Always Believe in Gold

I have been seeing a lot of teeth-grindingly awful theatre lately. I say this not to elicit sympathy or recommendations for good dentists – though both are welcome, incidentally – but to put to rest the idea that seeing a lot of theatre takes courage. The fact is, even the most painful theatre is probably not as bad as most things causing actual hurty pain. It would be far more courageous if I was to attend each theatrical event wearing pyjamas under my real clothes. Which is another rumour I would like to put to rest.

I’ve also been seeing some excellent and thumbs-up-giving stuff, stuff that virtually begs you make eye contact with the strange players during curtain call and raise your eyebrows with a grin, as if to say “you did it!” Which you would do, if it weren’t for that strange nervous anxiety you’ve felt hovering around the fringes of consciousness since you were in your teens, and which you suspect will prevent you ever achieving a position in local government, a regular spot on radio or television, or being referred to by casual acquaintances as “that guy/girl!”

You must let that nervousness go.

The theatre I’ve been seeing has mostly been part of the Short and Sweet festival at the Arts Centre. As I said (wrote) it’s been a mix of the great and the terrible – in fact, I’ve been surprised just how great and how terrible. Being me, I’ve found the terrible just as educational and productive as the great, even while simultaneously wanting to dig around in one nostril with a pen on the off chance that I’ll sneeze and suddenly find the biro tip obliterating the part of my brain responsible for storing away memories of what I’m seeing. But bad theatre at least puts to the test one’s long-held and infrequently considered beliefs about the medium.

I don’t have a lot of firm beliefs. I believed my primary school friend when he told me that fingernails are made of aggregated hate, amassed and slowly congealed over the years. This would explain both the one and two-finger salute, to indicate the extent of one’s hatred, as well as the older insult of biting one’s thumb at an enemy. As in, my nails are growing so fast because of you, check it out, we need some serious chewing to keep on top of the hatred here. I also believed in Santa, my dormant ability to fly, and a future as some kind of success in some kind of field.

I’m pretty open when it comes to theatre, now. I don’t have strong beliefs as to what works and what doesn’t because I’ve had those beliefs shattered again and again. Even my one remaining demand – that aural windscapes are never a good thing – has been challenged a few times.

But watching every performance in Short and Sweet’s ten-minute play festival so far – I’ll be hitting sixty works by Saturday – a number of thoughts have crossed my mind.

Don’t raise the lights in the auditorium – as if to say “take a look at yourselves! Are you not complicit in these crimes?” – unless you really, really have to. Which you probably don’t.

If someone dies after we’ve known them for less than ten minutes, we may not find it in ourselves to care as much as we probably should. Would that make us a cynic? No. It would make us something else, but I’ll be polite and not use the term here.

Some things can be better said in one minute than ten. If you want to pad out the running time, why not add an epilogue featuring a Romanian ballerina on rollerskates? It might have nothing to do with your piece but hey, rollerskates.

If your idea of drama has – secretly, subliminally – been developed via an unhealthy addiction to daytime TV, know now that you are probably not playing to the audience who will likely turn up at your show. I’m just saying, is all.

Casting is everything. Direction is important, but a good cast won’t just follow your ingenious commands. A good cast will disobey your shitty ones.

Life may be easy if you have great bone structure, but it doesn’t automatically mean you’re a better actor. It might be easier to fake it though, I dunno. I’m looking for positives here.

You may be planning on revolutionising the system with your play, but I once planned on revolutionising the system with my pirate radio station. In practice, this ended up with me just pointing my speakers out of my bedroom window and hoping the sound would carry. There is a lesson here.

You may be an artist, but don’t waste valuable time in a major theatre mercilessly satirising ordinary, non-artistic types. They are probably your audience. Saints and angels appear to bank managers, too.

You may have crafted a beautiful, glistening creation which has moved your audience and will stay with some of them for a long time. I hope so. If not, that’s ok too. You may have taught the rest of us a lesson, and learnt one along the way.

Again, I’ve been surprised by the quality of this year’s showings. If you’re local and you have the chance, there are a few performances left and at least some are worth a look – even requiring it. The others? Well, they’re short.

Not A Review: Brindabella

I'm really hesitant to write about Balletlab's new show Brindabella here. Not for any particularly complicated reason. Mostly because I don't want to send anyone along with any preconceptions about the work. If I were to say, for instance, that it was the best piece of dance I've seen all year, I'd be setting up some lofty expectations. If I were to expand that to say that it's among the most sublime, affecting and flat-out jaw-dropping pieces I can ever remember seeing, well, those expectations would skyrocket. And if I were to add that it's in the tiny handful of works that remind me, once every long, long while, why I do what I do... anyway, I won't say those things. Even if they might be true.

But sometimes a person must stand up for what they believe in. Too often, of late, I have returned home from a performance and neglected to write it up here - distracted by domestic matters, such as the never-ending expansions being carried out on the East Wing of my cliff-hugging coastal retreat (work which seems to be spiralling out into infinity, both spatially and temporally, well beyond the logical possibilities of the house itself, as if the very idea of expansion is what is being renovated here, load-bearing walls and uncovered crawl-spaces giving way to an elsewhere which has always been present but never accessible...) or the preparations for my weekly sermons to the rude and superstitious local townsfolk - a people not mentioned on any census and violently protective of their insular community - on such regionally relevant topics as The Likely Causes of Yesterday's So-Named "Vacuum Torrent"; Upon the Chanting Heard in the Walls of Squire Bickerstaff's Lodge; Ruminations on the Impossibility of a Town Map; and What Really Happened to Marigold the Cow. Then there are the matters of the whip-poor-will spread, the difficulties I am having retaining staff, and - of course - the wild brumbies which nightly gather at the north end of the long paddock, standing still in the moonlight, hooves hidden in a sea of mist, staring blind-eyed and silent toward the house as if waiting for something. It's all I can do, upon arriving home, not to give up on everything and simply retreat to the rooftop conservatory where I tend to the breeding of my elusive black orchid.

In short, no time for reviewing.

Brindabella is something else, though. It's a little bit - damn it, it's exactly like falling in love, in the way I fell in love with dance years ago and have spent those years trying to convince people that it's not just a bunch of kids with asymmetrical fringes playing patty cake with each other. I can still name the few shows which have done it - had my skin prickle and my small heart try to leap out of its cavity and which have forced me to remind myself to breathe. During the opening last night I was confused, dazzled, constantly surprised, unsteady, sometimes ecstatic. Leaving, I was both speechless and gushing and not just for the dramatic effect this might have in the foyer. I was completely in love with the thing and wanted to have its babies (not medically possible for various reasons).

Others might hate it, though. I wouldn't be surprised. But if you go along - and there's no other show I can more highly recommend this year - and have a reaction somewhere in between, I'll explain laboriously why You Are Wrong. I can even draw diagrams. Nothing comes close to Brindabella, for me, and it and it and it -

I have however seen a lot of shows in the past week - Eleventh Hour's Othello, Lipson's Antechamber, With a Bullet, Spamalot, the SITI workshop showing at Black Box. All great works, in fact. I'll try to get to these in a bit. But put into relief... Screw it, just go see Brindabella and we'll talk from there. It's on at the Malthouse till the weekend.

Review: Election 07

One of my life-mottos (or mantras) is “credit where credit’s due” and so I have a lot of credit cards, and money due. But I also think people should be given recognition for their work, especially when that work involves the victory of federal election candidates and those people are me.

