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Films of 2011 Top Ten - 10-1

2011-12-30T18:12:00.000-08:00

And now, the end is here. And so I face the final curtain. On the final day of 2011 when everybody’s either in a reflective, nostalgic mood or angrily cynical about everyone else being in a reflective, nostalgic mood, I count down my ten favourite films I saw this year. Just a reminding qualifier: these are not films that came out this year. In fact, of the films that came out this year or late last year, we will finish them off very quickly, as I head into...

#10. The King’s Speech (2010, Tom Hooper)

So I can reveal that my favourite film that came out this year - be it a hangover release from a 2010 production that, as usual, we received in theatres months and months after the rest of the world, or a prelude to films that will actually come out here in 2012 but that I managed to see on a totally legitimate online streaming site – was The King’s Speech. To be a bit unfair to the film, it is very typical Oscars bait, characteristic of so many prestige productions of the last twenty years, but in its defence, it is the first truly great example of Oscars bait in a good, long while. Colin Firth (masculine swoon) puts in a magnificent performance as the proud but nervously stammering George VI, while Geoffrey Rush and Helena Bonham Carter are excellent in support. Tom Hooper directs with immense flair, blending pathos and comedy to create an enthralling story that is both a political narrative and very personal drama. Overall I found it a very uplifting, humanist take on a key figure of the twentieth century, and it richly deserved all the accolades and awards it won.

#9. The Dark Knight (2008, Christopher Nolan)

I think I gave a spoiler about five posts ago that this film was coming up at some point, and while I hate to be a predictable film buff who raves about how brilliant this film is... well, shit off, it’s a masterpiece. I’m not a fan of comic book movies on principle, but I think this is as close as we will ever come to being able to disengage the comic book superhero aspect from the story. The rich ensemble cast is regathered, although Katie Holmes inexplicably morphs into Maggie Gyllenhaal (to everyone’s benefit), and Aaron Eckhart is added along with the late and totally great Heath Ledger, whose performance as the Joker set a new benchmark for creepy villainy. Earlier I said that Jack Nicholson didn’t float my boat in the same role, almost because there was something self-conscious about that that led to disbelief. Ledger here puts in such an idiosyncratic portrayal that remains so deplorable and mysterious that it will continue to haunt and influence this, and other franchises like it. Again, though, the real master at work here is Nolan who has exquisitely carved out a dark morality tale that probes our notions of good and evil, and becomes so much more than just a comic book film.

#8. Oldboy (Oldeuboi, 2003, Chan-wook Park)

Apparently South Korea is the new powerhouse of classy world cinema, although this film is the only one of their recent spree of form that I’ve managed to catch. This highly stylised, violent and captivating film harks back to ancient traditions of revenge tragedy, punctuated with ultra-modern frenetic editing and an ominous aesthetic of despair. Despite its far-fetched premise – man is imprisoned for fifteen years in a small room for no reason and just as suddenly let out into the world – the film manages to twist and contort the continuum of past, present and future into weird, unexpected tangles, but comes out the other end with a coherence that only drives home the impact of the story. Min-sik Choi is spellbinding, brooding and menacing in the lead role, and the immense expressiveness of his face is a key part of Park’s overall aesthetic. At times the film seems jumpy and off-putting, but the huge cathartic payoff at the film’s climax makes it all worthwhile. Crazy film, but crazy good.

#7. City Lights (1931, Charles Chaplin)

From extravagant revenge tragedy to slapstick-based comedy, City Lights nevertheless manages to fulfil an equal spot in the far-fetched premise stakes: Chaplin’s ubiquitous tramp is befriended by an eccentric rich drunk who recognises him when intoxicated but forgets him each morning as he sobers up. Meanwhile the tramp becomes besotted with a beautiful blind flower girl and endeavours to help her in any way he can. What makes this film such a delight is, firstly, unlike a lot of silent film, it is less a set of Vaudevillian sketches, and while it has some classic moments, it just follows a straight path of story and the comedy, physical and otherwise, is all in service of the sweet romantic plot. It’s probably the most accessible of Chaplin’s films to modern audiences, not just because it is genuinely funny, but because the timeless love story is both relatable and very touching.

#6. Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949, Robert Hamer)

This dark comedy masterpiece probably provided the most laughs of any film I saw this year. Combining a withering British wit with an engaging revenge story, it tells the story of the bitter, disinherited aristocrat Louis Mazzini, who vows on his mother’s death to regain his rightful place in nobility. How? Why, of course, by murdering all those who stand between him and the D’Ascoyne inheritance. If, like me, you think of Sir Alec Guinness as Obi-wan Kenobi who may or may not have already been an established British star of stage and screen, you simply must watch this. Guinness is gifted a chameleonic role as all the members of the D’Ascoyne family and the spirit and charisma he injects into each one is a treat to watch. Dennis Price is beautifully sardonic as the coldly plotting Mazzini, and there is a superbly dry, mannered British quality both to his role as narrator and to the way he executes his master scheme. I did have one quibble with the ending but I’m happy to shrug it off; this is a clever, genuinely hilarious film.

#5. Roman Holiday (1953, William Wyler)

So from the darkly comic to the romantically comic. This film probably has the spot it does through our old friend the expectations. That’s not to say I was anticipating my not enjoying this film, but rather that it manages to keep so many tricks up its sleeve, and deftly avoids all the clichés as it navigates through otherwise familiar territory. Audrey Hepburn is sweet and pretty as Princess Ann who decides on a whim to escape the shackles of her royal protocols and go on a bit of bender in Rome. While there she meets down-on-his-luck journalist Joe Bradley – the very dapper Gregory Peck – who with his garrulous photographer buddy soon realises what a story he has on his hands. For the most part, the story follows an amusing arc of hijinks that is ultimately a bit pedestrian, but when we think we know where it’s heading, it pulls out its trump card and reveals itself to be very sophisticated in its narrative structure. Without giving too much away, the moment when Joe reveals his true identity to the Princess is one of the most heartwarming moments captured on film, not just because it’s sweet but because it’s also sad, and not in any way trite. I’m extremely grateful that the film refuses to cop to any of the audience’s wishes – secret or otherwise – for a sunset-ride ending, and it is so much more satisfying and enjoyable as a result.

