On launching ECOPHENE

I was invited to launch the City of Melbourne's latest permanent visual art installation on Wednesday night. The work, Ecophene, has been placed in an archway beneath the old Sandridge rail bridge, on the north bank of the Yarra River. It's beautiful. Please visit it, and contemplate its message.

Here's the text of my speech from Wednesday's launch:

In her catalogue essay, for this latest of many public artworks funded by the City of Melbourne, independent curator Sarah Tutton describes Karen Abernethy’s Ecophene as “ghost-like and translucent”; while Abernethy herself describes the work as a 're-inhabitation' of the site where once, near to where we stand today, a small but significant waterfall marked the division between the fresh water of the river, and the salt water of the bay.

I myself would describe this artwork, as, a marriage - between the built form of the bridge above us and the natural world which the bridge spans; between the minds of the artist, Karen Abernethy, and the jeweller Kiko Gianocca, who collaborated with her on the project; and between the present, where we stand, and the past which Ecophene recalls.

Originally a temporary installation placed here in 2004, Ecophene has grown, in the same way that the city has grown up around this space on the riverbank, to become this permanent artwork that we see before us today.

It’s a beautiful work, a deceptively simple work; which speaks to us in a gentle voice, and engages so many of our senses. Our eyes, via the refraction and reflection of the light; our ears, with the sound each falling droplet makes as it merges with the river below.

It – almost shyly - invites us to watch and listen.

In doing so, Ecophene allows our hearts and minds to revisit the vanished past, where once the waterfall flowed - a rare and beautiful act of artistic tourism. In a world which is too often focussed only on the future, upon opportunities and profits to come, rather than subtle and sublime reflections upon what has gone before, this is remarkable indeed.

Ecophene provokes a certain sadness; it is a living monument to the destruction wreaked upon this river and its banks by the white settlers who built our city. It also provokes joy, allowing us to recall the delight we may have experienced as a child upon seeing our first waterfall, or in interacting with the water wall at the nearby National Gallery of Victoria, or more simply and directly through the memory of the cooling spray of a garden hose on a hot summer’s day.

But while Ecophene makes us aware of the rich history of our city, which is buried under bridges and tarmac and concrete; while it draws our minds back into the past; simultaneously this work encourages us to engage with the present – and indeed, the future.

At a time when so many of us, in recent months, have been preoccupied with the scarcity of water, Ecophene reminds us of the importance of water, not just in our everyday lives, but for this country that we too often take for granted, and its flora and fauna as well.

Ecophene weaves together threads of melancholy and history, environment and memory, destruction and joy.

In creating it, Karen Abernethy and Kiko Gianocca have become mediums, channelling the spirit of Birrarung, the river of mist, and of the Yarra Yarra Falls. They channel the spirit of the river and allow it to speak for itself.

If you listen, now, you can hear it.

Reasons I love the blogsphere

While I'm mired in my self-indulgent, drug-and-alcohol, arts-oriented 'oh they won't let me get married oh the pain' world, other bloggers are dealing with the issues that really matter. For which I thank her, from the bottom of my jaded, selfish but still prone to tears of helpless anger heart. Love you, mskp. *hug*

You beautiful KURR

Iceland's Amiina, who I first encountered in the film Screaming Masterpiece in the 2005 Melbourne International Film Festival, and then the very next night supporting Sigur Rós, have just released their debut album locally. Called Kurr, it's utterly sublime, as you'd expect from a band whose instruments include bowed saw blades, water-filled crystal glasses, xylophones, violins and much more.

The album also shows definite growth and experimentation from their 2005 EP, AnimaminA - and also the presence of a slight but significant spelling change, from 'Amina' to 'Amiina', to make their name more distinctive (particularly useful when you Google them!).

Want to know more? There's a Dan Rule Age article about the band here, or, you can sit back and enjoy the following sublime performance via YouTube:

Meanwhile...

Of course, life's not all about seeing unique and memorable theatre and cinema productions, is it? No, there's also going to see Circus Oz on their penultimate night of their current season; and catching up with old friends for dinner (hi Martin!); and going to the truly excellent Guggenheim exhibition at NGVI again; and visiting the Glasshouse; and going on out dates than turn out not to be dates...