I don’t claim legal ownership of Channel 7’s groundbreaking “Tower of Power” graphic last night, or the cartoon cartwheeling Kevin Rudd, or Jeff Kennett’s moustache. Do I feel a certain moral responsibility for these things? Perhaps I do. But more importantly, for you at least, is just how much I contributed to Mr Rudd’s landslide win.

The term “Ruddslide”? One of mine. I put it to the ALP campaigners way back, noting that it connoted both an overwhelming victory and a potential Wobbies-World-style adventure ride. The perfect combination.

And when I vetoed Rudd’s planned “nerny nerny” speech in favour of a gracious address to the country, I think I pricked up a few ears.

But the real kicker came when I told Rudd to accept his inevitable victory to the sounds of a rockin’ tune with a 70s bassline and some mad wailing licks. As per my decree, this tune will now be heard any time our new Prime Minister appears in any public or televised situation. As it should be. I was minorly disappointed that my further suggestion – Solid Gold dancers introducing the track, feathered arms windmilling to suddenly reveal Rudd in gold-lame hotpants windmilling wildly before dropping into a “whatever!” frozen pose – was dismissed like a Whitlam government, but I guess that’s democracy for you.

In any case, when Kev hit the stand it was done to a tune that would have done Hendrix proud (or at least Cat Empire) and if he wasn’t exactly air-guitaring, at least the rest of Australia was.

Here’s some bonus inside goss: if you’re wondering why it took so long for Howard to show up and concede the big boot-print his behind had just acquired, it’s simple. 11 years in The Lodge and not once – NOT ONCE – had he done any cleaning. If you thought the mad scramble to fix up your crappy student rental property when an inspection was announced was kinda manic, you should have seen John when he saw the election results sitting on his torn, crusty Kirribilli house couch. He looked around at the remnants of Downer’s regular keg-parties, the deep furrows Costello had left in the parquetry every time he dragged his coffin full of maggots down the hall, and Jeanette’s jelly bath, and uttered a deep sigh. And then, of course, remembered the toilet. 11 years without a simple wipe-down or swish of the Toilet Duck ™ is bad enough, but do you know what an exclusive diet of ham milkshakes and human baby jaffles does to a PM’s digestive system?

Oh, you do? Well there you go.

Howard hadn’t really expected to lose. He’d spent most of election night sitting on his crusty couch drawing a picture of Rudd on his clenched fist in a way that made the gap between his thumb and curled forefinger appear to be a mouth, a biro-penned set of glasses at the first knuckle completing the impression. This allowed him to feel very cultural (and was in fact the only element of the Libs 2007 arts policy) as well as providing him the opportunity to engage in imaginary debates with the then-opposition leader. He would scrunch up his nose as he made “Fist-Rudd” squeak out placating phrases like:

“My glasses are smaller than yours!”

Or

“Gillard is a big girl, it’s true!”

Or

“I love you Lenin I want to have your babies!”

There was a tense moment when Jeanette walked in to find her husband gently, absent-mindedly running the soft, talcumed hand along the length of his cheek and whispering, as if to himself, “but I really DO acknowledge your superiority, esteemed leader” but Howard quickly defused the situation by tearing the fleshy face from his hand with the teeth he had cautiously sharpened earlier in the evening using a small nail-file and spitting the bloody pulp onto the floor. Whew! (When cartoon Kevin choose to do a cartwheel across his plasma screen at just that moment, well, it was weird, sure.)

And when Jeanette came in and told him that the nation was waiting on his admission of defeat, and that the pike-mounted goats’ heads and virgin-blood pentacles in the bedroom weren’t going to clean themselves up, and that after the good times they’d had it really was their responsibility to leave in a dignified fashion, all he could do was blurt “Screw my ‘responsibility’! Screw my ‘nation’! Screw everything!”

Poor Jeanette. In her quiet, understated way, it was heartening to hear her mutter “You’ve spent 11 years doing that, John. It’s time to go. Our people await us.”

And so they set about stuffing their pockets with stationery and free toiletries.

Review: Motortown

It's probably pretty rare that a play about the horrific effects of war will trigger post-traumatic stress in people who were never actually involved in one. There are certainly a couple of scenes in Red Stitch's new play Motortown that will probably have me waking in a cold sweat for nights to come, or else freaking out small children with my hollow thousand-yard stare. But I'm not going to get all "you wouldn't understand cos you weren't THERE dammit" on you readers because when you enlisted you couldn't have known that you wouldn't see combat, but would instead be stuck in front of your computer screen reading about my exploits at the front line. It could just as easily have been the other way round. I strapped up and took everything this one could shell out because I know you would have done the same for me.

When Danny comes home to his crappy hometown in Essex, he's really got nothing bad to say about his whole tour of duty in Basra. The way he puts it, Iraq was mostly ginger beer and shennanigans with the lads. Of course, he does seem a little haunted and sometimes goes quiet and intense for no apparent reason and is also sort of obsessed with a girl he'd been dating briefly before he went off to war. And when he finds out that she's not interested any more and sets about getting a gun from some dodgy London types, I began to wonder if Danny hadn't maybe left a little bit of himself back in Basra, if you smell what I'm cooking, and perhaps everyone else should start practicing their zig-zag running skills because young Daniel was about to bring the War on Terror back home. Then I thought: nah, you're reading too much into things. After all, it's not like we've ever come across a story about a veteran who can't escape the memories of what he was forced to do and ends up perpetuating the cycle of violence modern war is founded upon.

OK, so this tale might just be a noughties update of the post-Vietnam drama that taught us that sometimes war had its downside and we might want to think twice about sending our impressionable young kids off to another one. There's a good whiff of the classic film Coming Home here, grafted onto a self-conscious homage to Taxi Driver and even a bit of Rambo: First Blood. Luckily, even though I felt like I'd seen a lot of this stuff before, I didn't really get much of a chance to rest my peepers because the level of tension along with the A-grade performances the Stitchers deliver is shock and awe stuff.

From the measured build-up which tracks Danny's complex mental state to the honestly surprising climax (equally surprising since it sort of happens in the middle) to the scenes which follow and give some depth to the piece, there's not much to fault this production. The script is possessed of sparkling dialogue and the cast get their teeth into it without overplaying at all, but I can't help but feel that there's not much underneath it all that we don't already know, and it's even perhaps prurient to actually play out the horror when we do know this stuff.

At the same time, this is a production worth catching just for those fantastic performances and the superbly drawn characters, Brett Cousins as Danny on stage for nearly the entire show and only ever less than compelling when sharing the space with Dion Mills' hypnotically watchable Lee. It's a hard show to stomach and it's not even the kind of play I normally like, but nobody shirks in their duties here and the audience is left to patch up their wounds the best they can. Some leaflets in the foyer suggesting places we could seek therapy might have helped, but I guess that's better than when your government sends you off to war and then turns its back on you after you bring your shattered soul back home. It's that trickle-down effect.

Oh and there's an election tomorrow, too. Hope that all goes swimmingly.

Review: The Madwoman of Chaillot

Sacred Blue. It all starts off with a whole bunch of Jacques Tati-style business that wastes no time in confusing its audience. You’ve got a bunch of dastardly capitalists (Nazis in the original) front and centre, hatching a plan – I hesitate to use the word ‘plot’ in any connection to this show – surrounding oil wells in Paris and the obliteration of the quaint culture that surrounds them in favour of industry, unfettered speculation and, eventually, a state of Total War. But while they’re expositing their little what-ho, a constantly shifting parade of shorthand French stereotypes are buzzing about distracting our gaze from what should be a far more interesting dynamic. That the audience on opening night kept applauding every bit of basic clowning that occurred while the piece’s villains were concurrently waxing nasty on another part of the stage speaks volumes. More immediately annoying was the shallowness of characterisation afforded the pedestrian crowd.