#4. Grave of the Fireflies (Hotaru no Haka, 1988, Isao Takahata)

In spite of the fact that I’ve discussed many a crushingly depressing film on this countdown so far, I’ve tried to avoid the hyperbole of calling anything ‘the most depressing thing, ever, in the history of anything’. The reason is that that title belongs indisputably and irrevocably to Grave of the Fireflies. The story of two orphaned children trying to live out the final days of world war II in Japan, it gives me cathartic chills of pathos just thinking about it. Since the film begins with the older of the two children, Seita, collapsing in despair in a busy train station saying “that was the day I died”, I don’t think it’s a spoiler to mention that the story doesn’t end happily. However, there is a beauty in the totality of its tragedy, as it opens our eyes to the bleakness and hopelessness of war. It is a credit to this film’s sheer brilliance that I forgot I was watching animation, and a dubbed version thereof, and was just swept along on a wave of raw emotional power.

#3. In Bruges (2008, Martin McDonagh)

Right. Need to reset myself into silly-comedy mode. Again I feel I’m just late to the In Bruges party, but it slipped so stealthily under the radar of non-independent non-cult comedy when it was first released, yet managed to hang onto a reputation that is richly deserved. One of the smartest and funniest films of the past few years, it’s a darkly comic crime caper with a bit of a morality twist. What it achieves, firstly, is a quotability to match Tarantino at his best, with a delightfully coarse Colin Farrell as good as he could ever be. His challenge is met by a sweet, funny Brendan Gleeson, and although the two Irish lads are as entertaining company as you’d hope for, there was a big surprise waiting in the wings for halfway. Having Ralph Fiennes appear only halfway through the film is like having Lionel Messi on the bench to come on at half-time, and in cockney gangster form is brilliant. Although the film had me in love all the way through, I have to say I am a sucker for a story with a whole lot of complex threads that manages to dovetail them all by the conclusion. When all the little parts of this film came together in an explosive manner at the climax of this film, it was all I could do to stop from applauding like a lunatic, while sitting at my desk in a quiet office. I just loved it.

#2. Man on Wire (2008, James Marsh)

I’m obviously not someone who believes you shouldn’t judge documentary and non-documentary films together. I’m also keenly aware that two films from 2008 have squeezed into my top three. Will there be a third? From the moment Michael Nyman’s hauntingly beautiful Fish Beach starts playing at the start of Man on Wire, I was enamoured with this film. The story of tightrope walker Philippe Petit’s quest to walk between the two buildings of the World Trade Center [sic] in 1974, this part-biography part-crime film is magic in its pure essence. Petit’s flamboyant, impish personality is the star as he gesticulates and expostulates all about his love of the tightrope, and how he feels the WTC towers were meant for him to cross them. This is also a tense, exhilarating story with the suspenseful feel of a heist caper as it recreates Petit and his crew of conspirators managing the subterfuge that would find Petit suspended a mile in the air above a busy New York sidewalk during the morning rush hour. The culmination of the act is spine-tingling and awe-inspiring, but what makes the film yet further impressive and effective is the unspoken tragedy that befell those twin structures 27 years after the fact. Marsh’s decision not to mention or reference 9/11 was a brilliant one artistically, as the film is far more emotional as a result of what is not said. For fans of this film (i.e. everyone who’s seen it, come on), I also heartily recommend checking out Kurt Andersen’s excellent interview with Marsh and Petit on Studio 360. Although they basically just explain everything I just said anyway, it’s a great indictment of what a magnificent piece of filmmaking this is.

And so that moment is here... should we take an ad break? Well, drum roll maybe...

#1. Ran (1985, Akira Kurosawa)

There are good films, and there are great films, and then there are those films that take your breath away with the breadth of their mastery. Ran is one of those films, to the point where, while I was watching it in my lounge room one evening, I had to turn off all the lights and put my mobile out of reach, so I had nothing to distract me while I watched. It’s known as Kurosawa’s retelling of King Lear, although according to Wikipedia he came up with the idea organically, before the similarities were pointed out to him. As full disclosure I should say that I, like the Romantic critics, believe King Lear to be the pinnacle of Shakespeare’s achievements but, like William Hazlitt, believe that performance of the play engineers a necessary diminishment of emotional power. What Kurosawa achieves with Ran is not only a conservation of the emotional power of the story, but a rich, complex morality tale that King Lear itself could aspire to. A couple of key artistic decisions where the stories diverge are crucial to Ran’s monumental brilliance. Firstly, although I had immense fun playing Edmund in our school production in 2000, the Edmund/Edgar/Gloucester sub-plot has always seemed to be little more than a sub-plot and ultimately a distraction from the main story. It is completely absent here. Secondly, he portrays Hidetora, the king at the centre of the action here, as a former despot and tyrant (with remnants of his reign of terror lingering in disfigured human form), and so his tragic fall from grace has a poetic and cathartic resonance to it that excels the success of any other previous portrayal of the story. The heirs to Hidetora are sons here, not daughters, which is in some ways an arbitrary decision, but the conflict between the two eldest that ensues as their ambitions (and that of the relevant women involved) outweigh their blood loyalty to each other as brothers becomes the driving force and emotional crux of the film. The fulcrum sequence in the middle of the film, when the warring factions clash and Hidetora is caught in the crossfire, is possibly the most epic and mesmerising ten minutes I’ve seen on film. The sight of a psychologically cracked and broken down old man trudging slowly through two immense armies that part in shock before him, while his safe keep burns behind him, is the most striking and resonant image of the film. It also manages to adumbrate the enormous scale and scope of Kurosawa’s vision, of the destructive and explosive potential of human ambition and the lust for power. Although those minutes alone could account for Ran’s position as my favourite film I saw this year, every second of this masterpiece is just one piece of an enormous, psychologically weighted jigsaw.