Me and the Irishman are just friends, I learned, after we spent Saturday night hanging out again, which is cool in one way, given that we seem to have cut out the smalltalk phase of getting to know each other and delved straight into some pretty heavy and frank conversations; and hey, I can always do with a good new friend who I bonded with straight away.

On the other hand, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I could have gone a new boyfriend, you know? Oh well, at least I kept my hopes under appropriate restraint this time, rather than getting worked up and consequently collapsing in a sobbing funk.

*sigh*

So, these plenty more fish in the sea I keep hearing about. Someone care to explain just where the hell exactly they are? And son't say Ireland, 'cause I so definitely can't afford the time or the money for a holiday right now...

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

My least favourite of the books in Rowling's equally adored and despised series about the boy wizard fated to face down the evil Lord Voldemort has, surprisingly, been made into the second-best film in its franchise. Whereas previous films have been so faithful to the source material as to be dull (take a bow, director Chris Columbus), or too episodic for their own good (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire), Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix gets the balance almost perfect.

While not quite the thrill-ride provided by Alfonso Cuaron, the third director in the franchise, the hands of British television director David Yates' on the helm of Order of the Phoenix results in a sombre, sometimes startling film in which Harry takes centre stage, the majority of other cast members reduced to truly supporting roles, save for Imelda Staunton as the truly vile Dolores Umbridge, a sadistic control freak dressed in pink.

More focussed on Harry's sometimes petulant adolescent emotions than flashy effects and quidditch matches, Yates also crafts a film with real heart, in which the stakes at play are made painfully clear. It's darker, yes, but there's also more love visible as well, as shown to us in brief but effective scenes by characters such as the increasingly likeable Neville Longbottom, and Harry's on-again-off-again girlfriend Cho Chang, with whom he shares his first kiss ("How was it?" Harry is asked by best friend Rupert Grint. "Wet," Harry (Daniel Radcliffe replies, underplaying the moment well.) Another character, introduced for the first time, and instantly making an impression, is the wonderfully weird Luna Lovegood, who may or may not be mad as hatter, but either way is an utter delight to experience.

Unlike the book, which cried out for a good editor in its opening third, then raced too quickly to its conclusion, the pacing displayed here is spot on. By turns bleak and stirring, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix has re-awoken the delight with which I first encountered the book of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone so many years ago...

Three and a half Nimbus 2001's out of five.

Some thoughts on SLEEPING BEAUTY

The latest production from Melbourne's Malthouse Theatre is an ambitious musical reinterpretation of the traditional story of Sleeping Beauty.

It's not musical theatre in the traditional sense, there being no dialogue at all all; while the songs used to propel the story are selected from a range of existing sources, including Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' 'Deep in the Woods', Elvis Costello and David Bowie, rather than being originally written for this show.

As explained to me two weeks back by director Michael Kantor (who devised the production, together with Paul Jackson, Maryanne Lynch and Anna Tregloan) this version of Sleeping Beauty is, among other things, an attempt to explore the way fairy tales are used to indocrinate children and teach them how to behave in our society. Beauty's long sleep then, is indicative of the way in which young girls are taught that to be attractive, they must be passive; helpless until rescued by their own Prince Charming (played here by a somewhat bland Ian Stenlake, pictured above).

Had I not had this thought running through my head, I think I might have enjoyed this production more than I did. If I'd just sat back and seen a dark new variant on the old story played out on the stage, I could have just gone with the flow. As it was, I don't think the production lived up to its underlying premise.

At times, yes, it was fantastic, such as Geyer's turn as evil-stepmother/bad fairy while belting out DMX’s venomous rap song ‘Go to Sleep’ (Eminem eat your heart out), or, after interval, Alison Bell's haunting reprise of 'Deep in the Woods'. At other times, it simply felt overblown; or when the mish-mash of images and words failed to gel successfully, more rock eisteddford than professional theatre company. Someone else described it as "Barry Kosky lite" in the foyer afterwards, a sentiment which with I also concurred.

While opening-night nerves might have explained some of the mis-timed and more awkward moments of the production (such as a very flat performance of Cole Porters 'Did You Eva' by Renee Geyer and Grant Smith), some of the blame for the production's flaws must also go to Kantor and his fellow-devisers. Why, for example, did we need the whole Prince Charming-Sleeping Beauty silent, drawn-out kiss towards the end of the show, if this take on Sleeping Beauty was all about subverting and reworking the story's tropes?