While nobody in the MTC’s latest production actually wears a stripy skivvy with a string of garlic around their neck, you always feel they’re just a costume change away from it. As beaming accordion-players exchanged howdies with rosy-cheeked flowersellers and bicycle-borne gendarmes tipped their caps to dancing homeless men, I couldn’t help but wonder if someone, somewhere, was prendre le pissoir. (I must continually remind myself that not all of you are as fluent in the language of love as moi, so I should note that I’m not suggesting that someone was “on the piss” during the development of this piece, but was mayhaps “taking the piss”. Also, I used the term for “urinal” rather than “piss” through a form of “creative license”. “Creative license” is a common term used to describe the ways writers engage in imaginative, sometimes innovative wordplay to add flair to otherwise lacklustre prose. Another common technique is digression, wherein the obvious trajectory of a piece of writing is subtly delayed by gently segueing into seemingly casual but ultimately unrelated asides, anecdotes, pontifications and opinionating. If this review seems unusually characterised by digression, then it is simply to mask a lack of anything serious to say about this show. Also, c’mon, if you’ve ever read this site you shouldn’t be surprised.)

Anyway, the level of cliché on offer in Madwoman is best summed up by Ms Theatre Notes’ review, in which she compares it to a Yoplait commercial. I couldn’t sum it up better myself. At times I began to wonder if it wasn’t an exercise in Franxsploitation. For a long time, I felt there was a decent story being developed somewhere under all of the Tours Eiffel and copious latte sipping and rhubarbe-ing. When Magda S. finally turned up as the eponymous Madwoman, things began to look up.

The Countess Aurelia at least offered a greater depth than most of the other folks on offer. Magda wisely plays against the role – rather than offering a madwoman of the histrionic, non sequiterial or fey type, she is simply a softly-spoken eccentric dressed in an outfit director Simon Phillips must have rejected from his Priscilla with an “I’m sorry, but that’s just TOO much.” She has her oddities – to her, all men have the same name depending on the hour of day, her missing feather-boa holds the key to her fate, and she is haunted by the memory of a long-ago lover she only knew in brief – but Ms Szubanski grants her character a level of respect I found admirable. Strangely, she was the only character with a wireless mic, but this didn’t really affect my appreciation of the show since it allowed her to be heard without having to bellow out across the Playhouse stage. And she was playing the wacky-wisewoman, so a little subtlety was required.

I suppose the whole crazy-dame-possessed-of-uncommon-wisdom angle might boast an air of the classics about it (also a polite way to describe the bathroom of a Parisian café I once visited). If my high school education doesn’t fail me – and I’ll admit it was more airy Swiss than fresh French Charolais – the Greeks blabbered on about some nutty kid called Cassandra who could speak the future but was never listened to. Kind of like SBS newsreaders, I suppose.

Aurelia is the informal spokeswoman for the community of French stereotypes we’ve met so far, and it’s her job to speak out against the encroaching modernisation of gay Paris. When she learns of the plans to drill under Paris for black gold, she gathers her fellow eccentric womenfolk in a trio reminiscent of another classic threesome, the Fates, and debates the ethics of entrapping and murdering all of the capitalists in France. Which, eventually, is just what happens.

If it all sounds quite exciting – madpeople, manslaughter, missing feather boas – it doesn’t really play out too heart-palpitatingly. When we finally leave the streets of Yoplait Paris and enter the gorgeous dungeon Aurelia seems to live in, things get quite fun. The comedy has gathered a layer of dust – written in the 30s, this might not be such a surprise – but there is a sweet scene where someone pulls on a bit of stone and a secret staircase is revealed. That’s pretty much all I want out of a play.

Unfortunately most of this play is as uneven as the rough-hewn rock steps of the staircase itself. The dazzingly negative responses to the piece I’ve read so far – and they’re incredibly entertaining for their damning-ness – offer the best summations of the show’s flaws. But their very relish, the way in which they – or we – can so precisely pinpoint what’s so very wrong with the thing, make me feel that this isn’t a case of a show getting it wrong. Not at all. It feels more like a work whose intentions are so contrary to those expected by Melbourne’s reviewers that we simply can’t understand how this – this – could be exactly what Phillips, his cast and crew has meant to end up on the stage.

Anyone who has ever been to Paris will likely wrinkle their noses at the odd artistic choices here in the same way so many Aussies pout at the omnipresent dog crap decorating the city’s sidewalks - mainly because said crap is entirely absent from this peachy-keen vision of the City of Lights. Maybe that’s the point. The play’s descriptions of a nostalgic Parisian past – including, I kid ye not, the trash cans of old which, apparently, smelled so much sweeter – seem so ridiculous that maybe only a ridiculously artificial production could be appropriate. Suspension of Disbelief, meet Benefit of the Doubt. I hope you two get along.

Those of you who thought Amelie was far too depressingly realistic might find this quite your decanter of Beaujolais. For the rest, at least you get a dungeon.

Notice of Removal of Name from Electoral Roll

The title of this post comes from the title of a letter I received this week. Jiminy Crickets! And with an election coming up and all. That's what you get from moving house so often. I'd better get onto it. Or who knows what may result?

We cannot rule out the potential.

In other news, I will probably be doing a little redecorating of this here blog in the next few days. This is mainly due to the very welcome if a little disturbing inclusion of a list of Melbourne artsy blog URLs in the latest Malthouse season brochure, and given we here at Born Dancin' Worldwide Enterprises (limited liability) decided to name ourselves starting with a big ol' "B", we're at the top of the list. So a few things should perhaps occur - I'll be taking out the occasional personal reference (mainly relating to other people who might not want to be read about) as well as losing all of the links (same reason). Typos, rash reviews and lazy factual errors will of course remain, due to said laziness.

In other other news, I've also been busy wrapping up phase one of the bookmagazinebook project after a year at the thing. BMBs have made their way to most continents and have been picked up by writers and photographers and craftspeople and artists ranging from emerging indie kids to people who are household names. And of course all sorts of other people who liked the idea or knew someone who did. If all went according to plan, the first would show up next week. But of course things rarely go to plan, which is the point of the project.

And also the point of phase two.

In other other other news, I've just come home from Petty Traffickers' current show, The Chosen Vessel. It's definitely worth checking out, and maybe I'll post a full review here in the next few days. Then again, looking at the last few busy weeks - YOU KNOW I WON'T. Apologies in advance &c.

Just go along and see it and post your own review. Ends Sunday.

Also: Faces in Places. Why God invented the internet.

MIAF 2: AWOL and contrary

OOPS. The festival is almost over and I haven't covered much of it. I've seen a lot (A LOT) but I've also been moving house and have no internet access. I reconciled myself to this and was going to save myself for a festival wrap-up but a post over at Matt C's Esoteric Rabbit (hi Matt! I sat in front of you at Euro House last night!) crystallised how my responses to this year's festival have been pretty much the opposite to those of everybody else on the web.

Firstly, my highlights have been European House and Hunger, both of which were disappointments to some, along with Shaun Parker's This Show is About People, which was just outstanding. I was largely unmoved by Kitson and Wilson, and Laurie Anderson was ok, but nothing special. Again, I don't seem to be in the majority here.

