Review: BEOWULF

The new animated movie BEOWULF is based on the epic 11th century poem of the same name. Like the poem it tells the story of the warrior Beowulf, a hero of the Geats, and his three epic battles against three monsters: the monstrous, murdrous Grendel; Grendel's equally monstrous mother; and, in his old age, a fearsome dragon.

Adapted for the screen by Neil Gaiman (the novelist best known for his Sandman comics for DC) and Roger Avery (whose screen credits also include Rules of Attraction and Pulp Fiction) BEOWULF is directed by Roger Zemeckis, using the same motion-capture technique he first exmployed on The Polar Express.

It's a suprising intelligent reworking of the original Anglo-Saxon poem, and although some liberties have been taken with the story (such as Beowulf becoming Hrothgar's heir and later ruling in his stead rather than returning to his own home) they're done in such a way that they feel neither contrived, nor offensive to anyone who knows the story well. Indeed, the screenplay adds a fatal flaw to Beowulf's character not present in the original epic, from which the third act of the narrative gains both a key plot point and surprising pathos; and transforming it into a true tragedy in the Greek sense of the word.

While there are scenes recalling John Gardner's 1971 novel Grendel (adapted for the screen as an animated feature, Grendel Grendel Grendel, the lugubrious Peter Ustinov voicing the unfortunate monster who narrates both book and the film alike) in which the misshapen monster is cast in an almost sympathetic light; there are scenes countering this which show Grendel as the original poem portrayed him, a "creature of evil: grim and greedy," whose attacks on the folk sleeping in Hereot, the meadhall of King Hrothgar, are savage in the extreme - though not, it must be said, unmotivated. Grendel's mother, conversely, is presented as a much more seductive creature than the skalds of old saw her. Rather than "a monstrous ogress...this water hag, damned thing of the deep", she is a sensual, seductive creature, both voiced by and styled upon Angelina Jolie.

Beowulf is voiced by Ray Winstone, King Hrothgar by Anthony Hopkins, and Hrothgar's beautiful young wife (though tragically for Beowulf, perhaps not beautiful enough) is voiced by Robin Wright Penn.

Save - oddly enough - for Winstone himself, most of these actors are recognisable as themselves, thanks to the motion capture technique used by Zemeckis (which involves filming scenes live and then digitally animating them). While the resulting characters are disconcertingly almost human, but not human enough, they're certainly more convincing than those in The Polar Express, which with their waxy skin and blank eyes looked like aliens pretending to be human, or shop dummies come to life.

The film suffers from a lack of momentum in its middle act, where the story sags a little; and it must be said that some of the dialogue is more than a little silly: as is its classicallyAmerican coyness when it comes to showing nipples on women or genitals on men. The scene where a naked Beowulf is strutting around Hereot, his cock obscured by everything from swords and candles to his best friend's forearm, is the most ludicrous example of this.

Such criticisms aside, I enjoyed Beowulf immensely, certainly more than I expected to; it's immeasurably better than the last animated epic which came along, the dire 300, thanks in part to having characters with more than one dimension who do more than shout 'This is SPARTA!' all the time.

The animation is fluid and detailed, with our point of view moving in ways a real camera never could, ensuring that there are some truly startling and breathtaking scenes on display. Seen in 3D at IMAX, the film becomes quite simply spectacular. Lurid, vivid, gory and dramatic, it also manages to convey mood and dread, atmosphere and emotion in equal measure. The film's spectacular climax, where the aged Beowulf battles a ferocious dragon, is truly one of the most stunning scenes I've seen on screen all year. Grab your popcorn, sit back and prepare to be amazed, because for all its faults, BEOWULF is one hell of a ride.

Not quite four stars, but close.

Election

Woke late. The fear and doubt that had built in me throughout Friday was gone, replaced by a 'nothing else to do but wait' mood.

Voted - no sausage sizzle, damn it. Went to Richmond, took over from KP handing out how-to-vote Green flyers at a polling booth for two and a half hours. Still no sausage sizzle. Bantered with a Liberal, kinda ignored Family First, chatted happily with Labor volunteers.

Polling booth closed; walked over to KP's house for election night party, ended up staying considerably longer than intended because bloody Howard wouldn't do the honourable thing and admit defeat early. It wasn't until 10:30pm that he appeared to tell us what we'd know for hours; that his government had been swept dramatically from power. Elation, and yet...

Last night it all felt unreal, even with Rudd claiming victory on the TV before us. Thence to Trades Hall, and a huge fuck-off-Howard party; a sweaty, drunken, happy mess of a night packed with friends and strangers and delighted, disbelieving faces.

Today, it feels even stranger. After waiting and hoping so long for a change of government, now there's a sense of - waiting? sameness? A pregnant pause? Time to see what happens next; to see what Rudd will act on in his first 100 days of power. Indigenous reconciliation? Ratifying Kyoto? Dismantling WorkChoices? Will he govern well? Radically? Badly?

The sense of joy which filled me last night has been replaced by a sense of calm anticipation, and something else; something I can't quite put my finger on.

Don't fuck it up, Kevin.

Time to usher Usher out

In an Age article today entitled 'Arts festival nearer to choosing new head', increasingly out-of-touch arts scribe Robin Usher once again displays just his reactionary outlook with the following comments in a piece about the process of appointing the next MIAF Artistic Director:

"It is understood the short list also includes Adelaide Festival's director, Brett Sheehy, who appears a more obvious choice [than Mark Yeoman].

Not only does he have vastly more experience of Australian conditions — he was director of the Sydney Festival before moving to Adelaide — but also he is more likely to return the Melbourne Festival to its traditional programming mix."