The live band, playing above the main stage in a space decorated with tattered rock posters, were adequate but also failed to excite me; nor did their style of playing seem to gel with the darker, more gothic imagery presented by the production's designer, Tregloan. I would have preferred a more esoteric musical style, with more strings - violin and cello for instance - to create an eerier timbre and add an edge to the presentation of the songs.

Untimately, Sleeping Beauty struck me as ambitious but not always successful, and while I applaud the Malthouse team for the creative risks this production embodies, at the end of the night I walked away from the show dissatisfied.

(Oh, and you can read a couple of other bloggers reviews of the show here, and here.)

Coming soon...

The opening night of Sleeping Beauty...Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix...the Irishman...and more. Right now: sleep.

This is where I will be on Friday night

How about you?

Meanwhile, in breaking news...

The Irishman emailed me at work tonight totally out of the blue, having remembered from our conversation a month ago that it was my birthday around this date. We ended up catching up for a quick drink tonight and might be seeing each other again this Friday at the Glasshouse if things go to plan. Hmm, not quite sure how I feel about this, but also trying not to get my hopes up.

Clubland is mostly well acted (although Richard Wilson as the brain-damaged Mark is sometimes less than convincing, while leading man Khan Chittenden as the virginal Tim is easy on the eyes but struck me as needing a director who will push him harder) but lacks the bite and characterisation in its screenplay that would make it great. Nonetheless, this film about the sort of mother you just want to slap and her passive-aggressive relationships with her sons is honest and original. Three 'Thank god she's not my mother's out of five.

Romulus, My Father is too episodic to be truly captivating; nor is the acting from Franka Potente as Raimond Gaita's mentally ill mother convincing enough to make her character as three-dimensional as the narrative requires. A promising but flawed directorial debut from Richard Roxburgh. Two and half occasional glances at the time out of five.

INTERVIEW: Sleeping Beauty

Fractured fairy tales

Richard Watts ventures into the dark world of Sleeping Beauty, the latest production from Malthouse Theatre.

Thanks to the likes of German professors the Brothers Grimm and the Walt Disney Company, European fairy tales such as Snow White and Hansel and Gretel are today well known by adults and children alike.

Modern variants of such tales have been sanitised by time and retelling, so that their bleaker elements – cannibalism, murder and dismemberment – have been excised, or at least glossed over. Simultaneously, aspects which reinforce the status quo of male dominance and female helplessness have been left unchanged.

“I think that we still use these fairy tales to indoctrinate our children and induct them into adulthood,” explains Michael Kantor, the artistic director of Malthouse Theatre, and the director of an ambitious new production of Sleeping Beauty.

In books, films, television and advertising, the same message shines through, he suggests: that girls must be saved by a prince, not succeed on their own merits.

“Part of the process of adolescence is that girls become recessive, asleep; they are enacted on rather than enact,” he says. “That’s deeply ingrained within our culture still. You see it with the women on these huge billboards, lying back with ants crawling on them or cuddling a teddybear; it’s all the same message, that a girl is this thing to be taken, eaten, consumed, to be kissed, and it’s only through that that you’ll become the acceptable woman we need you to be.”

In his new production of Sleeping Beauty, developed in collaboration with writer/dramaturge Maryanne Lynch, production designer Anna Tregloan and lighting designer Paul Jackson, Kantor is turning such notions on their head.

“What we do is rather than let Sleeping Beauty simply sleep through her 100 years, she dreams, and she’s very active in her dreams, and clashes with all of these stereotypes and clichés,” he enthuses.

One means by which the production achieves this is through song. While not musical theatre as it is traditionally known, a diverse selection of songs informs the plot of Sleeping Beauty, including tracks by Elvis Costello, David Bowie and Billy Joel.

It was these same songs that convinced soul diva Renee Geyer to participate in the production in a leading role, despite her initial hesitance about appearing on stage.

“I've done the odd film and TV cameo [but] I’m not an actress, to most people’s surprise,” Geyer said earlier this year. “People just assume when you’re a singer that you’re an actor.”