And on that note, I wish you all a happy and hearty new year, and raise my glass to more and more movie-watching in 2012. I will be back in a day or two to run down – and trash – all the films considered unworthy of making the top 100 cut, but for all intents and purposes, that is the end of my top 100 countdown.

As a PS, I just noticed that with the exception of the ineligible Man on Wire, all of my top ten are also on the IMDb's top 250. How conformist of me.

Films of 2011 Part 9: 20-11

2011-12-30T02:28:00.000-08:00

And we crack the top twenty. How exciting! This is a feasible point where normal, ordinary people who don’t have too much time on their hands may have commenced this countdown. I think I said something similar in my last post, but basically, if you want to ignore everything I’ve said up to this point and regard this as simply a ‘top 20 films of 2011’ feel free to. But alternatively, all my other film reviews were worthwhile as well, weren’t they?

*Crickets*

#20. Children of Men (2006, Alfonso Cuarón)

Again, I was very much simply late to this party. What’s more, I went into watching this with a certain degree of scepticism, because it just sounds like one of those films I would like, largely because of my famous love of dystopias. Having said that, a work of dystopian art has to be really well constructed to fly within my radar, so this film’s cracking my top 20 should indicate that, yes, this is really well constructed. For the most part I did find myself a little wearied by the sullen and depressing tone of the film, but the thrill-ride chase sequences allow it not to get bogged down in introspective miasma. While I hate to elevate a film’s status due to a particular sequence, there is a ten-or-so minute sequence late in the film, where Clive Owen is trying to find his pregnant ward through a bombed-out tenement while opposing factions of a civil war are caught in each other’s crossfire, and you sit there mesmerised through this brilliant sequence... and then it strikes you about halfway through that not only is it gripping cinematography but it’s all one long fucking tracking shot. But it’s not a standalone great part of an otherwise average film, just a breathtaking moment that elevates an otherwise very impressive film.

#19. Notorious (1946, Alfred Hitchcock)

Given how often I’ve mentioned Ingmar Bergman in this list (a full twice), it’s about time his namesake Ingrid got some love here. This is the first and only Hitchcock to make this list, probably because I’ve seen most of his major works prior to 2011, but it’s up this high for a reason. I think that of all his films, this one manages to blend genre the best, and can be enjoyed equally well by fans of spy-thrillers and fans of romantic comedy, and for the same reasons. The chemistry between Bergman and Cary Grant is beautiful, and there are so many hilarious moments here where one or other of our protagonists is acting out of wounded pride or feigned apathy, where in an ordinary setting one would want to crack their head against a wall for their stupidity. Here, though, set against a backdrop of an undercover mission to bust a ring of drug smugglers, it works electrifyingly well, and the dichotomies of love/loss and life/death are brought to their most satisfying conclusion – I would say more so than in North by Northwest. This is up there with Hitchcock’s finest and newly among my favourites.

#18. Raising Arizona (1987, Joel & Ethan Coen)

Although Joel is solely credited on IMDb with directorial duties here, I’m going to fall into that critical camp of just lumping the Coen brothers together with everything. I seemed to have had an unofficial catch-up with the Coens this year, even though I never made a big thing of it, and this one was a great highlight of the year. Falling more into their comic file, this simple premise of two white-trash lovers – one an ex-cop and one an ex-criminal - who are failing to conceive a child out of their love is taken into customary Coen territory when they decide to steal a baby from a couple who just happen to have nine newborns of their own. Remember in my discussion of True Grit how I mentioned my theory of their films falling into two camps? This one obviously falls into the ‘one person dies, and that person is a testosterone-soaked renegade avenger caricature’ variety, and that particular circumstance could only feasibly exist within the twisted universe of the Coens. This film wins because it is told with such loving and endearing humour, and because Nic Cage and Holly Hunter are just so simply charismatic.

#17. Festen (1998, Thomas Vinterberg)

On the subject of loving, endearing humour and charismatic characters, look no further than this hilarious Danish teen-sex romp. The more insightful among my readers will have spotted a couple of outrageous lies in that last sentence: basically everything except ‘Danish’ and ‘teen-sex’ only maybe replace ‘sex’ with ‘rape by father’. To the faint-hearted and easily shocked, I can think of more pleasant ways to spend two hours than in the company of the family who gather in Festen to celebrate their patriarch’s sixtieth birthday. One example of a more pleasant way would be the two hours following the act of hacking off your nipples with secateurs. However, for those who, like me, at least appreciate a harrowingly depressing and tawdry family drama, this is as powerful as they come. All the hallmarks of European dogme cinema are here but with raw, brutal honesty unmatched by anyone whose name isn’t Lars von Trier. As the wine flows at the party, so too do the festering family skeletons come pouring out of the closets. A remarkable film, but if you’re in the mood for something a little more whimsical, check out the three-hour extended cut of Puppies getting scalded with hot steel instead.

#16. The Thing (1982, John Carpenter)

Okay well it would appear I’ve leapt from one level of the grotesque to another. This was another of my top 250 catch-up and I would have to call it the most pleasant surprise of the lot. While the customary gore and fibrillating alien tentacles (I’ve seen enough Hentai... etc.) are present, what struck me most about this film was its wonderful subversion of generic conventions, namely that of the country house crime fiction story. As with any typical Poirot mystery, we are presented here with a limited cast of characters on an isolated arctic research station that are essentially intruded upon by a highly dangerous ‘escapee’ from the outside. The twist is that the escapee is some level of alien mutant-like chameleon that is able to take on the form of its prey, so not only are the occupants cut off from the outside world, but are facing the threat from within their trusted ranks. The suspicion and tension is built expertly as the characters confront and deal with the threat, both from outside and from each other. If you can see past the gore, this is a very accessible mystery thriller, and it also finally managed to answer my question as to why Kurt Russell was ever famous and popular. The answer is because he’s awesome.