Now, forgive me if I fail to grasp your logic here, Robin - but why should a "traditional" approach to programming - which in your eyes includes opera and symphony orchestras, as you don't hesitate to suggest - make Sheehy the 'obvious choice' to take over from Kristy Edmunds?

Obvious in your eyes, perhaps, given your evident worship of hidebound artforms that have their place in the greater scheme of things; but which, to my mind at least, have little place in a festival such as MIAF, which celebrates and highlights the very best in contemporary art practice.

Usher than goes on to belittle Yeoman, currently employed at Groningen's multi-disciplinary theatre festival Noorderzon in the Netherlands, because he is the director of a "small-town" festival in a city "with a population of less than 200,000". Since when did scale have anything to do with innovative programming and artistic excellence? From a quick look at the program Yeoman put together for this year's festival, I'd say he has an intuitive and broad-ranging approach to programming; so how about we consider these candidates on their merits, instead of sneering at the size of the cities they work in, hey Robin?

One more sleep - make it count, people!

So, only one more sleep until the 2007 federal election, and our chance to vote out the morally reprehensible Howard government. Please make your vote count!

Me, I'm voting for the Greens again, but however you direct your vote, whether Labor, Democrats or Socialist Alliance; whether you vote above the line or below the line in the Senate, please don't stuff it up - and please consider voting Richard Di Natale into the Senate, to help give the Greens the balance of power in the upper house and re-install the proper system of checks and balances that our so-called democracy is supposed to have.

HOW TO FILL IN YOUR BALLOT PAPER CORRECTLY

Every Australian elector has a vote in the 2007 election, but it only counts if they fill in their ballot papers correctly.

“Electors will be given two ballot papers at the polling place, and I urge you to pay careful attention when filling them out. If you do make a mistake, please ask a polling official for another ballot paper,” said Mr Ian Campbell, Electoral Commissioner.

On the House of Representatives’ green ballot paper, electors must number all the boxes in the order of their choice of candidate. No ticks or crosses should be used, no numbers repeated and no squares left blank.

The white Senate ballot paper gives electors a choice of marking 1 in one box above the line for a party or group, or numbering all the boxes below the line for each candidate in the order or their choice.

The Australian Electoral Commision has a new online ‘How to vote practice tool’ at www.aec.gov.au to guide electors, especially those voting for the first time, on how to complete their ballot papers correctly.

Electors can find out where to vote locally with the polling place locator at www.aec.gov.au or by calling 13 23 26. The list of polling places with disabled access is also available at www.aec.gov.au or by calling 13 23 26. For more information about voting in the 2007 federal election, visit the AEC website at www.aec.gov.au or call the AEC on 13 23 26.

Plans for Saturday night

1. Good company with MsKP, Rach and others.
2. Trying not to hyperventilate.
3. ABC TV coverage.
4. Shrieking, one way or another.
5. The Greens' election night shindig in North Melbourne.
6. Huge fuck-off-Howard (hopefully) piss-up at Trades Hall bar til the wee small hours.
7. Hopefully get a celebratory root, or at least a snog.
8. Streaking optional.



Yes, I know I wrote this as a comment on RYWHM yesterday, but I'm overworked at the moment and couldn't think of anything else to write here today. So sue me. Actually, don't - I have no life savings to speak off, only a stupidly large collection of CDs by obscure indie bands and lots, LOTS of books. I could possibly spare something from my collection of 80s fantasy novels I suppose...



PS:

Review: Modern Britain 1900-1960 @ the NGV

I was, I confess, initially a bit dubious about the latest exhibition to open at the National Gallery of Victoria's St Kilda Road complex, Modern Britain 1900-1960, when I first heard about it. In retrospect, I think I was perhaps subconciously expecting a collection of bland landscapes and terribly prim portraits; a visual reflection of the "ordinary decent" Britain whose citizens and standards Joe Orton so delighted in shocking.

Instead, it's a fascinating and focussed exploration of the impact of modernist art movements such as Post-Impressionism, Futurism, Surrealism and more, and how they first assailed and ultimately swept aside the stultifying hangover of Victorian values in British art.

In many ways, Modern Britain is a companion piece to last year's NGV exhibition, British Art and the 60s from Tate Britain, which was a detailed survey of art created in the decade when the world's eye swung away from the USA and back to the Britain of David Hockney, The Beatles and The Kray Twins. Unlike that exhibition, however, Modern Britain is drawn from the collections of numerous public galleries rather than just one institution, and is perhaps the richer thereby; coloured as it is by the tastes and interests of dozens of different curators at some 20 galleries, as well as a number of private collectors.

More than 250 works, representing 93 artists, have been taken down from the walls or dusted off from where they've languished in the vaults of galleries across Australia and New Zealand; and loaned to the NGV for this broad survey of art documenting the impact of two World Wars, and much more beside.

Viewing the vibrant, post-impressionistic works of Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant; and the paintings of Walter Sickert and other artists of the Camden Town Group, who championed the legitimacy of the everyday as a suitable subject for art in 1911; it's easy to imagine how exciting and confronting such works might have seemed when first seen by audiences who'd grown up on the formal artist conventions enshrined by the Royal Academy, and the refined artifice of the Pre-Raphaelites. So too with the dynamic, Futurist-inspired linocuts of Claude Flight, Lill Tschudi and Sybil Andrews; and Duncan Grant's superb The Bathers (c.1926-33), a glorious, ambitious evocation of masculine beauty and energy.