Having stated that she would only appear in Sleeping Beauty “if the songs are my cup of tea”, once she heard them, Geyer immediately agreed.

“The song choice is extraordinary. They run the gamut from Elvis Costello to Nick Cave to Chopin,” she told The Age.

For opera baritone Grant Smith, who appears alongside Geyer in the production, songs such as Nick Cave’s ‘Deep in the Woods’ perfectly match the dark tone of the production, and of the earliest versions of fairytales such as Sleeping Beauty.

“If you read any of those early fairy stories, they really look at the dark side of life. Nowadays they’re all ‘happy-happy!’, but when these stories were first written it was all dark stuff; beware the big bad, and it’s that side of things that Michael [Kantor] is really interested in,” says Smith.

Sleeping Beauty at Malthouse Theatre, July 6 – 28. Bookings on www.malthousetheatre.com.au or 9685 5111.

INTERVIEW: Graeme Murphy

The final curtain

Richard Watts speaks with the Sydney Dance Company’s outgoing artistic director Graeme Murphy, on the eve of his departure.

After 31 years with the Sydney Dance Company, choreographer and artistic director Graeme Murphy has programmed the ‘farewell premiere season’ of his latest work, Ever After Ever, to thank Melbourne audiences for their loyalty and patronage. The production, which opens this week at the Arts Centre, consists of a new work, Short Stories, together with a ‘greatest hits’ program of extracts from some of Murphy’s most popular works to date.

“It’s an opportunity to pass a backwards glance over works that Melbourne has really embraced over the last decade or so; works that were really the pinnacle of our creative development, and to bring with it this bitter-sweet last farewell serenade to the dancers, which is Short Stories,” Murphy tells MCV.

Ever After Ever also provides Murphy with the opportunity to once again work with composer Carl Vine, who he describes as “one of Australia’s greatest treasures.”

“Carl was our resident pianist in [1978],” Murphy explains. “I can’t believe that we had one of our greatest composers playing plonketty-plonk for class; but he always said it was some of the absolute best discipline, in terms of having to be rhythmic, having to be aware of dancers and movement. He holds that period very dear, and of course that was the beginning of a long-term relationship between us.”

Working collaboratively with people like Vine has enabled Murphy to develop some of his most memorable and acclaimed dance pieces during his three decades with the company.

“It’s [the result of] a relationship that develops with time and understanding, until you get this amazing shorthand, but more than that, you get this connection, so that if you say something; and I tend to say things in poetic brevity,” he laughs dryly, “they get it, and they take it somewhere, and with confidence.”

“It’s a trust thing,” Murphy continues, “and to me, that’s been the whole basis of the period that Janet and I have been involved with Sydney Dance Company.

In 1976, the ambitious young Murphy was appointed to what was then known as the Dance Company of NSW, and entrusted with the mission of revitalising the moribund company. Ably assisted by his wife and co-artistic director Janet Vernon, Murphy did just that.

Despite their many triumphs since, last year the pair shocked many in the art world by announcing their joint resignation. They were, they said in a media statement at the time, worn down by the persistent struggle to convince federal and state funding bodies of the importance of the arts in a world where sport and war took centre stage. It’s clear that Murphy’s stance on this subject has not changed.

“I don’t think we, as a nation, are looking in the right places for our future,” he says passionately.

“I do think that we really need to look at ourselves very, very closely and say what is really important. If you do that you’ll find that great art, the survivor of all holocausts and horrors, is the one thing in history that tends to survive. Beautiful, creative, philosophical works of art, in many forms, outlive the obvious hedonistic pleasures that we all seem to be struggling and striving for.”

Sydney Dance Company’s Ever After Ever, July 7 – 14, State Theatre, The Arts centre. Tickets through www.ticketmaster.com.au or 1300 136 166.

This is not a manifesto...

This is a call to arms.

Ladies, gentlemen and genderfluids of the blogsphere, the time has come to resist the plague of Americanisms that have forced our Australian idiom to the point of extinction. It's time to fight back.

It's time to speak of mates, not buddies. Of rooting, not fucking. Of shed-u-als, not sked-yuls.

When was the last time you experienced something that was bloody grouse, or that you had a bonzer weekend? If you've been in a blue lately, did you dong the bastard? Have you been full as a tick, or full as a goog this weekend?

Who's with me?