#15. The Fog of War (2003, Errol Morris)

Winner of best documentary at the 2004 Academy Awards, and the second Errol Morris film I caught this year, this electrifying piece of political exposee is a must-see for anybody interested in US foreign policy, twentieth-century history, or with even a passing interest in anything at all. Essentially a series of snippets of conversation with Robert S McNamara - a key figure in the Kennedy and Johnson administrations - his thoughts on the Vietnam war, Kennedy assassination and American foreign policy in general are expounded in Morris’ characteristic probing, questioning style. McNamara is filmed in what is at first an intimate light, which as the subjects turn more morally troubling and vague becomes an intrusive and expository one. McNamara is, however, refreshingly forthcoming and uneasy with some of the significant decisions he himself made, that changed the face of recent history. He is, indeed, an ideal subject for a documentarian, and Morris makes full and fascinating use of him to create a profound and memorable film.

#14. Witness for the Prosecution (1957, Billy Wilder)

Another of my top 250 catch-up (plenty more to come, too, I should add), this adaptation of Agatha Christie’s famed courtroom mystery is just a simple delight. Pivoting on a nicely bombastic performance from the great Charles Laughton, what makes this film so entertaining is the obvious fun being had by the cast. This is not to say there is any self-conscious fourth-wall breaking, but there is simply so much fervour from all of the players that is so easy to ignore until the denouement of the piece, where the audience is in as much awe as the relevant characters. Tyrone Power is deceptively good as the accused man, while Marlene Dietrich puts in a remarkable performance as his cold, calculating wife. I think in the hands of anyone but Billy Wilder, this film would be relegated to the ash-heap of film history as a fairly typical courtroom drama. But because of the sardonic and cynical wit that Wilder so effortlessly injects, this becomes so much more than a simple genre piece.

#13. Win Win (2011, Thomas McCarthy)

So the moment is upon us, maybe unexpectedly soon, when I must announce this as my favourite 2011 film – at least so far. Why? A few obvious reasons – one, it’s impossibly sweet without being schmaltzy. Two, it’s neat and tidy without being contrived. Three, it’s got Paul Giamatti in it. On top of these, there are the less obvious and more personal ones. It’s nice to see a film that features drama and conflict, guilt and dereliction of duty, without pummelling the themes home in an over-dramatic way. Instead, Tom McCarthy gives us a cast of characters, all flawed in their ways but all loveable in others, and a narrative thread that is free from flab: there isn’t an unnecessary moment here, or a too-long pause, or a false line. It’s basically genius filmmaking all around put here to service a quaint and sweetly funny story. Nothing simpler, it just made me smile.

#12. Thelma & Louise (1991, Ridley Scott)

For a long time this film was near the top of my must-watch list, and continually got bumped down by new and potentially more exciting prospects. I was quite thrilled that when I finally did take the plunge early this year that this film was more brilliant than I could have hoped. The story of two women who embark on a well-earned weekend of crazy shenanigoats that goes quickly sideways into far more crazy than expected, it establishes a crucial male/female divide early on in the film. Susan Sarandon’s Louise is the tough, sensible and embittered friend to the more frivolous and impulsive Geena Davis as Thelma, while the men in the story vary from the downright contemptible Christopher McDonald to the surprisingly decent Michael Madsen and Harvey Keitel. An interesting gender exploration but also an exquisite tragedy (we all know how it ends, right? We’ve seen the Simpsons take-off), this is a cynical film with a surprising amount of heart.

#11. Blood Simple. (1984, Joel & Ethan Coen)

If you’re getting tired of my Coen brothers entries, I can reassure you that this is the last, the winner of that particular contest. So I retrospectively checked out their premiere, another deceptively simple premise that quickly explodes into an impossible labyrinth of Coen vicissitudes. Blood Simple is most comprehensively of the ‘bloodbath’ school of Coen films, and I should confess that I find myself more drawn to the bloodbath variety, simply because it allows the brothers more room to explore the fragility of life and the random quality of the events they contrive for their characters. This amazing debut film employs a very small cast of characters for a double-crossing murder caper that far exceeds its apparent scope. Frances McDormand and Dan Hedaya give enjoyable performances but the highlight is most definitely the squirmingly good M Emmett Walsh as Hedaya’s hired gun. This film should be used far more as inspiration for how a story should drive a film, and how themes and characters will develop if you tell the story very well. It’s a winning formula we see over and over again from the Coen brothers, but very few other directors seem to be paying attention.

With that block down, I must leave you now in anticipation of my final reveal of my top 10 tomorrow. Until then, I wish you a hearty Friday evening.

Films of 2011 Part 8: 30-21

2011-12-29T17:18:00.000-08:00

So I’m winding down the countdown now (or ramping up, I’m not sure which) and we’re starting to get into that territory of separating the truly great and memorable films from the pack. In all honesty, I’ve actually disliked every single movie I’ve reviewed so far, and what follows are my first genuinely positive thoughts. That, by the way, is what is called upping the ante. How an idiot does it.

#30. The Wrestler (2008, Darren Aronofsky)

I realise this is a simple case of a great film that everybody loved when it came out, and I was just late to the party. I also realise this is the third film I’ve put on this list that features some kind of performance fighting, but as anyone who’s seen this will know, this one is quite singularly brilliant. Mickey Rourke puts in a powerhouse performance as the ageing Randy “The Ram” Robinson as he struggles to come to terms with his failing health and tries to fill the voids in his life. This is the second Aronofsky film in the space of five countdown blocks I know, and it’s a coin-toss really to decide which exerted more power over me. Here Aronofsky displays not just visual flair but a genuine intimacy with his subject, and manages to create a masterwork that is touching and emotional at the same time as it is just exhilarating fun.

#29. Sherlock Jr (1924, Buster Keaton)

One of my top 250 catchup and possibly the easiest film to watch at a meagre 63 minutes. I have to admit a secret love of really clever physical comedy, and to me Buster Keaton is in a league of his own. Here he plays a smitten cinema projectionist who daydreams about being a detective, and uses his far-fetched fantasies to try and win back the girl of his dreams. As with all silent comedies, there’s a huge silliness factor here but if you’re willing to forego the sophisticated appreciation of the filmic art for a while this is a really delightful film. It works largely through the physical genius of Keaton, who puts himself through the trials to create laugh after laugh. It’s undeniably a simple story, but when it’s as well told and entertaining as this, one can’t help but wonder why more films don’t attempt the same.