Grouped both chronologically and thematically, it's possible to gain a sense of the impact made by successive art movements as they rolled like waves across the English Channel from the Continent, and the corresponding social changes that accompanied them. Some artists, however, sank rather than swam, as was the case with the unfortunate, conflicted and presently under-rated Glyn Philpot (1884-1937), whose work is, for me, one of the real highlights of Modern Britain.

Like a character out of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisted, Philpot's life was a struggle between his Catholicism and his sexuality; a struggle which expressed itself, in part, in his richly textured, darkly luminous portraits of Italian soldiers and other young men from the working classes (shades of E.M. Forster's Maurice and the English fascination with rough trade, a factor present in the sexual assignations of another, more successful British artist, Francis Bacon). In Philpot's case, however, there was another conflict playing out in his work, which came to a head in 1931. Exposure to the decadent world of Weimar-era Berlin, followed by a stint in Paris where he explored the work of Picasso and the Surrealists, led to Philpot embracing both his sexuality and the modernist aesthetic, with fatal consequences.

The new painterly style he displayed upon his return to England, in a controversial solo show in 1932, shocked and scandalised the London art world. His painting The God Pan was rejected by the Royal Academy, and the society commissions he depended upon dried up almost completely. The following years saw Philpot beset by financial and personal difficulties, and led to his untimely death in 1937.

From forgotten artists such as Philpot and the wartime painter Louis Duffy, to artists of the stature of Augustus Johns and Lucian Freud, the breadth of work displayed in Modern Britain 1900-1960 is truly remarkable, as well as deeply engaging. It's a vibrant, dynamic exhibition, and one that I unreservedly recommend.

Fangs for the memories

Being a 'bit' of a horror movie fan I do enjoy a good vampire movie. Sadly they're few and far between. The latest vamp flick to hit Australian cinemas, 30 Days of Night is a case in point. It's got a lot going for it, but it's still not good.

While there's a modicum of suspense, some beautiful cinematography, and some credible acting going on, its dire script really lets things down. Nor does it help that the vampires, for some unexplained reason, speak a guttural tongue that A) requires subtitles, and B) majorly reduces the ability of the actors playing the leeches to deliver their lines with anything resembling gravitas.

The plot's a cute one though: Barrow, Alaska, is the northernmost town in the USA, and each year experiences 30 days of darkness in mid-winter during which the sun never rises. It's a perfect opportunity for a pack of vampires - led by Danny Huston, pictured - to descend and feed, though they're still careful enough to cover their tracks; they also try to ensure not to turn everyone they feed on into new revenents.

(Exactly why they want to kill everyone in town without turning them into vampires is never explained - I mean, if this was a recruiting mission it would make sense; it's what they do every winter - descend on a town, feed, and increase their numbers. But nope, that's not what these bloodsuckers want. Maybe they just want to kill for the fun of it? But what do they do the rest of the year - sleep beneath the permafrost or something? These, and other questions, remain unanswered...at least in the screenplay. Something tells me the original comics the film is based on would somehow flesh out some of these details...)

Back to the plot. Our hero is Eben, the local sherrif (played an increasingly sombre, scruffy and consistently wooden Josh Hartnett) and his estranged wife Stella (Australian actor Melissa George), who band together and lead the slowly-dwindling handful of survivors as the dark days drag on. And that's about it as far as the plot goes - though the film does touch on a few moral issues from time to time, such as the question of retaining your humanity in the face of such over-whelming horror - it's a pretty light touch though, with director David Slade knowing his core audience of teenage boys doesn't want philosophy or moral conundrums; they want thrills, action and violence.

There's lots of opportunities for decapitation, mutilation, screaming, eye-strainingly-rapid jump-cuts, and furious blood-letting (although thankfully while gruesome the film is not overly graphic - torture-porn this ain't): including a great set-piece shot from above showing the degree of carnage and chaos in the town as the vampires attack en masse.

There could have been opportunities for character development and interpersonal drama beyond the superficial; but there ain't. Instead we're lumbered with expository dialogue - especially between Hartnett and George's characters - and not much else to save the film apart from the extremely active action sequences. I hoped this would be a vivid, frenetic roller-coaster ride, but instead of getting my heart-rate going, I was actually a little bored, 'cos on the genre front, it's basically an action thriller, not a tightly-wound horror movie.

So yeah, the film of 30 Days of Night is a little sucky. I might hunt down the original graphic novel instead.

Speaking of which - how good is the new Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic written by Joss Whedon? If you've been having Buffy withdrawal since the tv series wrapped up at the end of Season Seven, you'll definitely want to pick up the first six issues, which have just been reprinted in a handy collection: Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Long Way Home.

The comic is pitched as Season Eight, and pretty much picks up where the tv show ended. All the potential Slayers in the world are now actively fighting the forces of darkness, with a one-eyed Xander helping coordinate the Slayer teams from their magic-and-technology equipted HQ. Whedon's dialogue is just as sharp as ever; all the regular characters are back, including a couple of old villains you know and love; and there's some new villains on the horizon - and like The Initiative, these guys wear uniforms...

I'll definitely be keeping tabs on this series as it unfolds!

Concerning Kerouac, and 'On The Road'

'In one of the most famous, free-flowing, and deceptively careless paragraphs in his second novel, On The Road (1957), Jack Kerouac writes with disarming honesty about his relationship with ‘Dean Moriarty’ (Neal Cassady) and ‘Carlo Marx’ (Allen Ginsberg); each of whom were later to become, like Kerouac himself, central figures in the mythology of the ‘Beat Generation’:

“But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centrelight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” What did they call such young people in Goethe’s Germany? Wanting dearly to know how to write like Carlo, the first thing you know, Dean was attacking him with a great amorous soul such as only a conman can have. “Now, Carlo, let me speak - here’s what I’m saying…” I didn’t see them for about two weeks, during which time they cemented their relationship to fiendish allday-allnight talk proportions.”