Review: SPOOKS - Stories of haunted Melbourne

The latest exhibition at the Melbourne's City Museum at the Old Treasury Building is deeply disappointing. Confined to two cluttered rooms, with few actual exhibits and over-reliant on a series of text-heavy placards mounted on the walls, Spooks purports to document Melbourne's most haunted houses and other premises, including the Princess Theatre (home of the fabled Federici, pictured right, the ghost of a performer who died on stage, during the climax of a production Faust) and less-well known hauntings.

While the chills generated by reading tales of 'a shadowy figure that passes by office doors. As he moves his way around the building doors mysteriously open and close in progression down the long corridor...' are undeniable - especially because the ghost in question reputedly haunts the very building housing the exhibition (cue dramatic chords) - the exhibition itself lacks thrills.

The few objects on display (such as shards of pottery, a warder's truncheon from Old Melbourne Gaol, and a reproduction 19th century dress brought in to convey the visual look of a particular ghost) lack any real sense of connection to the exhibition. They also lack drama, as does the exhibition as a whole. Children will be bored by it, as the majority of textual information is both ponderously written, over-long and placed too high on the walls for kids to read comfortably; while I was both underwhelmed and disappointed. Perhaps a full moon tour of the Melbourne General Cemetary, or the Haunted Melbourne Ghost Tour might be more satisfying...?

Thanks

Thanks to all who've wished me a happy birthday, either via text or blog comments. Hugs to you all; your kind thoughts and words are much appreciated.

As birthdays go it was a remarkably subdued one: work from 8am - 5.30pm (which meant I just missed a phonecall from Kerryn in Hong Kong, dammit - hi babe!), a couple of glasses of champagne at home with Mum, and dinner - a delicious dinner - at Claypots in Gertrude Street. Bleak weather meant we scurried straight home afterwards, skipping on a movie, deciding instead to eat strawberry icecream, polish of the champagne, and watch the first episode of the 1984 British tv series The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which I just picked up on DVD. Jeremy Brett (left) was the quintessential Holmes, don't you think?

To cap it off, I was in bed by 11pm. I must be getting old. I shall make up for it tonight, at a certain cocktail party-cum-wedding I'm going to, I assure you...

Happy birthday to me

I turned 40 this morning, and of course, what with the closing of Q+A last week and a few other things on my plate, I totally forgot to organise anything special for my birthday. Instead, my mum is catching the train down from the country to take me out to dinner tonight. Whoooo, wild and crazy times!

Oh well, there's always next year...

The final curtain

If last week was the final Q+A, the tonight was the postmortem. Pete, Helen and I went out for dinner together to toast our 11 1/2 years and celebrate/remininisce. A lovely evening, but throughout it all, in my mind at least, an undercurrent of 'will we still be friends without the common bond of the workplace that has kept us all together for so long?"

I bloody hope so, and I certainly intend to ensure that we never drift apart.

And on a brighter note...

THE PM's intervention in Aboriginal affairs appears to have failed to impress voters. Coalition support has slipped, according to the latest Herald Sun/Galaxy poll.

The poll found most believe Prime Minister John Howard's interest in tackling widespread sexual abuse of Aboriginal children has more to do with the coming election than with genuine concern about the problem.

Only 25 per cent of voters believe Mr Howard genuinely cares about the issue, the poll found. And 58 per cent are cynical about the intervention, believing it has been motivated by the looming election.

Voters were asked if the PM was addressing problems in Aboriginal communities because of the impending federal election or because he really cares about the issue.

Unsurprisingly, 79 per cent of Labor voters said the election was the motivator; however, an extraordinary 29 per cent of Coalition voters also expressed cynicism about the PM's intervention.

(From today's Herald Sun - I was actually looking for something to mock when I found this story...)

This is the end...

Thursday night started with bubbles, art, and interminably long speeches (no, really - I had long enough to listen for 5 minutes, pick my way through a crowded Great Hall and foyer at the NGV in St Kilda Rd to the dunny, piss, and return while grabbing another drink on the way only to discover that the woman from the Guggenheim was still droning on. When will artsocrats realise that a short speech is a good speech?) at the opening of the second Melbourne Winter Masterpiece exhibition, the Guggenheim Collection 1940s to Now.