#28. Black Swan (2010, Darren Aronofsky)

Hang on, what is this? Three Aronofsky works in six films? He’s only made five! Okay, Jez’s sorting program, you’re the boss. I guess it shows what I think of Aronofsky as a filmmaker, that on the enjoyment factor (because remember, these films are ranked on my enjoyment rather than idiosyncratic quality) he doesn’t quite reach the pinnacle but they all become clumped around the ‘well above average’ mark. The thing about Black Swan that I saw disappointingly few critics discuss at the start of this year is that the story itself is tired and hackneyed, and there is nothing particularly clever about the script. Where the film succeeds so brilliantly is in the gloomy feel and flurrying pace that Aronofsky sets for it, that sucks you in and puts you comprehensively through the wringer. I personally thought Natalie Portman’s performance was a little overblown and in some ways just going through the melodramatic paces that, again, owe more to Aronofsky than anybody else. Don’t get me wrong, she was good, but I was disappointed when Best Actress went to this more overt and highly charged role than someone else who I might mention in, say, one film’s time? I’m not afraid to say that all the credit for this excellent thriller should go to the director, who weaves a brutal psychological ordeal out of otherwise quite conventional threads. Although actually, part of the credit has to go to that other well-known –ofsky/ovsky whose haunting Swan Lake score pervades most of the drama here.

#27. The Kids Are All Right (2010, Lisa Cholodenko)

Every year, it seems, there is an unconventional but highly socially relevant comedy that kind of becomes everybody’s darling around awards season. I’m speaking of Juno, Little Miss Sunshine and this year I’d say 50/50 at least believes it is. While The Kids Are All Right won a lot of acclaim and kept cropping up in the Oscar nods, I feel it didn’t quite win the love of previous years’ representatives in that category I’ve created. However, I’d have to rank it up as probably my favourite. There’s a simplicity to the way this story is told, with none of the surrealism of scriptwriting that seems to invade comedies these days, exaggerating some characters’ foibles to increase the comic factor. Here the comedy grows organically (ha, because Mark Ruffalo’s character is an organic nursery guy, haha) from the situation and is pulled off masterfully by the wonderfully awkward performances. Ruling the roost, though, is the towering performance of Annette Bening who again missed out on her long-overdue Oscar, I think unfairly this year. Her on-screen persona here is so finely nuanced and subtle that it’s not surprising, albeit disappointing, that Academy voters managed to overlook it while watching Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis make out. I’m just going to put out a challenge: watch the scene at the dinner party, after Bening has visited the bathroom and she returns to the table – shocked, confused, in a whirl, but striving so hard to maintain her customary composure while her world seems to crumble around her – and tell me that there is a microsecond of falsity in her face.

#26. Mary & Max (2009, Adam Elliot)

Reviewing this film reminds me of that line from Black Books – “I was immolated in a firewall of charm and charisma”. If ever a real-life example could merit that review, this is it. Part of my top 250 catch-up, it’s an apparently little-seen claymation from Australia that tells the story of a lonely young girl with an alcoholic mother who picks a random name out of a New York phone book to write to. The name she picks out is Max Horowitz, a similarly lonely old Jew suffering from Asperger’s. The two then strike up a firm friendship via written correspondence as Mary grows up and Max grows old. The film begins with a childish abandon to the world of fancy in a way reminiscent of Jean-Pierre Jeunet or Noel Fielding, but soon begins to navigate the murky and uncertain waters of adult problems, and Mary & Max’s relationship turns complex and interesting. I felt at first that this film was a little too charming, in that it’s almost smugly aware of its own cutesy factor. Looking back though, I recognise the charm as a false flag, and that the story being told here is actually very dark and in some ways disturbing. Yet it somehow manages to achieve the impossible feat of telling this dark fable in an immolatingly charming way.

#25. Hannah & her Sisters (1986, Woody Allen)

For those who are tired of my Woody Allen references, I can assure you that this one tops the heap for this year, and he won’t receive a mention beyond this. Hannah and her Sisters tells the story of Hannah, and her sisters. Okay, let’s start again. More importantly, it tells the story of a year in their life, as they learn and explore themselves, their wants and needs and vices. Mia Farrow, Barbara Hershey and Diane Wiest all bring a gutsy charisma to each of their flawed sisters. It seems a shame that Woody Allen is being harangued these days for his inability to write women, when you look back at the simplistic beauty of his Chekhovian trio in this film. Admirable support comes from the director himself and of course the ultra-smooth Michael Caine in his first Oscar-winning performance. What makes this film stand out, though, is that in spite of all the problems, the lies and hostility exhibited throughout, it’s turned somehow into a sweet, romantic film with a warm and fuzzy ending. Yet nothing about it seems contrived or insincere; it’s just a cleverly wrought story by a true auteur.

#24. The Ides of March (2011, George Clooney)

Let me just come right out and say it: George Clooney is an excellent director. Yes, he’s charming and silver-haired and deliciously sardonic as well, but to this day he has not only not made a bad film, but he is building himself a very solid oeuvre of sophisticated drama that any filmmaker could envy. This, to my mind, is his best to date. Gripping, clever and brilliantly ambivalent, he avoids all the glittering temptations that might confront someone trying to make a taut political drama. There is no political agenda here, no good guy/bad guy line drawn in the sand; there are just ordinary, imperfect people feeding their ambitions, and confronting the situations they are faced with. The cast here is as good as it gets: to my mind, having P S Hoffman and Paul Giamatti as rival campaign managers is cinematic ecstasy, and add to that the youthful charm and gravitas of Ryan Gosling in the lead role and you have yourself a sure thing. To put it simply, this film is great in a way that all films should aspire to be.