In a new edition of On The Road, which reproduces Kerouac’s unedited first draft of the novel - written in a frantic three-week burst on a 120-foot-long scroll of paper in 1951 - we can read this paragraph for the first time as the author intended it; sexually frank and uncensored:

“…but then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as usual as I’ve been doing all my life after people that interest me, because the only people that interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing…but burn, burn, burn, like roman candles across the night. Allen was queer in those days, experimenting with himself to the hilt, and Neal saw that, and a former boyhood hustler himself in the Denver night, and wanting dearly to learn how to write poetry like Allen, the first thing you know he was attacking Allen with a great amorous soul such as only a conman can have. I was in the same room, I heard them across the darkness and I mused and said to myself “Hmm, now something’s started, but I don’t want anything to do with it.” So I didn’t see them for two weeks during which time they cemented their relationship to mad proportions.”

On The Road: The Original Scroll (2007) – named the after the carefully prepared roll of paper Kerouac wrote his first draft upon, which he made by taping together long, thin sheets of drawing paper - is significant for a number of reasons; not least because its publication celebrates the 50^th anniversary of the book’s original release on September 5 1957: an event heralded in its day as an ‘historic occasion’ by New York Times reviewer, Gilbert Millstein...'

Want to read more? You'll have to wait for the December issue of Australian Book Review, out later this month, which contains my entire 2,700 word essay on Kerouac's life and literature, and which argues that Kerouac should be considered a modernist prose stylist in the league of Joyce or Woolf.

Sorry to be a tease!

The Greens' Arts Policy launch this Monday

If you're free this Monday November 12, dear reader, then I'd like to extend a cordial invitation to you and your nearest and dearest to join me at the launch of the The Greens' federal arts policy, at the fabulous Horse Bazaar, 397 Little Lonsdale Street (near the corner of Hardware Lane) Melbourne.

I'll be speaking about the need for governments to properly support small to medium arts organisations, and to fund young and emerging arts organisations; and will be appearing alongsodefilm-maker Adam Elliot, the Greens lead senate candidate, Richard Di Natale, x:machine's Olivia Krang, and comedian Rod Quantock.

It all kicks off at 6:30pm Monday, and should be wrapped up by 8pm at the latest. And if the speeches are boring, you can always look at the video art!

Theatre rumours

Just had an enlightening 3/4 hour conversation with the Malthouse's Michael Kantor about the first half of his 2008 program, which frustratingly is under embargo for a few more days, so I can't write about it here just yet, damn it.

Something I can discuss, though - and I hasten to add that it's something I heard from a completely different source, several days ago, not from Michael - is a rumour concerning subscriptions for the MTC's 2008 season.

It seems that the hardcore subscriber base at the Melbourne Theatre Company are so keen to avoid purchasing tickets to see Holding The Man, based on Tim Connigrave's heartwrending memoir about gay love and loss in the early years of the AIDS crisis; that rather than buy the full 11 play subscription package for the 2008 season, many of them are buying a 9-play subscription and purchasing an additional ticket for a tenth play, which actually costs them more than the 11-play subscription.

If this is true, it's rather astonishing, and certainly says volumes about the conservative mindset of the traditional audience that poor Simon Phillips is lumbered with.

Can any of my fellow theatre bloggers shed light on this rumour; or anyone from the MTC, please? (I know some of you read this blog from time to time!)

OMG! Blade Runner: The Final Cut!

Popcorn Taxi are hosting a screening of BLADE RUNNER: THE FINAL CUT in high definition digital at The Astor next Thursday November 15. To say I am pants-wettingly excited is a serious understatement.

Anyone wanna come and see it with me?

Review: The Little Dog Laughed

One of the side effects of working as a newspaper editor, I've noticed in recent months, is that my so-called reviews on this blog have become increasingly informal. It's as if I've subconciously reacted to the nit-picking formality of editing other people's writing by deciding to have more fun with my words here.

Alternatively, I'm just getting lazy, and/or even more time-poor than before.

Such musings aside, let us turn our attentions to the latest production by Red Stitch Actors' Theatre, Douglas Carter-Beane's scathing comedy of Hollywood manners, The Little Dog Laughed.

Alex (Martin Sharpe) watches over a drunken Mitchell (Tom Wren)

Mitchell Green (Tom Wren) is a boy-next-door movie star on the brink of major fame. His power-hungry agent, Diane (Kat Stewart) sees Mitchell's career as her key to life as a big league producer, as long as she can secure him the right vehicle: namely, a hot theatrical property about a pair of gay lovers that's currently winning acolades in New York.

There's only a couple of flies in Diane's ointment: Mitchell's "slight, recurring case of homosexuality" being one; the young rent boy, Alex (Martin Sharpe) who Mitchell is beginning to fall in love with another; and Alex's sort-of-girlfriend, Ellen (Ella Caldwell), who is almost but not entirely peripheral to the main drama that unfolds over the play's 125 minute running time.

An additional complication arises later in the piece, thanks to the unseen New York playwright's insistence that his queer love story not be straightened out in order to cater to the conservative sensitivities of muliplex-flocking Middle America; providing one of the most wickedly funny scenes in the whole play.

Playwright Douglas Carter-Beane's experience as a Hollywood scriptwriter on such projects as To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar (a bland rip-off of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert) has obviously held him in good stead: his handling of this material, and a theme exploring the conflicting demands of love and success in an industry which lives on lies, is sharply and wittily observed.