Given the events later that night, and the length of the fucking speeches, I didn't actually get to see much of the art, having to bail about 10 minutes after finally getting into the exhibition; so I wont go into detail about it. Let me focus on the night's other highlights instead, including lots of fingerfood (although, in retropect - you were right, Penny - the nibbles at the ACMI shindig were better); lots of booze; and the company of my housemate, as well as one of my favourite publicists, Danielle Poulos from ACMI; and fellow Barry Award judge and cynic, the sardonically wonderful Ms Helen Razor.

I'll talk about the art once I've had a chance to go back. As it happens, 10 minutes after we were finally released from speech-hell, I had to bail in order to get home and prepare for the last ever Q + A (Queer + Alternative) at A Bar Called Barry. I've already gone into the details as to why we elected to axe the night, so let me instead focus on the highlights of the night itself...

• Walking down Gertrude Street at 8.35pm, 25 minutes before we opened, and even before myself and my mate Jack rounded the corner onto Smith, hearing the buzz of the crowd;

The queue, as seen from the west corner of Gertrude & Smith about 10pm.

• Realising that, at that point, the queue was already about 300 strong and it extended a third of the block (later, I heard that the queue ran the full block, around the corner into Peel Street, for fucks!);

The queue seen again, about 11pm, at the front door: wide and very, very long.

• Freaking out that I'd never be able to get everyone inside, but being consoled by Martin, one of my oldest and dearest friends, that even thought they might not all get inside, at least the fact that people had tried was indicative of the respect people had for the weekly night Pete, John and I had set up 11 1/2 years ago;
• A text message sent by a friend and regular which said in part, "Thank you for saving my life with this place. I mean that. Seriously."
• A letter that one of our regulars gave me, which read, "I met my scariest enemies here and made my most valued friends. It was the place I found myself, became comfortable with my sexuality. I could be a man, feel like a woman or both at the same time. Above all it was the place I found the greatest love of my life..."
• A card from another couple who were long-term regulars at Q+A, which read, "I'm sure we're not alone when we say this place for good and for bad has been our trusty local. We've met some amazing people here and made some beautiful friends (and we met each other here of course). So we just wanted to say thank you..."
• The sometimes-taken for granted company of my fellow DJs and promoters, Pete and Helen, who I love dearly, and hope that the closing of the club won't mean that we slowly drift apart;
• The sense of exuberance from the crowd and the barstaff alike, and the sense of occasion;
• And finally, the sense of pride that I felt in knowing that, for all its flaws (and mine!) that for the last eleven and a half years, we had succeeded in creating a club where fashion was less important than an open-minded attitude, and where diversity was more important than exclusivity, regardless of how old you were, who you fucked, how you dressed, and what music you listened to.

It's the end of an era, that's true - but it's also the passing of the the torch onto new generations, and the flowering of new ideas; and I can't wait to see what happens next to fill the gap left by the club's closure.

Oh, and the downside of the night?

Arriving to see such a huge crowd; freaking out that we'd never be able to get everyone in; stressing out for at least the first two hours after being told that no, we couldn't ignore regulations just this once and squeeze in as many people as possible; having one of the upstairs CD players die on us just before we opened the upper bar; and being roundly abused and called a 'bastard' at the end of the night by a punter who'd had to queue for an hour and a half to get in because I'd dared to put 18 friends - who'd supported the night for years, some since opening night back in 1995 - on the door. As opposed to the 30+ people from JOY 94.9 FM who were put on the guest list by Bar Called Barry management, despite my telling JOY on Wednesday that 3-5 people would be more appropriate... Grrrr. The accusation sent me into quite a funk, to be honest, as I'm fairly insecure and it doesn't take much to have me over-analysing my every thought, but I've basically dismissed it now.

I'll admidt that, in the first half hour at least, we could have handled the queue and the guest list better - I know for a fact that a couple of people managed to lie their way in by exploiting their friendhip with a friend of mine - and I appreciate the fact that for every name on the guest list, someone else had to wait another 10 minutes in the queue. That said, I also don't feel overly guilty about making sure that some of my oldest and dearest friends, some of whom were there on our opening night at Wall Street (now the HiFi Bar) could get in ahead of people who might have only been coming to Q + A for the last two or three years.