#23. Do the Right Thing (1989, Spike Lee)

Again, I have to confess something, friends: this was the first, and remains the only, Spike Lee joint I’ve smoked. But what an intoxicating and addictive first taste this was. Twenty-four hours of the hottest day of the year in a small neighbourhood of Brooklyn where the communal melting pot of African- and Italian-Americans is sitting on an overheating stove ready to blow. There’s a wonderful sense of impending doom to this film, as we watch the pressure build and bubble it’s clear that something bad is about to happen, but we don’t know what. Lee directs with a pow-pow panache that works best here with its large cast of well-drawn characters and vignette structure. While the film is drenched with searing social and political commentary, it also manages to be accessible entertainment, and there is a dark, cynical irony cast over the whole situation that I found irresistible. Fight the power!

#22. A Streetcar Named Desire (1951, Elia Kazan)

This is the film that sparked off my top 250 catchup, not being a part of it per se but marking the moment when I realised how many truly great films I’d just never bothered to watch. Another inner-city drama of simmering tensions, the catalyst here is the wounded and self-important character of Blanche, and her intrusion onto a rickety bridge between two people already set to snap. It’s a real marvel to watch a young, sexy Marlon Brando in his prime as Stanley Kowalski, working so well with a melodramatic Vivien Leigh starring role as Blanche. When I watched this, I was given far more bang than I expected (obviously, I had in my mind Ned Flanders singing “Can’t you hear me yell-a, you’re puttin’ me through Hell-a, Stella!”), and the arc of the story is such that the climax is a genuinely crushing blow. This film gave me a new way of defining an idealist: an idealist is someone who hears Stella deliver her final lines, and believes her.

#21. The Thin Blue Line (1988, Errol Morris)

In a year when I tried to catch up with as many documentaries as I could, it’s fitting that I lead into my top twenty with one of the absolute classics. Demonstrating that film, when used correctly, can change the world, Errol Morris’ hard-hitting journalistic documentary confronts us with the story of a hitchhiker who got himself accidentally charged with the murder of a police officer due to being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person. Morris, in his probing style, doesn’t take an obvious position, but simply presents us with the evidence as it wasn’t presented in court – i.e. Through the visual lens of a camera, recreating some of the scenarios as told by eyewitnesses, and exposing the inconsistencies and circumstantial nature of much of the testimony. This film famously managed to get the hitchhiker’s conviction overturned, and blatantly inspired a generation of filmmakers and journalists to seek the uncomfortable truth at all costs. On its own, however, The Thin Blue Line stands as a monument of narrative reportage.

We now stand on the brink of the top 20, and my excitement levels have risen to 'mildly bemused'. Tune in later today as I crack into that barrel of truly outstanding films.

Films of 2011 Part 7: 40-31

2011-12-28T23:09:00.000-08:00

I realise after writing the last two posts yesterday that I’ve gotten to the stage where I’m no longer qualifying my opinion by saying anything bad about films, so I recognise that the only place to go from here is to the land of ever-increasingly effusive praise. This is a bit odd, since I actually don’t feel that enamoured with some of the films in this chunk of 10. But anyway, you can’t question Jez’s sorting program.

#40. The Towering Inferno (1974, John Guillermin)

Until I saw this film, I think my only exposure to disaster films was in spoof form, in sketch comedy shows and, of course, Airplane! (that’s Flying High to my Australian friends) So again my expectations came to the fore as I anticipated token coloured characters, histrionic clichés and sappy, manipulative scenes involving orphaned children with extremely rare respiratory disorders. Okay, so there are children and token coloured characters (O.J. Simpson, in fact!), but to my surprise this was actually a very dark film, and there was far more death, despair and actual gravitas vis-a-vis the whole building-on-fire thing. I mean, okay, O.J. Simpson handing adorably old Fred Astaire the puppy belonging to his new-found romance who fell out of a lift and died is kind of the most ridiculously sappy piece of schmaltz ever put onto film, but aside from that I was impressed. Oh, and is that the sound of male ovaries going into overdrive? (ovarie-drive, boomtish) It must be the presence of Paul Newman... Oh, and Steve McQueen as well? *masculine swoon*

#39. Dracula (1931, Tod Browning)

Okay, so we’ve reached that part of the countdown where my enjoyment of a film can be comically disproportionate to the film’s intrinsic quality. So is the case with Dracula, whose spot on this list is due to a couple of things: firstly, the camp factor, which is cranked up way beyond the 11-mark here; and secondly the circumstances in which I saw it, namely at the Sydney Festival 2011 with a live string ensemble playing a new score composed by Philip Glass (who also led the ensemble). That aside, the fact that this isn’t made as a comedy shouldn’t discourage one’s enjoyment of it as a most hilarious piece of celluloid. Bela Lugosi is magnificent, in a campy and hilariously un-magnificent kind of way, and what may have passed for creepy horror back in the thirties is so ridiculous and overblown now that the laughter produced retains not a trace of catharsis but consists entirely of scorn. And yet, what absolute fun this film is.

#38. True Grit (2010, Joel & Ethan Coen)

As a bit of disclosure I should say I haven’t seen the original John Wayne version of this film, but also I should mention that I love westerns, to an extent completely out of proportion with the fact that I was brought up in suburban Sydney. So when you put two masters of the art like the Coen brothers in front of a tough and macho western setting where every man (and, in this case, young girl) is in it for themselves, you know I will enjoy. This is less a fascinating exploration of human nature as it is an adventurous and, at times, violent romp through the western genre, with plenty of cynical humour courtesy of Jeff Bridges and a gutsy lead performance from Haylee Steinfeld whose Oscar nod for her ‘supporting’ role was largely the product of cold committee reasoning. There’s a dichotomy regarding Coen brothers films (and I will expand upon this later, as well); namely in their films, either pretty much everybody dies, or in spite of everybody’s best efforts, only one person will die – usually some testosterone-soaked ‘avenger’ caricature. Credit to the brothers that this film falls vaguely in the middle – it’s definitely more of the bloodbath variety but not more so than any other western, and the lead characters are allowed to live to drive home the message of the film.