But what's really had me scratching me noggin is exactly what Matt pinpoints in the post linked above: not the problem of noisy, disrespectful audiences, but of audiences who find that so irksome. In what world is a Merce Cunningham piece set to John Cage's music supposed to be enjoyed in silence? This is the dude for whom incidental audience noise could be a composition in itself.

I know it's my hobby horse, but it's one I've pursued for years. The behaviour of audiences is tied to the process of socialisation - a "disciplined" and silent viewer is a recent historical construction that serves very particular purposes mirroring the larger demands of Western liberal capitalist ideology. Compare the behaviour of audiences for traveling Russian cinemas,
or 19th century American Shakespearean performances, or Indonesian music theatre (which is what riled me so much about Wilson's show last year). "Encore" once meant something - say, getting Hamlet to do his last soliloquy again, it was that good.

Anyway, my point is that if I want to absorb some wonderful art on my own, without being reminded of the presence of others, I stay home and watch TV.

And I don't watch much TV.

MIAF 1: Does Wilson Matter?

And so it begins.

THE TEMPTATION OF ST ANTHONY

Opening night of MIAF 2008 had me hunkering down for Robert Wilson and Bernice Johnson Reagon's The Temptation of St Anthony, which impressed me every bit as much as Wilson's contribution to last year's festival, I La Galigo.

(ie... not very much).

It was a bit embarrassing to be sitting in the very lovely festival Artists Bar last night next to a large group of obviously theatre-literate and intelligent young folks laughing about the show with the sort of derision you normally hear in "my kid could paint that!" art appreciation. Normally I'd be thinking "well, maybe you just missed something in the piece" or simply "it just didn't speak to you" but I couldn't help but agree with these kids. Temptation felt like a puffed-up, fancily-panted bit of not-a-lot. The cheery complainants were quoting lines from the libretto with mirth - "does matter matter? What is the function of form?" And while these are good questions for any artist to put to their audience, it felt like a year 7 philosophy class in which a bored teacher named Bobby Wilson threw those questions to the audience then left the room for a smoke break with a "discuss!" flung over his shoulder. And, leaving, left his charges with no reason or manner in which to tackle that heavy stuff.

The biggest problem with Wilson's show is Wilson. In every other aspect, the show is great - a huge cast of African-American singers deliver great performances of some great music, but Wilson takes the dynamism and elasticity of these performances and shoehorns them into his typically pomo staging. I had the same feeling during last year's show - after years of pleading the defence to students, I'm finally beginning to understand Fredric Jameson's argument about the depthlessness of high postmodern art. Wilson's work is so carefully self-conscious that it strips away historicity, context and authenticity. Normally I'm all for that, but in the case of I La Galigo, where he adapted Indonesian music theatre styles to produce a three hour epic, it felt like he had plundered this incredibly rich source and turned it into an empty spectacle. It felt about as Indonesian as a Mc-Gado Gado Special at McDonalds.

Take the Slow Walk thing. I hate it when works like Temptation have performers moving to their next arbitrary spot on the stage with that damn measured, meditative, almost Butoh-like stepping style. I know it's probably meant to draw attention to the economy of gesture, or a Kleist-ian sense of the performer's physical gravity, or of the negative space of movement, but Robert, you were drawing attention to that stuff before I was born. I geddit.

Now, I'm not arguing against Wilson's wonderfully important contribution to the modern stage, especially through all this postmodern stuff - and lord knows I love me postmodern stuff. But why marry pomo minimalism to - and I quote from the program - "the history of African-American music and culture"? I didn't see a shred of history in the piece, and it seemed that any possible connection to that history was deliberately severed.

I'm being harder on the thing than it really warrants. But as another patron said at the opening night party, The Temptation of St Anthony would make a great concert.

THIS SHOW IS ABOUT PEOPLE

That's more like it! Good on ya, Shaun Parker, about whom I know exactly nothing.

When I asked a colleague their thoughts after last night's showing, she thought for a moment and came back with: "It was very... busy."

Which is just how I like it. There's so much going on in this piece - visually, thematically, aurally - that you often miss things. It's hard to be bored. You're always working, but there's such a great sense of play that you don't feel you're being punished or anything.

It's set in a kitschy, ambiguously defined space that could be a bus-stop waiting room, a hospital foyer, an underground bunker or an antechamber to the afterlife. A very strange collection of people are sitting around - a Hawaiian-shirted lout with a boombox, a nervous-looking secretary sort, a bearded hippie type and a few others. Things start getting weird very quickly. Hippie type pulls partially naked people from a vending machine, a nerdy fellow begins singing in an early music kinda of soprano, people split into two, and of course, being ostensibly a dance piece, there's plenty of dancing. Most of it is informed by breakdance styles with plenty of flips, unsupported headstands and even some popping an' locking. The infrequent dialogue isn't the show's strongest point, but it does make clear that the show is about the ways people make sense of their world, through philosophy, religion, violence and so on. There's also a strong motif of control, people often manipulating each other in innovative ways.

It's a pretty short show, and it finishes tomorrow, so get on down and grab yourself a seat. Like Temptation, what you get from This Show will largely depend on you - it's just that Parker gives you so much more to work with.

The Calm Before the MIAF Storm

I have seen a lot of movies lately so here are some reviews.

DELIRIOUS

Stupid, forgettable and mostly irrelevant name aside, this little US feature is such a sweet treat it instantly found a way into my crabby heart. It reminded me of a sub-genre of film I'd all but forgotten about but once had had a special fondness for: the mid-90s New York indie dramedy. Not the self-consciously auteur-style American indie flicks of the early 90s by folks such as Jim Jarmusch and Hal Hartley and the like, but the ones by directors who you probably never heard about, and who made films that generally went straight to video here. They often featured actors like Parker Posey or Steve Buscemi.

Delirious does in fact feature Buscemi in one of the best roles of his career, as an angry papparazzi photographer who holds his celebrity targets in contempt while simultaneously wishing for their acceptance. It's a fantastic character, full of depth and fully realised. And it's directed by Tom DiCillo, who did archetypal 90s NY indie flicks such as Living in Oblivion.

The story follows a young, pretty homeless kid who makes his way into Buscemi's life as his wide-eyed assistant, and a hot pop songstress who gets between them. It's not really about fame, per se; it's more about the growing friendship between two down-and-outers with very different visions of humanity, and the trials that friendship has to face. It's wonderfully funny throughout, in a quiet way (though I laughed out loud a handful of times), but the undercurrent of bittersweet melancholy that runs thoughout the film will probably linger with me more than the comic stuff.

It's a very minor but very enjoyable film. Tell me what you think. Oh and Parker Posey doesn't appear, but the role she would have played is filled out by Gina Gershon, who has the credentials to make this a proper certified 90s New York Indie Flick herself. Just one that came a decade and a half late.

RESIDENT EVIL: EXTINCTION

I like zombie movies. I liked the first Resident Evil (a bit). I didn't like it enough to see its sequel. But I had tickets to see the threequel, so see it I did.

The thing about zombie movies is that they're pretty hard to mess up. Dump a garbage can full of slops on a bunch of non-speaking extras, tell 'em to shamble about moaning, and have a group of interesting and ethnically various characters run around trying not to have a chunk bitten out of them - that's all you need for some good ol' fashioned fun, like mamma used to make.

And on top of that, zombies are the perfect symbol for the modern horror filmmaker with pretensions - you can use them to symbolise anything. The detrimental, deadening effects of consumer society (Day of the Dead), the essential brutality of mankind when freed from social strictures (28 Days Later), the post-capitalist return of a repressed underclass (Land of the Dead).

