard of them before? Well basically a circus with no animals and plenty of absolutely mindblowing acts. Unfortunately the only tickets we could get were VIP tickets and to our dismay they included in the cost all the wine you could ever want so we ended up spending the hour before we got inside drinking like fish and had to keep leaving the tent to go to the toilet. Of course we left the show absolutely plied and my sister had a minor break down so after calming her down we popped into a taxi and went home.

Not content at finishing up so early I kept the taxi around and went right back into Melbourne and to go to a pub to continue my alcohol poisoning. Switching effortlessly from red wine to bourbon I sat listening to the music in this pub come dance bar. As you can imagine I was an absolute barrel of laughs after all the shit that my sister had just planted. I must have been looking like a fucking undertaker because from out of nowhere this guy buys me a beer and disappears... BEER urghhh!!! But never fear your good natured hero was so absolutely far gone that he happily downed the middy (about two thirds of a pint I think) in two gulps. Luckily then a song that I like started up (Tender by Blur) so I hit the dance floor and proceeded to treat it more like a stumble floor. Then the bastards turned the music off and the lights on because it was closing time.

... and it was only 1 a.m.

Luckily, as I stand looking lost under the fluro lights, some complete and utter stranger comes up to me and says, "Hey, my mate bought you a drink earlier... Blah blah Blah (or at least that is how I understood it) so they ended up taking me out to some other clubs where I did such excellent acts as kicking over peoples glasses and not even bothering to say sorry and singing loudly to songs I knew well but with the wrong lyrics. But the most thrilling example of my sobriety was when I tried to run up the stairs in one club and ended up tripping up and running into a gate, now I am sporting a huge gash in my shoulder (and that why did I do it feeling in my gut!) but it was all worth it, unfortunately I was too far gone to get his number before he dropped me off (the friend of the guy who bought me the beer that is), its a small world though so I may see him again (recognising him may be a problem though - I should buy some beer goggles before I go back to Melbourne).

So that was Thursday night, and I flew out of Melbourne the next day, feeling fantastic as you might imagine. But not to be deterred I rang up a good friend and we went out for dinner that night. Starting of course with the wine we polished off a bottle at the cafe and then proceeded to a bar to start on the vodka and listen to this band which was pretty cool. Taking it to the next level we stepped into a nightclub to dance our little souls away, feeling fine in a new (and fucking awsome) shirt bought just that morning in Melbourne, and feeling invincible after taking about four shots of Sambucca, we went at it for about three hours.

Well, that is a sort of half version of what happened, the version which omits all of the things I was feeling and have been feeling since. The fact is I would really like to meet up with Byron again and I don’t have any way of getting in contact with him excepting writing into one of Melbourne’s gay newspapers and hoping that one of the guys sees it and writes back (or of course hanging at the Builder’s Arms in the vain hope that I would recognise him). It is not so much that I was smashed just that I cannot remember the whole night and I have not been that wiped out on just booze before. I think that I remember all those bad things because they seem to stick in your mind more.

I don’t know why I would go to such lengths to find Byron anyway, I don’t want to sleep with him (he was gorgeous but I didn’t go out to pull that night so it didn’t enter my mind- well not that much anyway) but he was so real and down to Earth that I have not stopped thinking about him since. Perhaps it is because meeting him has let me know that there are guys out there who are not just raving queens or purely focussed on Diva songs (I know what I mean). And he loved films, foreign films, I was such an idiot not to get his address.

Stay tuned for the next gripping episode…

Previous diary entries:
I Wanna Play
Confessions of an Amateur Melodramatist
Before I Sleep a.k.a. Diary Drowsiness
Goodbye 1996!!!
Back To The Bush
How Time Flies
End Of An Era
Kissy Kissy
Diary Tonic
Diary: Losing My Religion Virginity
Diary: May Burst
Travel Fallout