#37. The Assassination of Richard Nixon (2004, Niels Mueller)

This is another film I saw on an inspiration from Filmspotting, specifically when they did their top 5 Sean Penn performances (as a sidenote, shit and bugger, I just realised I somehow completely forgot about putting Dead Man Walking on this list, which would have fallen around this spot as well; anyway...). This film is, as a whole, a bit questionable in quality. It tells the story of a misfit loser whose marriage and job are at best rocky, and who throughout the course of the film hatches an irrational plot to try and assassinate Richard Nixon (I hope that’s not a spoiler, I mean, it’s the title of the damn film). The odd thing is it’s hard to see what the point of the film is; the obvious comparison is Taxi Driver but there is none of the social commentary and complexity of which Travis Bickle is so emblematic; this guy’s just a loser. However, the emotional power and magnetism of Sean Penn’s performance carries this well beyond the finish line. There’s a scene where his character tracks down his estranged wife over the phone, only to have her new lover answer. Watching his indignation as he tries – and fails – to retain his dignity is quite simply one of the most heartbreaking scenes I can recall, and it typifies the strength and power of this otherwise OK film.

#36. The Social Network (2010, David Fincher)

Oh, okay, here it is. The doyenne of critical acclaim in early 2011 makes an appearance on my list. I feel there’s not a lot I can add that hasn’t already been said a million times before, except to talk specifically about what I enjoyed. While most of the time I do look for sympathy with characters, I admire a film such as this that is willing to present us with a cast full of arseholes of varying completeness. What’s more, I enjoyed the feeling this film left us, namely that the whole concept of Facebook is poisoned by the egomaniacal ambition surrounding its inception and founding philosophy. But more specific to the film, another crackling Aaron Sorkin screenplay is put through its paces by the very deliberate, but at times almost frenetic, directorial style of Fincher, and while at times the snappiness of the dialogue leaps beyond the bounds of realism, the story is told so entertainingly that it’s pretty easy to shrug it off.

#35. The French Connection (1971, William Friedkin)

Yes, another ‘I should watch Best Picture winners’ entry. I’ve always hated this film, for absolutely no reason than that it beat out A Clockwork Orange for that very award in 1972. Stupid reason, I know, particularly when this film stands on its own as a masterpiece of its genre. Mostly just cop drama with a bit of gritty gangster-film thrown in, this is basically just a very well-made crime caper. Gene Hackman is excellent as the hard-hitting Popeye Doyle, but the main star of the film is the suspenseful action sequences. There’s possibly the most exhilarating car chase I’ve encountered, as well as a tense but hilarious tailing sequence where the villain is trying to shake off his dogged pursuer. Just a crime drama, but what a crime drama.

#34. Shane (1953, George Stevens)

Okay, so apart from my great love of westerns, I’m a bit confused as to why this film ended up so high. There’s certainly nothing bad I can say about it, but in all honesty I have to say it has all the classic hallmarks of the genre with nothing particularly innovative. That said, the titular Shane, played by Alan Ladd, is up there with the best of the loner cowboy heroes, and there is a perfect amount of ass-kicking to please the audience. Basically just a bullies vs villagers tale reminiscent of Seven Samurai, this film tells a fairly simple story very well. Even while writing about it, I can’t quite figure out why it would be this high, but I can say there’s never a dull moment and it falls neatly as one of the great pioneers of what could be called the 'revisionist western' genre. Check it out if you want to disagree with me.

#33. The Fountain (2006, Darren Aronofsky)

I’m not anticipating too much vitriol for this one, unless actual esteemed film critics read my blog, because it seems that anyone with credentials in this field hates this film, while the one person I know who’s seen it (me) loved it. The obvious trouble with it is that it is very ambitious, trying to combine a love tragedy with a mystical cosmogony, but in spite of its grand scope it really spoke to me. The pathos of the love story was obviously going to get to me, but I felt myself more moved by the mystical, almost exegetic sequences in space, while the combination of the three time periods – Mayan, present-ish day and future - really worked to draw out and expose the key themes of love, death and immortality. Hugh Jackman is as good as I’ve seen him here, and the philosophical nature of the film made sure it stuck in my mind as I puzzled over it for a long time afterwards. One final note: I think Aronofsky’s visual genius is put to its best use here, in what is arguably his most stylish film.

#32. Margin Call (2011, J.C. Chandor)

This is another film that hasn’t yet hit our shores, and I imagine it may not for a while. But let me just say it’s definitely worth a look. What a romp! It tells the story of 24 hours in not-quite-Lehmann Brothers prior to the onset of the Global Financial Crisis, as the full extent of the toxicity of the firm’s assets spreads rapidly up the chain of rich, bloated bastardry. Vile characters populate the film, but the cast is world class and makes the story captivating. Kevin Spacey, Paul Bettany and a surprisingly good Simon Baker lead into none other than the über-cool Jeremy Irons with a huge late effort from the bench. While the film has obvious problems with dumbing-down (a lot of the film is people looking at off-screen computer monitors and saying “holy shit” as if one screen could capture the complexity of the economic crash), it’s one of the most gripping dramas I’ve seen this year.

#31. Persona (1966, Ingmar Bergman)

Part of my top 250 catch-up and one of the hardest to get my hands on (guess where I eventually found this one. Go on, have a guess. Wrong. YOUTUBE, of all places.), this is another of Bergman’s existential classics. Hang on, scrap that, that’s bad film-writing. This is a Bergman film, therefore it’s existential, duh. Masterfully worked with a creepy Gothic edge, it tells the story of an actress who has apparently been shocked into silence, and the naive young nurse who tends to her. As the story unfolds, the relationship between the two women is revealed to be more complex than realised, and there is a haunting psychological ambiguity to the whole payoff. This is hypnotic, existential filmmaking at its finest.

Unfortunately this morning we had to dump a sofabed and buy a new one, so my fervent hope of having two posts written and only two to write hasn't worked. Two will hopefully follow tomorrow leading up to the grand finale on New Year's Eve. For now, peace out, and don't try to swallow anything larger than a tennis ball.