It's depressing that all it takes is one person's abuse to make me question my ethics and the raison d'etre of the club I have co-run for the last 11.5 years. That said, it's also telling that the person in question chose to abuse me at 5:30am as I was staggering home alone...

Ah well, such is life. Here are some visual highlights from the night:

I will never understand straight men

Last night (being Saturday - yes, I'm a bit behind on my blogging) a friend who I admire for his intellect, humour and emotional intelligence (among other traits) celebrated his forthcoming wedding by holding - in conjunction with his bride-to-be, another friend, whose wit, insight and wickedness I also find delightful - their huck's night, ie a combined bucks and hens night.

In the invitation, said male friend commented that one of the reasons for having a huck's night was because he didn't want to be dragged off to a strip club by his so-called friends.

Why then, did his heterosexual male friends do just that? Why did they not only chose to ignore his stated desires, but also feel the need to publicly humiliate him (the details of which I shall refrain from describing here) by dragging him to a strip club, and subjecting him to the attendent, demeaning, bucks night rituals which are only too well known?

Was it sublimated homosexuality, ie 'we all want to see him with his gear off and this is the only way we can do it without looking like poofters in front of our mates and to ourselves'? Some kind of strange homosocial ritual that a poof like me can't help but see as dripping with homosexual connotations but which is really just some kind of hetero male bonding taken to a farcial extreme?

I don't get it, I really don't. All I know is that regardless of whether the indivudual involved was a male or female friend, bent or straight, what happened last night made me angry, and made me quite sure that whenever friends of mine get married again, what I want to do is celebrate their life and their forthcoming nuptials; not demean, mock and humilate them.

Like the title of this post says, I will never understand straight men. Will someone please explain what I'm evidently not comprehending?

PS - MrBuck or Ms Hen, should you prefer this subject not be discussed in the public realm of the blogosphere, just say the word and I'll delete this post immediately. I'm just confused, is all, and I so needed to vent... Oh, and apart from this glitch in the evening's activities? I so had an excellent time!!!

Go pixilate yourself!

It's been a busy week, and one that's been both exciting and totally draining.

As well as the by-now standard stress of putting out a new issue of MCV - this week with a fabulous cover by Dole Diary - and my weekly radio show on 3RRR, I've also been focussed on the closing night of Q + A (queer + alternative) which took place on Thursday night.

Before that, however, there were a couple of arts events I had to attend first...

On Wednesday I attended both the media launch and the official opening of Pixar: 20 years of animation exhibition at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image. Why both? Well the media launch was a much better time to actually view the work, while the evening's formal affairs was an opportunity for free booze, nibbles and networking (amongst other dignitaries, I had a chat with Richard Moore, the new director of the Melbourne International Film Festival - so hopefully he remembers me come red carpet time when I'm trying to score a quick interview for 3RRR - as well as running into an old acquintance from my role-playing days, Matt, who I haven't seen for ages and who is now the Head of School at the Academy of Interactive Entertainment here in Melbourne).

Like most launches, neither was memorable for its speeches (which included a short speech by Victorian Arts Minister Lynn Kosky, pictured above - and thanks to Simon for attending the launch with me and taking a few shots for MCV) but the exhibition itself more than made up for that.

Before seeing it I confess I'd been a bit suss - it seemed more a money-spinner for ACMI than an exhibition with serious merit, but for serious animation fans and Pixar fans alike, it's definitely going to be a winner. A detailed, behind the scenes look into the production process of making computer animated movies, the Pixar exhibition displays the level of depth and detail that goes into imagining the characters, setting and scenery of their films, such as The Incredibles and Finding Nemo. There's an array of models, production sketches, alternate character designs, films and much more on display, providing real insight into the developmental process at play for a Pixar production.

As my erstwhile housemate and +1 No-Necked Monsters has already observed, there's an amazing zoetrope at the heart of the exhibition that is the perfect encapsulation of the animation process, but there's much more to see and revel in as well. While lacking the depth of the recent Kubrick exhibition, Pixar: 20 years of animation is still bloody good fun. Give yourself about two hours to explore it in detail.

Thursday night was another opening, another 'Melbourne Winter Masterpieces' exhibition, this time at the National Gallery of Victoria in St Kilda Rd, but more of that in my next post...