Despite saving his best lines for the deliciously manipulative and openly shallow Diane, Carter-Beane also invests the character of the closeted actor, Mitchell Green, with heart and depth. Sadly, Tom Wren fails to convey the degree of desperation the role requires; rendering Mitchell bland rather than flawed and conflicted. Conversely, Kat Stewart is magnificent as Diane, revelling in her character's affected, greedy, monomaniacal world view, to the audience's obvious delight.

Ella Caldwell is the least effective of the cast, largely failing to bring her admittedly two-dimensional character to life; although director David Bell's decision to play up her peripheral role by positioning Caldwell physically at the far edge of the stage, often half hidden in a doorway, doesn't help proceedings.

Conversely, Martin Sharpe as the confused young hustler Alex is a revelation. Though his accent wasn't always convincing (indeed, it seemed at times as if all the cast were so focussed on maintaining their accents that they sometimes failed to properly act), he perfectly encapsulated the nervousness of first love and his character's complex blend of bravado and anxiety. An actor who can bring such depth of feeling to a one-word line is defintely someone to watch.

A simple set design by director David Bell and modest lighting by Matt Scott ensures that the focus is well and truly on Carter-Beane's ascerbic, insightful script. His target is the allegedly liberal Hollywood's hypocrisy when it comes to homosexuality, and the majority of his barbed jokes hit dead-centre; such as a scene where Diane explains to Mitchell that, being gay, he can't possibly play a gay role on screen:

"If a perceived straight actor portrays a gay role in a feature film, it's noble, it's a stretch. It's the pretty lady putting on a fake nose and winning an Oscar. If an actor with a 'friend' portrays a gay role in a feature film, it's boasting."

Looking beneath the play's glittering surface, however, I began to wonder about Carter-Beane's subtext.

Hollywood's double standards drive the play's plot, but what really makes it resonate is Carter-Beane's critical examination of the flexible nature of truth. That's what's really at the heart of The Little Dog Laughed, I think; the degrees of dishonesty that dominate modern life, from Diane's contractual loopholes and nooses, to Mitchell's and Alex's insistence that they're not really gay. It's not much of a stretch to see the play, perhaps, as a subtle indicment of a culture where the big lie can go unquestioned; a world where one nation can invade another nation over non-existent weapons of mass destruction.

Politics aside, there's much to recommend about The Little Dog Laughed. While not without its flaws (including Bell's occasionally slow-footed direction, which allows the pace of the play to sag when it should sparkle), it's a witty, engaging and occasionally striking piece of theatre, and another strong effort from the award-winning Red Stitch.


The Little Dog Laughed runs until November 17. Bookings on 9533 8083 or www.redstitch.net.

Festival Roundup

It's been a mad month, with Fringe segueing straight into the Melbourne International Arts Festival, and not enough time to blog about it all. As well as the shows I've already detailed on this here blog, I also managed to catch:

• an array of visual arts, from oribotics to Riceboy Sleeps.
  

• Barrie Kosky's The Tell Tale Heart, which I admired for its attempt to convey the heightened senses of the insane narrator of the original Poe story in a theatrical setting, but whose - dramatic - pauses - began to pall for me after the first half hour. Nonetheless an exquisite aesthetic experience, even though I wasn't always fully engaged.
  
  
• Laurie Anderson's Homeland, a festival commission, which washed over me in waves of haunting electronica as I struggled to stay awake in my seat. Loved her evocation of 'the Underwear Gods' - the idea of the photos of giant billboard models striding around the city - but was less enamored of her more polemic pieces, which struck me as unnecessarily strident (though I did appreciate their increased tempo, which helped me stay awake on a particularly low-energy night).

• Kinky, a band from Mexico who played at the Meat Market, bored me - sounding too much like the Red Hot Chili Peppers in their opening songs, so I left; going instead to the Arthouse to see a new punk band before pushing on to a debauched and dissolute warehouse party in Abbotsford, hurrah!

• And closing the festival with Merce Cunningham's Program B, which featured as part of its program the long-awaited Split Sides, featuring vivid, beautiful dancing; a Radiohead score for half the work, and also a live score by Sigur Ros. Oh bliss! Oh joy! Oh rapture! I'm not going to go into a long and detailed review here, as sadly I don't have time, being at work and all (and also because I have to juggle several other committments today, including my Fringe hat, RRR and a few other things into the bargain) but god it was good, from the costumes and set, through to the palpable buzz in the audience the moment Cunningham himself and guests appeared on stage to randomise the presentation of the post-interval performances.

It's been an extremely enjoyable festival for me; though coming hot on the heels of Fringe means I'm always a little art-ed out by this time of year; too much of a rich diet can sometimes spoil your appetite (which is why I've been sitting at home the last couple of nights watching Hollywood action-trash as an antidote; the Transformers movie and the first Resident Evil if you must know - both of which don't translate well to the small screen, it must be said).

I also managed to catch the opening night show by La Clique at The Famous Spiegeltent on Sunday night, in the company of a Hibernian mate who'd never seen them before, which was an added thrill - there's something about glancing sideways at someone's wide-eyed delight which I find quite inspiring: a vicarious thrill which adds to my own already delighted enjoyment of proceedings.

The new acts to join the show this year aren't especially memorable, though there was some utterly sublime aerial work on show, some clever puppetry, and an amusing spot of juggling; and of course, bathtub boy David O'Mer (pictured above) is still as hot as ever... but La Clique is still a great night out, even if you have seen it before: it's fast, funny, risky and risque; and above all, damn entertaining.