Or, in the case of Resident Evil: Extinction, you can use zombies to symbolise exactly nothing but an army's worth of fugly dudes with gloop for faces ready to get mashed up by Milla Jovovich. I know that sounds okay for a film's premise really, but I left the film with the expression you normally reserve for leaving an elevator after somebody has dropped their guts and hasn't owned up to it.

It's hard to really remember much of the film, it was so thin. The whole world is taken over by zombies, a motley gang of survivors drive through the wastelands trying to survive, and the audience is waiting for Tina Turner and some kind of Thunderdome to pop up.

I do feel a certain kinship with the crew behind the film, though. I spent most of the movie with no idea what was going to happen next, or how what just happened related to anything that happened before, and I think that's exactly how the people who made the film were feeling during filming. There's a devil-may-care attitude to narrative structure, dramatic pacing and simple logic that I can't help but tip my non-existent hat to.

A good example is the way this is one of those films where the heroine seem to acquire and lose super powers whenever randomly, so at one moment she's telekinetically wiping out hordes of monsters with flames controlled by her mind alone, and the next all of her friends are getting massacred while she is stuck high-kicking and machete-chopping an army of zombies. Huh? Use your brain, Milla!

And yet.

Avoid.

EASTERN PROMISES

I caught a preview of this new Cronenberg number early in the week and spent much of it clutching my neck. Throat-cuttings, clearly, are very in-season.

Eastern Promises is the Godfather of Russian Mafia films, but with less epic familial saga-ness and more bad hairstyles on Viggo Mortensen. It does have my fave Aussie actress (tm) Naomi Watts though, who does a decent job here.

Naomi is a London nurse who delivers the baby of a 14-year-old Russian sex slave who dies in the maternity ward. Things go downhill from there.

Cronenberg seems to have pulled back from the amazing body-horror of his early career, which was even still evident in more recent films like eXistenZ (or whatever it was called) and that History of Violence thing. Here, there are a few remnants of existential ickiness rough-housed into a Robert Ludlum drama, but the performances, the cold precision of the cinematography and the harrowing interest elicited by the subject matter make this a film worthy of a look-see. Just make it a light lunch beforehand.

WAAAAAIT A MINUTE. This isn't a film blog! It's an arts blog! And the Melbourne International Arts Festival opened last night!

So let's get to it!

Oh! What a Musical Life.

Ok, I've been tagged by a Man About Town and I've also got a fistful of Fringe things I should review here. A little short of time, though, so here's a short community service announcement before we go to the break.

Today, making the most of my new lifestyle, I wandered down to the local cinema and saw the remake of Hairspray. I wasn't expecting much because the original film was so good that I couldn't see how or why someone would attempt to better it. I don't know that the new version is better, but it's ridiculously smile-making and one of the best musicals I can remember (for someone who doesn't, generally, get off on musicals, despite my great love of both music and dancing.)

Anyway, having John Waters do a cameo early on seemed like some kind of seal of approval (he directed the original) and some other nods to the first version (appearances by Ricki Lake, Jerry Stiller) won me over. Well, by the time those last two appeared, I was well won already. It's great that such a subversive film made it as a Broadway musical then was slipped past the sensibilities of middle America to package a progressive, historically-minded film that is really all about bigotry in the sleek outfit of a nostalgic teen high school musical.

My only annoyance is that the character of Penny Pingleton is completely cut back in the new version - in Waters' film she was unforgettably hysterical, in several senses of the word.

MY POINT BEING: You usually walk out of a dangerously catchy musical acutely aware that the world isn't like that. People don't sing and dance on a whim, life isn't as cute as you've just been led to believe, and it's rare to find yourself wondering at just how wonderful a life your life can be.

EXCEPT: Walking home after the film, listening to some fast 60s soul to keep the mood going, I found myself nearing my house while stuck behind a very slow walking dude. He was tall, had a hoody pulled over his head and seemed intent on going nowhere fast, or at least going somewhere really, really slowly. I didn't want to overtake but I was almost home so I just kept pace a few feet behind him, thinking about why he might be taking his time so severely.

THEN: Out of the blue, as an Otis Redding track hit the chorus, he unexpectedly started dancing in the street. Just a quick dance, about three shoulder shimmies and a few up and down bopping movements. Then he was off again. And I suddenly felt a bit closer to being in a musical, where normal people like this guy can do things like that. Thank you, tall dude in hoody, you made my day. I hope you keep getting funky to that inner tune as far as it takes you.

THEN: Catching a cab to see a show tonight, nervously strumming the seatbelt as I fretted about being late, I pulled up outside the North Melbourne Town Hall and gave the cab driver ten bucks. I was in a hurry. Keep the change. He looked shocked, and waved me back for a moment.

"Then you take candy!" he exclaimed, and opened the centre console of the cab to reveal a secret tupperware container full of Korean lollies.

Thank you secret-candy hoarding cab driver!

AND FINALLY: Heading back home at the end of the night. Passing through the city. The carapace of vaguely defensive wariness descending, knowing that the city is a place for alertness, not wide-eyed wonder and the hope of gloriously fun things happening. Not a musical at all. Entrenched suspicions confirmed as a police Rapid Response vehicle suddenly arcs up and wheels around a corner, officers leaping out to halt some rough looking guys in their tracks, all barking commands to the defiance of the slowly spreading crew, an expanding sphere of uncertainty. One of those moments you tense up at.

Until a young girl with a nonchalant expression rides through the middle of the fracas on a unicycle without slowing, disappearing from the frame because hey, she was just a non-speaking extra brought in for colour.

All of this happened in about 10 hours, but it's late nowly. Good night.

Exit Stage Left

Public transport just can't be beat.

Speaking of, yesterday I saw the most exciting drama I’ve seen in a while. It was great, with lots of twists and reversals of fortune and a solid three act structure. I give it like eight thumbs up.

Absent-minded dad is standing on the 96 tram with cheeky tot on his shoulders. They’re waiting by the doors for the next stop, and he’s pushed the button to signal his intention to disembark. He’s holding a railing with one hand, the other wrapped around cheeky tot’s left ankle. This is important, as it sets up the initial tension of the scene. Cheeky tot’s own arms are waving around playing with the roof and other things, which means that the only means of support her precarious situation is afforded is absent-minded dad’s left hand.

I’m making some assumptions here – I mean that’s the only visible means of support. She might be supported by an Australia Council grant for street theatre or a genetic history of circus families, but for the purposes of this story its just pa’s meaty paw that’s preventing the possibility of a rapid descent.

That’s the opening act, and it establishes the scene pretty quickly. But then comes the complication. Cheeky tot is so named not merely because of the mischievous glint in her eye, but from her willingness to cause TROUBLE. Which is what she does: with one of her hands, she reaches out behind her and grabs one of the hanging straps ordinary, adult-sized commuters use to stabilise themselves while Melbourne’s tram drivers indulge their racing fantasies. Absent-minded dad is unaware that she’s latched onto the strap, and she keeps checking to make sure he hasn’t noticed. Boy, will he be in for a shock when he steps off the tram to find the apple of his eye still dangling amidst the bleary-eyed business crowd not used to such excitement.

Then again, we in the audience can see that absent-minded dad’s loose ankle grip will be enough to pull the kid at an angle not so conducive to laughter, and her own tiny hand doesn’t seem strong enough to maintain a hold of the strap for long.

The tram pulls up at the stop, and we’re only seconds away from disaster.

Then a new player enters the scene at this dramatic climax – a scraggly-haired, long-bearded dude who looks older than he probably is, has worked hard and played hard and lived to tell the tale, steps forward shakily from the audience to prevent the inevitable. As the tram doors open he crosses the few paces between his position and the kid’s and reaches up to catch her. Dad – still absent-minded – steps out the doors as cheeky tot, smiling all the while, lets the strap fall from her hand and is breezily carried by her father out towards whatever adventures await their night.

Scraggly-haired, long-bearded dude is left standing on the crowded tram, hands held out to save an absent child who never needed saving, observers like myself (if there were any others) wondering if we would have had the nerve to step onto the stage and risk what he did. Not the risk of becoming a part of the drama, but the risk of taking that chance and finding ourselves an unnecessary player, the chorus-member who forgot their cue to disappear into the wings.

All in all, a stand-up job from all concerned. Rich performances all round – cheeky tot is one to watch, and scraggly-haired, long-beared dude showed an unexpected commitment to the role – and the piece didn’t outstay its welcome.

I’ve seen some other great shows lately. I’ll try to post capsule reviews in the next few days, but things are pretty hectic around these parts lately.

In fact, I’m a little worried since I’m currently finishing up at my present job (sort of) and tomorrow I’ll be three days away from retirement, and anyone who has ever watched a thriller knows that when you’re three days away from retirement, you might as well be wearing a big fat t-shirt that screams “hey guys, I’m about to get my guts blown up!” I’m glad I don’t have a pregnant wife and/or kid about to graduate from military college, or I’d be a goner. Also, my angry loner lifestyle pretty much means that if the bad guy did decide to take me out tomorrow, there’d be nobody to avenge me, and what sort of dramatic scenario would that be? I’ve been smart that way, see.

But for now – look! It’s a macaque hugging a pigeon. Warning: only click the link if you are ready for extreme AWWWWW-someness.

Oh, the things I have seen.

I have seen lots of things. But I have not written about any of them here. That is simply how it is. None of them have been so spectacular that I have both felt the need and found the time to write about. Which is not how it should be but, again, is how it is.

I am extremely very excited however having just learnt a nano-second ago that both Bjork and Brian Wilson will be performing at the Sydney Festival next year, which is like a Bruce Lee tough one-two punch to my ability not to be extremely very excited (a very developed ability, might I add).

Otherwise, I have been ridiculously busy lately with stuff. My car was wiped out (nobody hurt and the other guy's fault - all ok then) and my bike just met the same fate (my fault from riding it too harshly, which I didn't know was possible); big changes at work (ie kind of a new job) and starting a doctorate; having to move house in about two weeks with no actual notion of where to move; and so on. But at the same time, very pleased.

Here's how things are right now: if you could cut open my skull, extract my brain and squeeze it real hard like a sponge, so all the emotions came out as a nice kind of juice, and then poured that juice into a machine of great complexity that turned brain emotion juice into online content, then you might get something like the following assortment of oddments.







Ah well, all this was really just a pathetic excuse for a quick post to feel as if I was still contributing meaningful time that I don't have to this thing (also wasting time before a show). KAPOW!

The Quiet World of Frogs & Toads

Frogs are a little bit... you know... weird. Maybe it's just me (but it's not).

I had to reevaluate this prejudice today, however, and temporarily remove the permanent off-milk scowl I pin to my fugly mug every time someone mentions frogs. A whole world was opened up to me after a hastily-scanned B3TA email alerted me to an eBay auction which recently ended.

I don't know how long the auction details will remain online. If my scraggy memory serves me it's only a week or so. For the sake of posterity, then, I'll reproduce here the gory details, and post a link further down.

The item on offer is described as "BECOME INVISIBLE & walk unseen among people or CROWDS" and subtitled "Moral purposes ONLY = = Adults 18+ = = EXOTIC & Rare". There's no immediate indication as to what exactly the item might be. I do, however, like the sudden change of case which occurs when we hit the word CROWDS.

Some text from the listing (dramatic and/or psychosis-induced BOLD and OVERSIZED TEXT MOMENTS removed).

A powerful secret is now within your grasp...
Become INVISIBLE!
This is not a toy, a magic trick or a scam.
This is not an illusion, a rip-off or a Ninja technique.

The Secret of Invisibility renders you completely invisible.
This method is currently used by the CIA and foreign intelligence agencies.
Don't Scoff! You can go anywhere, at anytime, without being seen.
You're invisible to all you meet... NOT EVEN A SHADOW.
This works even when you're completely surrounded by cameras or people.
Lets you vanish & reappear as you wish, wherever you may be!

Yeah, yeah, let us LOL. Nobody in their right mind is going to even bother reading this scam, since it's patently obvious that aint nobody knows no guuuuuurtdarn secrets of invisibility.

Not so fast, my little friend. Invisibility may not truly be on offer here, but some of the most compelling, pulp-driven prose is.

This isn't new... far from it. A fantastic rumor has been whispered throughout the generations and since the beginning of time: super-elite societies knew how to become totally invisible & walk unseen among people. They could vanish from sight... even in the middle of a crowd... and reappear anywhere they desired!
Thousands of years passed. Empires grew and decayed. Kingdoms crumbled, lying buried and all but forgotten but the astounding rumor never died: invisibility was possible!

Ok, hang on. Back it up. Rewind. You're really expecting me to believe that invisibility is possible, if only I can master some kind of MYSTICAL "secret"?

a secret so powerful that throughout history, men have literally died trying to wrestle it from the tight fists of its masters.

It's the tight fists that won me. I'm sold.

But, as the old adage goes: "come for the ancient secrets of invisibility, stay for the secrets of seduction, penile extensions, horse whispering masterclass and cat potty training!"

Fork out your 20 bucks (US) for the whole invisibility thing (my active imagination depicts a book but I suppose a photocopied, spittle-stained pamphlet or homemade C-90 audio cassette is more likely) and you'll also, apparently, receive AS A BONUS the "Secrets of Sexual Seduction", which includes captivating sections such as "Gorilla-tactics: Seduction for your home & car" along with two cures for baldness that "really work", "Unusual methods to GAIN 4” - 6” in height", and a method of losing weight without exercise. Gents also learn how to gain 2-4 inches of "intimate length".

I was clawing for a sick-bag within my intimate length by this time when I reached the final, exclusive offer that comes with the tight-fisted invisibility thing that started the whole listing. Vomit your cash on that bucket of nonsense, it seems, and you'll also find yourself in possession of "The Wizard's Book of Animal Secrets".

I won't kid you kids, cos you've always been there to cover my back.

"Controlling snakes, bees, gnats, houseflies" has long been a desperate goal.

"Keeping a squirrel in your pocket", well, that sounds kind of ok and fun-esque.

"Teaching your dog to walk & dance on stilts" is... maybe a bit much.

But amidst this lengthy litany of ridiculous promises - which includes bringing dead creatures back to life, commanding flocks of birds, taming wild horses and more - comes the simple, bullet-pointed line:

The quiet world of frogs & toads

I can't help but be touched by the fact that whoever wrote this ridiculous work of anti-art found a moment to include the quietness of life, a sublime yet serene silence amongst the histrionics. And, I guess, gave that moment to frogs & toads.

Anyway, here's the link.

A Gift from The Internet to Me

I know that it probably seems like this site is devoted to little more than a) videos of weird Dutch/Belgian kids dancing in an annoying fashion b) embarrassing visions of Jean-Claude Van Damme c) half-assed reviews of theatre and dance and film where I get bored even as I'm writing them (this blog's original purpose).

And let's face it, 98% of sites are devoted to digging up the mouldy cheese slices that waft around stinking up this joint called the internet, and chuckling half-heartedly at the resultant LULZ.