But now it's back to my usual routine, and my normal life, in the absence of Melbourne Fringe and the Melbourne International Arts Centre. Not that my normal life is at all drab and grey, of course: coming up in the next few days I'm going to try and see the latest production from Red Stitch, a Hollywood farce called The Little Dog Laughed; and also Melburnalia, five short plays by Melbourne writers including Lally Katz and Tee O'Neil about life in different aspects of Melbourne, staged at 45 Downstairs by White Whale.

Then there's the Festival of Jewish Cinema opening next week, with a live score for the silent 1920 masterpiece The Golem...

It never stops - for which, of course, I am utterly thankful. Here's to art!!

My one-man war

Two of my more eccentric habits are my deeply-ingrained loathing of ticket inspectors on trams, and my tendency to goad them at every available opportunity.

For those readers not from Melbourne, let me briefly digress. Once upon a time, trams had individuals on board known as conductors, or connies. As well as selling you your ticket, they would assist tourists with directions; help the elderly, infirm or pregnant on or of the tram; and provide a vague sense of security when travelling late at night.

Then, one day, in the name of economic rationalism, the state government did away with conductors, because they weren't cost effective.

Since then we're have non-cost-effective scratchy tickets introduced (whereby you were supposed to scratch off the silver gunk covering the date and hour of your journey to demonstrate how long yout ticket was valid for; not exactly practical if you carry your spare tickets in your purse or wallet, where they chafe and rub and flake); non-cost-effective ticket machines, which saw fare evasions skyrocket; and then, the non-cost-effective (significant) increase of the number of ticket inspectors patrolling our trams.

When I saw our trams, of course, I mean their trams ( as in the 'They' that everyone talks about when they say that 'Well, they say...") because 'our' trams were long since privatised; sold out from under our feet to private companies who now operate our so-called public transport system.

In other words, in order to save money by sacking all the connies, the government - and now the private sector who own our privatised public transport - have massively increased the numbers of ticket inspectors. Saving money by hiring loads more people to replace the people you sacked. I don't quite get it...

End of digression. Back to the story.

Ever since the Kennett Liberal Government sacked the conductors, I've been carry out my own private guerilla war against the existing system, and especially against tickets inspectors. It's the reason why I've amassed numerous unpaid fines in the intervening years, which probably means my credit rating is shot to hell, but then again, I'm not exactly planning to apply for a mortgage at any time soon.

Tonight, I confronted a group of ticket inspectors who were blocking one of the doors of the tram I was travelling home on. It's exactly the kind of inconsiderate act that pisses me off at any time, but when it's a group of ticket inspectors it's even worse. Had the shoe been on the other foot, and it been a group of young people standing in the doorway, you can bet the mob - because that's what ticket inspectors are, a cowardly mob of thugs and bullies who travel en masse and use their numbers to intimate - these very same inspectors would have been lecturing and abusing and fining.

Instead, they laughed and joked among themselves, and when I harrangued them, they claimed that they'd move aside for anyone who asked them to move, despite the fact that I'd just witnessed them stand unmoving when the doors open, forcing people to thread their way slowly and awkwardly through them - and as if people who are already intimidated by thugs in uniform are going to demand anything of them!!

Which is another reason I hate ticket inspectors, who in my opinion are way lower even than parking inspectors: because they've been granted the power to forcibly detain suspected fare evaders until the police arrive. They're people in the employ of private corporations who have been granted police-like powers. If that's not an erosion of civil rights, what is?

So, I've declared a one-man war on tricket inspectors on trams and I invite you to do the same.

When you see them acting objectionally, intervene: especially if you're an adult and you witness a pack of inspectors bullying and frightening a young person. Take down their badge numbers. Dob the bastards in.

When they demand to see your ticket, do what I do: refuse to show your ticket until they say the magic word: and when they get angry and even more demanding, ask to speak to their immediate superior - there's usually a queen or king bee travelling with the uniformed drones - and sweetly explain that, had the thug in question simply been polite enough to say 'please may I see your ticket', you would have happily shown them your ticket on the spot.

Cause them trouble. Make their lives as difficult as they make ours. Don't give the fuckers an inch. And remember - the next time you stand up against their authority, you're setting an example that your fellow passengers will remember - and as I did tonight, you'll find yourself sharing a conspoiratorial glance and a smile with another public transport user who you've just inspired with the idea of passive resistance.

On listening to Sigur Ros' Hvarf-Heim

If you know me, whether it's because we've been friends for years or from occasionally reading this blog, or from listening to SmartArts on 3RRR; you'll know that the music of Iceland's Sigur Rós moves me to tears of joy. Right now I'm listening to a preview copy of the band's new album Hvarf-Heim, and loving it. (Thank you EMI, and no, I promise I won't burn it and distribute it to the world via the net: I lack the technical skills to do so even if I wanted to!).

The album, which is released in November, is an aural accompaniment to the band's concert film, Heima, which is screening at The Forum this Sunday; and which is a documentation of a two week tour Sigur Rós took around Iceland last year that featured both grand scale concerts and intimate gigs for friends and family. If you go to see the film on Sunday, you'll also see the band playing a short accoustic set and doing a Q+A with fans; following on from the live performance of Ba Ba Ti Ki Di Do, accompanying the Merce Cuningham dance troupe, they're performing as part of MIAF the previous night.

Hvarf ('Disappeared') consists of five (mostly) previously unrecorded tracks: 'Salka'; the gorgeous 'Hljomalind'; 'I Gaer'; the title track of their first album, 'Von'; and the live favourite 'Hafsol', previously released as a B-side on the 'Hoppipola' single.