But sometimes I come across really good things, things that make the world a bit better just for being there. Today I stumbled upon one and I can't explain why I keep returning to it.

The first 11 seconds are some of the most gripping drama in TV history. Because it's from Japan, I watched it with no idea what the hell was going on - it features a giant green kids character having some kind of seizure and his shaggy brown friend going apeshit and demanding medics or something. All along there's this ultra-amazing soundtrack that just screams URGENCY, and Brown's eyes flipping around on springs only add to the frantic performance.

Then we have about 1/4 second of a little toy bucket and spade from the WTF section of the local Toyworld and we move to an extended live dance concert featuring Epileptic Green and Furry Poo.
This is all clearly pretty straightforward stuff compared to most Japanese TV, but something about it just touches my hardened black soul.

I honestly cannot figure out what. It's really just that first 11 seconds, though I'd recommend you watch all the way to the end when it suddenly becomes clear what that early section actually means! It all makes sense! It's not Citizen Kane - it's not even The Magnificent Ambersons - but it is two people dressed in vaguely humiliating outfits doing some passable breakdancing.

And maybe that's all I want out of life.

Yor Doin It Wrong

I'm giving a lecture in a couple of hours looking at the obscenity trials of early 90s Miami Bass outfit 2 Live Crew, who were truly awful rappers but whose legal battles were in fact very funny. Their most famousest song was of course Me So Horny, and during my recent research I happened to come across a video clip on youtube which went by the same name but is attached to some clown with the craptacular name of DJ Porny. I had to investigate this fellow further, and so I did.

Of which I am glad.

DJ Porny's Me So Horny really is a terrible, stab-my-ears-with-a-carrot song. He seems to be Dutch, so it's pretty awful eurohouse stuff, but what really distinguishes this clip for me is its unfettered employment of JUMPSTYLE!



I'd almost forgotten about jumpstyle - the plague of Europe's youth - until I watched this hypnotic clip featuring Tim de Koning, Gunther van Houten en Kelly Heks showing us how it's done. I say that like I know who these people are, but I don't. Having watched them dancing badly in a carpark (a clear homage to the dance style's roots) before taking it to the streets and going on a city-wide jumpstyle ORGY of repetitive, sub-line dance movement. They do it in an elevator, they do it in a bakery, they do it in the fruit and veg section of a small supermarket. They even do it on an escalator! And of course they throw in several more carparks for good measure.

I little more probing and it seems like DJ Porny is someone who actually deliberately aims for the jumpstyle market, which is clearly composed of slightly damaged youths who are the offspringof a previous generation's liberal policies towards narcotic use in their home countries. Porny - I don't know how anyone actually addresses him like that without scrunching up their face immediately afterwards - has another song on youtube, Jump Around, which proves that stealing earlier, better hip-hop titles is turning them into horrible godless abominations is kind of his "thing". Good on you and your lack of musical talent or credibility, Porny.

Not convinced yet? Well, I have only this to say: can you think of any other DJ so wicked dope mad fresh that they drive around in a goddamn Kombi van?

Sunday

This is my nana (sorry Lou, I stole the pic).

I went to visit her today in my little red riding car. There were no big bad wolves, thankfully, but I didn't have a basket of goodies either.

Actually, I went to visit her last Sunday too - a sunny, spring-hearted day with an infectiously warm core.

I was thinking after last Sunday's visit how nana was the one person I can think of who I've never seen angry, or even curt. The most optimistic and blue-skied soul I can imagine, and not in a forced self-help-book kind of way. Just someone honestly believing that things can be ok, and that even existing is proof of some kind of grace we've all been granted. Mary Tobin has wonder in her eyes.

That's her full name, Mary Tobin, because when she was born they didn't have time to give her a middle name. She was a twin, and when she was born she weighed in at around three pounds or something so the doctors of 1913 pretty much gave up on her while they tried to ensure her bigger, stronger sister survived. For one twin to survive back then was special. Nobody expected two to do so.

And it was the little one left on her own who made it. Her sister passed on. Mary with no middle name because they didn't think she'd need one turned out to be one tough customer. Even last Sunday, set firmly in her 90s, she could give me a hug with a grip that took the wind out.

She was smiling last Sunday, too, the way she always did when she saw one of her grandkids, a smile that began in the eyes and blossomed across her features from there. Even after she couldn't talk she held onto that joy, that ability to marvel at the crazy, inexplicable luck that has allowed us to live so long, if at all. It was burnt into her. It was her, really. (Next pic stolen from Gen)

She passed away on Monday. I'm glad I went to see her today, but I'll always remember her as the gentle, tough little lady who wore a smile with her style, her leopard-print coordinates and rouge bolstered by that always-springtime attitude. She didn't need goodies and could have fought off a wolf on her own.

I Got Goosed.

I once spent about 18 months watching every Australian film I could get my hands on, raiding video libraries, university collections, the AFI, and so on. My memory of most of the films has gone the same way as my memory of why I did it exactly, but I think I recall determining that since the number of films actually made in Australia during the period in question was relatively low, it would actually be possible to see every single Aussie film and therefore be some kind of achievable goal that sounds quite interesting, as opposed to most of my life intentions which are as impossible as they are boring. I should note that the period in question was something like 1978-1995 or something. I can't remember why I had such specific dates - I think I'd made a list of all films made in those years and there weren't that many. Whatevs.

My laboriously constructed point is that I think I'm qualified - nay, obliged - to judge the greatest moment in Australian film history. And that moment is now available to you via the magic (by which I mean technology) of youtube.




Now, some might argue that what we're watching here is just two minutes of a guy riding a motorbike, and that devoting two minutes of a 93 minute film to such dull, indistinguishable shots is what we in the biz call "padding to ensure we achieve a feature-length running time". And you're probably also thinking that "Mad" Max Rockatansky did a lot more interesting things in the inaugural installment of his adventures than just cruise the highways enjoying the scenery.

What you might not realise is that this isn't Mad Max - it's his sidekick, the most awesomest sidekick in militant-buddy-movie history. It's Goose! And when you hear his name early in the film, you just know Max's sidekick Goose is cooked! I think they even use that awful line in the film somewhere, but that could be just wishful thinking. Either way, I'm sure it's no accident that Tom Cruise's doomed sidekick buddy in militant-buddy-movie Top Gun is also named Goose. Some might argue that that film was a superior exercise in homosocial eroticism conveyed through the use of excessive high-fiving and long sequences devoted to men in control of their cockpits, but did Top Gun's Goose get a whole two minutes of uninterrupted flying time? I think not.

When I heard that the real, original Goose himself would be appearing the latest MTC blockbuster, The Glass Soldier, you can imagine how I was leaping up on my chair at work spilling my chai latte and upsetting the work experience students with my fist-pumping chant of "BISLEY! BISLEY!". I knew that Steve Bisley would bring some of his Goosey brilliance to the show, especially since it was a war-time drama (which always promises plenty of uniforms, guns and overacting - it might as well have BEEN Mad Max!)

And was I let down? Hell no! Sure, the first half is pretty slow going and I spent a fair bit of it wondering why The Bis wasn't being utilised to his full potential. We had some Aussie guy in the trenches of WWI France pining for his love over in London before getting blinded by a Nazi salvo. At some point Goose turns up as one of his superiors and gives a rousing speech, but it's not the Goose I know and love. Blind guy goes back to Melbourne and meets up with his girlfriend and is a bit stressed out by his shell-shocked buddy who shot another guy in the head, and I'm sitting here wondering why Steve-o is even billed since he would be taking all this minor drama and really doing something with it, perhaps on a motorbike.