Heim ('Home') is a series of six intimate, still beautiful but less orchestrated versions of tracks I know and love: 'Samskeyti', 'Staralfur' (which I'm listening to right now, loving the track's rich keyboards), 'Vaka', 'Ahaetis Byrjun', 'Heysatan' and 'Von', again. In many ways these songs are even more remarkable than the band's usual, life-affirming concerts; there's a subdued beauty to them that highlights the tenderness of Jonsi's voice, the vibrancy of the music; the throbbing sweep of emotions contained within each song.

Look, it's a fucking beuatiful album, ok? And you can read more about it, the band, and Heima here, in the UK newspaper The Guardian. And if you're a fan of the band, please leave a message: myself and a mate, Darren, are going to the gig on Saturday night, and I hope to get along on Sunday as well: maybe we can meet up for an impromptu Sigur Rós appreciation society drink before or after the shows?

Wonderfully wicked

I saw, without doubt, not only my absolute MIAF highlight on Monday night, but also the most wonderfully wicked cabaret show I've ever witnessed: Kiki and Herb: the Year of Magical Drinking; at North Melbourne's Meat Market Arts House.

Kiki is an aging, alcoholic chanteuse; Herb her equally withered pianist and straight-man - an irony given that both are gay men; performed respectively by vocalist Justin Bond (who may perhaps be familiar to you from John Cameron Mitchell's superb Shortbus) and pianist Kenny Mellman.

Part of the point behind the duo's performance is to demonstrate that cabaret need not be stuck in the first half of the 20th century: as demonstrated with versatility, pathos, wit and flair last night, a medly of Velvet Underground songs, and the songs of Jarvis Cocker and Kate Bush have just as much resonance as Piaf or Brecht - and perhaps, for modern audiences, even more relevance.

Equally, though, the pair delight in skewering and satirising the cliches of cabaret, such as a wonderful routine where an alcohol-sodden Kiki staggered around the stage trying to embody the sinuous sexuality of a panther, with a definite, naughty nod to the likes of an aged Eartha Kitt beyond her prime. Mreeow! Just as Judy Garland turned into a tragic travesty, Kiki slurs, staggers and swears beneath the spotlights; in between joking about rape, child abuse ("I always say, if you weren't abused as a kid, you must have been one hell of an ugly child!") and Hitler. Herb, meanwhile, mutters and giggles at the keyboard. Both rise to the occasion when levity is no longer required, twisting laughs into gasps of admiration and disbelief as they take a song like The Eagles' 'Hotel California' and turn it into a magnificently melancholic gothic melodrama.

They were also capable of deliciously dark wit; jokes that teetered on the edge of totally wrong (such as Kiki's comment about Qantas loosing her luggage, only to find her suitcase floating in a Sydney pond a few days later, the body of a dead toddler contained within: looking around I saw smiles sag into sickly frowns, and convulsions of laughter transform into cross-armed frowns at such a point, while elsewhere in the room others shrieked with mirth).

I hooted, I giggled, and I was moved to tears at various times throughout the night. Had I been more financial I would have raced off to the festival's Artists' Lounge after the show in the hope that Bond and Mellman might have materialised, so that I shower them with praise and alcohol. Instead, together with Josh, and my poor tired housemate, who fell asleep on more than one occasion at our table while steadfastly claiming afterwards he enjoyed the show, I walked home through the darkened streets of Melbourne-town, thence to bed; a wry and wicked smile still flickering about my lips when I thought about what I'd just heard and seen.

For presenting such a magnificently macabre and magical evening as part of your third festival, Kristy Edmunds, I salute you - and I shall kiss you the next time I see you!!

‘Brokeback’ sequel rumour quashed

A flurry of rumours about a sequel to the multi-award winning Brokeback Mountain have been quashed following a denial from the studio that made the film.

Britain’s OK! Magazine last week claimed that Australian actor Heath Ledger was in negotiation to reprise his role as closeted cowboy Ennis Del Mar, in a sequel to the acclaimed film about two star-crossed lovers in the American Midwest.

“It will follow the nasty process of being openly gay in 1963 Wyoming,” the magazine quoted an insider as saying.

“Not true,” a representative for Focus Features, which produced Brokeback Mountain, has told PerezHilton.com, an infamous celebrity gossip website.

The 2005 film, which co-starred Jake Gyllenhaal, is ranked eighth among the highest grossing romantic-dramas of all time.

Wonderful whimsy

Daniel Kitson blew me away earlier this year with his Barry Award-winning comedy festival show, It's the Fireworks Talking, and I'm delighted to report that his MIAF show C90 is equally delightful, although somewhat less frenetic than his stand-up gigs are want to be.

In the company of the lovely MsKP, freshly returned from her replenishing stint in Queensland but still not blogging much (the curse of Facebook, perhaps?), we wandered down into the bowels of the Arts Centre, and into the intime confines of the Fairfax Studio. Even this small space is almost too large for this show, which would have worked best, I think, at somewhere like the Tower Theatre at the Malthouse, or even The Store Room, but thankfully our seats were well situated, so this didn't really impact on our evening.

The premise of the show is a simple one: Kitson plays Henry Leonard Bodley, the about-to-retire-today librarian of a library of mix tapes, which no-one makes any more thanks to digital equipment, making Henry's job redundent. Kitson also plays a range of people in the village in which the librarian lives, all of whom have their own unique quirks and traits, strange yet totally believeable eccentricities, such as baking cakes to feed to birds, or always addressing people by their full name - middle name included.

The arrival of two mysterious packages at Henry's work is the catalyst for a story of change and renewal which had me grinning with pure, simple glee as the production unfolded. Gradually, as Kitson intercuts between the various characters, we begin to build up a sense of community, of concern, of the value of joy in our lives, and of the delight that compassion and engagement with those around us can bring to ourselves and others.

As with Kitson's stand-up shows, elements which seemed at first to be throw-away references in the opening moments of the show are later seen to be incredibly significant: Kitson's seemingly meandering path proves to be an elliptical journey that ends with the audience so much more enriched for the experience.

Clever, warm-hearted, and whimsical without being twee, Kitson's C90 was a gentle yet thoroughly satisfying delight. I'm so glad I saw it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go bake a cake for the birds...

Sporadically Sublime

"Sporadically sublime" is the phrase I've been using to describe my Melbourne International Arts Festival (MIAF) 2007 experience so far, as well as some of the specific events I've seen at MIAF; so I figured I may as well kill two Andrew 'lesbians ruined my festival' Bolts with one stone and use the phrase as the title of this blog post as well.

Those readers who feel compelled to point out that, as a writer and commentator, I should perhaps be more able to coin multiple phrases rather than overusing the one, will be politely directed towards the fact that I'm simultaneously:

• Trying to write a 2500 essay about Jack Kerouac's contribution to modernist literature while seeing as much of MIAF as I can;
  
• Juggling the demands of my day job as a newspaper editor;
  
• Chairing the Arts Development: Creation funding panel at Arts Victoria over the last couple of days (I'm sworn to secrecy about the outcomes of the meeting and which applicants will receive funding, of course: bribes should be presented in increments of $1000);
  
• Looking for a new General Manager at Melbourne Fringe while wearing my Chairman of the Fringe Board hat; and,
  
• Contemplating the fourth draft of my novel after letting it simmer away at the back of mind for the last couple of months.

God, I'm exhausted just reading all that. No wonder I was crawling into bed by 9pm for the first few nights of the week this week.

Anyway, given that this post is supposed to be about my experiences at MIAF to date, rather than me justifying the paucity of my words in this particular blog entry, I suppose I should get on with it, shouldn't I?

Due to the usual chaos which is my life (see above) and a slight bout of festival burnout post-Fringe, I haven't been MIAFing as frenetically as I'd planned, but fear not gentle reader - those events I've been unable to attend have not seen my tickets wasted, thanks to the joy of SMS technology and a direct line to the festival publicity office...

But enough late-afternoon three-hours sleep brain-wandering waffle: ART!


We begin, gentle reader, with the opening night of the festival proper, last Thursday (yes, I know I'm behind in posting, I am trying to catch up, ok?) and the opening night of Robert Wilson and Bernice Johnson Reagon's The Temptation of St Anthony, which was followed by an excellent opening night party at the Melbourne Town Hall, which I sadly left relatively early due to work committments the next day.

I'm not here to review the nibbles and drinkies and conversations though (which Born Dancin' used to do before his blog got all high-falutin' and/or surreallistically You-Tubey) but to discuss the show. So I'll try - and without many more of these tangential asides, which are starting to get quite silly.

Based on Gustave Flaubert's story of the ascetic St Anthony, whose travails have also been illustrated by the likes of Hieronymous Bosch, among other medieval artists; and who believed that isolation is the truest form of worship, this was a rich, luscious production in which the subtle grandeur of the cathedral-nave-like set contrasted beautifully with evocative lighting, costumes and sound. Using gospel music to highlight the battle between faith and reason struck me as a delightful conceit, although I was less taken by the staging, which felt somewhat old fashioned in the way that the performers were arrayed: almost clumsily or awkwardly blocked. It's a stylistic thing of Wilson's, I know, but it left me unthrilled.

This was the first production at MIAF I described as 'sporadically sublime', because there were moments of truely transcendent beauty on display; at other times, due to the lack of a defined narrative and my lack of familiarity with the story, I drifted, letting the show sweep over me rather than focussing upon its details. In short, I was occasionally engaged, once or twice transported, but also a little restless at various times.

And did I mention the party?

Farewell to Fringe

Saturday night saw the closing night party and artists' awards for The Age 2007 Melbourne Fringe Festival, at which good times were had by all. I called it a night at approximately 6am Sunday, and trudged happily home; I didn't crawl out of bed until 3pm that afternoon, and was fast asleep again by 9pm Sunday night. I've still been catching up on sleep the last two nights.

Saturday evening saw me take it my final show, in the company of a couple of friends; a tribute to Tom Waits (right) at Abbotsford's Terminus Hotel called The Piano Has Been Drinking...

Less a cabaret, more a cover band, but not a bad job at all. The band were tight, if a little conservative in their instrumentation by Waits' own standards (where was the person playing a giant seed pod when you needed it?) and the singer could perhaps have smoked an entire pack of cigarettes and gargled a bottle of whiskey before coming on stage to get that wonderfully raspy quality Waits has, but even so, they caught some of his wit, wisdom and compassion in a range of songs drawn from both old and newer albums.

The Piano Has Been Drinking: Three stars
Season concluded

So that was my adventure in Fringeland this year; some 15 shows (not including a few art exhibitions I saw, which I haven't had time to blog about here seeing as I was a performance judge and so mostly focused on that category; only one of which I walked out of. Not a bad strike rate at all!

No official word yet on final audiences figures and ticket sales, but I'll be willing to wager that both have gone up; certainly from my perspective it seemed a highly successful festival indeed.

Now, on into MIAF!