I'll admit, though, that even in these early bits where Bisley is relegated to the background, he more than shines through. In one scene blind guy is reunited with his girlfriend in a pub, and I'm sure it's an important moment, but there was Steve dressed in a sailor's outfit in the shadows camping it up with a little dance he obviously improvised, a shoulder-shimmy and shuffle routine that just commanded your attention. When somebody stormed off the stage (again, I was too spellbound by Bisley's dance to notice what was going on) Goose gave them a wrist-flick and a don't-go-there-girlfriend head move, and I saw just how a minor part can be imbued with genius by a great actor.

Later in the play Bisley took on the part of the older version of the shell-shocked dude, and as an abusive husband, traumatised veteran and alcoholic war machine, he gave the performance of the night. It was a little disappointing that he (along with his excellent older co-stars Robert Menzies and Kerry Armstrong) were kept in the wings for so long, since they really turned the piece into the kind of drama worthy of the Arts Centre's Playhouse. I spent most of the night enjoying the pleasant piece, but not really caring that much for the goings-on, at least until the heavyweights took centre stage.

Then again, there was a bit where someone told a guy who'd lost a leg in the war the "pull the other one!" and even the amputee had to laugh. When I arrived home after the show, I remembered that moment and laughed myself since it was pretty funny. That's the show, really - not the most amazing thing to sit through, but full of bits you'll relive fondly for a few hours afterwards.

Another wartime number I sat through recently was Plague at The Stork Hotel. It's an adaptation of Albert Camus' novel, and for me it was actually better than the book. I like Camus' stuff, but Plague always felt pretty heavy-handed to me. It just doesn't speak to me that much. I much prefer ennui-ridden loners shooting random dudes on beaches. Doctors observing a town's response to a bubonic plague epidemic is probably too much like my real life to actually elicit much of a response.

Plague's Adrian Mulraney takes on every part in this adaptation and makes it sparkle, though. He's a subtle performer, and he doesn't go for cheap dramatics or drive home the point of the piece. He distils the essence of the novel and adds a lively, unexpected level of nuance to the sometimes flat characters.

I think the season ended today and if you missed out, you could always read the book.

I've heard rumours that The Stork might be changing hands soon and could be turned into a block of apartments. I hope that isn't the case since Sunday afternoons at The Stork watching damn fine literature performed by top shelf actors has lately become one of my favourite ways to relax. Inner city apartment developments - what a plague. And what would Camus do?

I've seen lots of other shows lately and haven't mentioned them here. Angus Cerini's Chapters from the Pandemic was a head-messer-up-wither, and Talya Chalef's intruiging In Other Words introduced me to the fantastic Abbotsford Convent Basement. The return of Phantom of the Opera proved more enjoyable than I expected.

And Ranters Theatre's Holiday was one of the best pieces of theatre I've seen in ages. Again, it's over now, but here's a little hint: if you missed it, you will get a chance to see it again. Stay tuned for details.

In the meantime, here's a great new video from Icelandic band Múm. It's very unnerving.

Why I Love the Internet

I never truly realised that a part of me has long been on a quest to find THE most annoying thing pop culture has ever flung at us like an angry zoo chimp slinging faeces at an innocent onlooker.

I think I may have found it.

Ladies and gentlemen, introduce your aural cavities to the smooth flow of...

Rap Cat.



The video I posted above doesn't really include any visuals, since I wanted you to taste the "pure" experience of Rap Cat's distinctive meow-based rapping. Below you can watch an actual video of the song featuring the $2 shop hand puppet that is Rap Cat along with a bunch of people who are essentially giving up on any possible future which might involve anything resembling a paid job in the entertainment industry.

As wikipedia puts it, "Rap Cat's rapping abilities seem to be limited to meowing rhythmically".

What interests me most is the dazzling genius of the idea. What most myspace pages are to your eyes, this is to your ears. It's the combination of things that are always mistakes on their own.

Firstly, any human meowing is always ridiculous.

Secondly, any non-human rapping is also ridiculous.

Thirdly, any person appearing in the same frame as a hand puppet is definitely ridiculous.

And finally, they seem to have gone out of their way to find a hand puppet that doesn't actually resemble any kind of cat I've ever seen.

Rap Cat.

I think I love you.

Fake Plastic Arms

I just noticed that one of the greatest kung fu classics of all time is on tonight on SBS and can heartily recommend it to anyone able to stay up past midnight.

It's called One-Armed Boxer versus the Master of the Flying Guillotine - well, it's got lots of names but that's the one I know it by.

And it's just great.

And by great I mean pretty good and worth a watch, but not worth beheading yourself over if you miss it.

The master at the centre of these shenanigans is a crusty old villain with cotton-wool beard and eyebrows, which also prove his main acting talent. He's blind, so it's up to those constantly waggling eyebrows to convey the complete plausibility of his superhuman senses, which allow him to kill scores of nameless extras despite his visual impairment. His main weapon of choice, the flying guillotine, is a sort of beekeeper's hat on the end of a chain, but if you're the lucky one at the end of his hoop-toss the concealed razors inside the thing will soon have you running around with your shirt pulled up over your head pretending to have been decapitated.

You see, what really distinguishes this film from the hundreds of its ilk is this dedication to truly laughable prosthetic effects in all their frugal crapitude. It's not enough to indicate the master's blindness by hammy squinting or sell us on a bloody beheading by the shirt-over-the-head caper - this film also serves up a one-armed hero who plainly has a spare limb tucked behind his back (or in front for shots from behind) as well as another villain (there are plenty) whose powers of yoga (!) allow him to extend his arms Inspector Gadget-style while fighting. If the idea of a tall Indian dude whacking a couple of fake hands on poles at a little guy pretending to have one arm gets you all excited, this is one film you cannot miss.

You can if you want though.

A Quick Reminder

Even I'm tired of hearing myself spruik The Jammed, but I'm pleased to see that I'm not alone. David and Margaret each gave it fours stars on At The Movies last night, David saying "it deserves to be seen by everybody."

I convinced The Age's Jim Schembri to see the film earlier this week and his review today has given it four and a half stars, calling it the Australian film of 2007. He's also put up a piece online.

"The Jammed," he writes, "is one of those films you just can't get out of your head. I've seen it twice and it still gives me chills. If another film comes along this year that is as powerful, as compelling, as skillfully made as this we'll be doing very well indeed.
And if that film also happens to be Australian - or more accurately, as Australian - as The Jammed, it'll be nothing short of miraculous."

Anyway, it opens tonight for a two week run at Cinema Nova. Tonight's screening will included a Q&A with writer/director Dee McLachlan as well as castmembers Saskia Burmeister and Veronica Sywak.

There's also a special event on Saturday at 11am called 'Auditions—Rehearsal—Performance'. It focuses on the unique form of actor preparation developed for the film and sounds like a kind of workshop with the cast and crew exploring the tools of character creation. Actor types would be well advised to attend, especially if the astonishing performances by some castmembers in the film are anything to go by (seriously, people I'd be hugely underwhelmed by in the past deliver totally unexpected performances here).

Actually now that I think of it, one of the best roles in the film is played by Adriano Cortese (pictured above with Burmeister). Cortese is the director of one of THE best theatre pieces on at the moment, Holiday by Ranters Theatre. I'll get around to posting a review of that some time soon. Fantastic show.

Geez,I'm all about the praise right now, aint I?