Films of 2011 Part 6: 50-41

2011-12-27T20:58:00.000-08:00

Two posts in one day? Wow, I must be some kind of super-prolific blog guy. Or maybe I have a wife working from home and little better to do. Anyway, we’re into the top 50, which is very, very exciting, in the context of this countdown I’m doing. In a wider context, it’s not very exciting at all. But anyway. Here comes number 50.

#50. Top Gun (1986, Tony Scott)

Of all the films I still haven’t seen – and there are many of those, each day more seem to come up on my radar – I don’t think I’ve gotten quite as much of an “Oh my GAWD you’ve never seen that?” response as when I mentioned Top Gun. Well, that is at an end. Cheesy 80s-ness aside, there is something necessarily classic about this film. The famous lines, the singing-in-bars scenes, even the montages with “Take my Breath Away” in the background all just combine to become more than the sum of the parts. It’s popcorn filmmaking in its purest form, and impossible not to enjoy, at least a little.

#49. Before Sunrise (1995, Richard Linklater)

I mentioned this film was coming, didn’t I? Well here it is. A brave film when it first came out, this is basically a couple of hours of two young people walking around Vienna, talking about stuff. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to feel ways about stuff. It is, though, terribly romantic, and it’s low-key low-budget filmmaking at its best. It wouldn’t work without the chemistry of Hawke and Delpy, but also the way the film works itself out keeps you wondering about the eventual fate of the two – will they stay? Will they go? Will they meet again? It’s hard to separate it from the context of its sequel now, but I think on its own this is one of the most romantic films I’ve ever seen, yet there’s nothing schlocky about it at all.

#48. Birth of a Nation (1915, D.W.Griffith)

I’d be preparing myself for more flaming for putting this film so high, but I suspect less is known about it. Suffice to say, this out-dated and quite horribly racist silent-era film tells the story of two families during the American civil war – one from the north and one from the south – as well as the following years, when evil, lazy black people threatened to take over the country until those brave, courageous saviours of America (you know, the Ku Klux Klan?) rushed in to take it back for the people. Okay, vile sentiments aside, this is above all a fascinating historical document, and a very absorbing story. It is quite possibly bad taste for me to enjoy this film, being as I am unaffected by racism, but its crude dating aside, I have to admit, it did very much intrigue me.

#47. From Here to Eternity (1953, Fred Zinnemann)

Another of my ‘I should watch Best Picture winners’ series, From Here to Eternity speaks to a couple of my guilty pleasures; hopelessly romantic films, and boxing. Essentially a parallel story of two soldiers in the second world war and the women they love, this works as well as it does due to the standout performers in the lead roles – from the beautiful Deborah Kerr and Donna Reed to the equally beautiful Burt Lancaster and Montgomery Clift – and the enjoyable on-screen relationships formed. This is another of those films whose classic status is hard to deny. Every moment seems iconic.

#46. Henry V (1989, Kenneth Branagh)

I’ve done enough studying of Shakespeare in uni and high school to be mostly anaesthetised to the tedium that one can experience from filmed adaptations. More importantly though, I can spot a well-made one a mile off, and Ken Branagh’s tight, suspenseful and dramatically-charged film of a play I don’t actually know that well is a big winner in those stakes. The director himself is very magnetic as the young king Henry, while a quite ridiculously talented cast of British acting royalty past and present (including Christian Bale in a ten-second sequence that apparently warrants a mention on the DVD case) chews the scenery. Aside from the interminable epilogue, this is above all an exciting film; something that can’t really be claimed by a lot of Shakespeare productions.

#45. The Caine Mutiny (1954, Edward Dmytryk)

This was sort of a random choice for watching, and also a bit of a surprise at its height in this list, but I can’t deny this was a thoroughly enjoyable movie. This is thanks in no small part to the delightful performance of Humphrey Bogart as the inept and slightly deluded commander Queeg who finds himself with a mutiny on his hands when his command credentials are justifiably questioned. It’s very much a film of three parts – the lead-up to the change in command, the ‘life under Queeg's command’ which takes up the most part, and the aftermath of the mutiny – and it’s cleverly told, with an enjoyable ambivalence to the ending. It does come across as a bit preachy, but the overall feeling is warmly received.

#44. L’Avventura (1960, Michelangelo Antonioni)

From adventure on the high seas to adventure of the slow-paced, hypnotic quality where virtually nothing happens for two hours. This was the first, and still is, the only Antonioni film I’ve watched, and in spite of its being part of that stripped-back cinema verité clique that I don’t much enjoy, it had me absorbed throughout. A group of free-thinking-and-loving youths takes a pleasure cruise somewhere off the Italian coast, and the brooding young Anna goes inexplicably missing. The trouble and anxiety that ensues is exquisitely told by the planed-down performances and cinematography, and again the ambivalence of the ending – far more subtle in this case – keeps it with you. Not everybody’s cup of tea but at its best I found this film entrancing.

#43. Batman Begins (2005, Christopher Nolan)

More vitriol, perhaps? I’m not sure. This was another big surprise of the year. I watched it purely because I felt I had to catch up with The Dark Knight which I also hadn’t seen (Oh, you haven’t seen TDK on the list yet? Well it may be coming up later), and I’m glad I did. Not just because this neatly sets up the characters and the interplay between them, but because it happens to be a thrilling and masterful action film in its own right. Yet another mention of Christian Bale? *sigh* okay, but only because you’ve been good. He is extremely good as the caped crusader in this film, and the support cast is wonderful (making allowances for Katie Holmes, obviously). But the star of this film is obviously the inimitable Chris Nolan, who casts a dark, magical pall over Gotham and takes this franchise right into the dark depths of Gothic psychology that Tim Burton – for me at least – failed to do.

#42. A History of Violence (2005, David Cronenberg)

Wow, two 2005 films in a row. The first of what would become three-and-counting collaborations between director Cronenberg and Viggo Mortensen, this creepy and violent thriller is brilliant and memorable in its confrontational nature. Presented with a seemingly idyllic little town in rural America, the citizens' peaceful existence is blown up when Mortensen’s character foils an armed robbery with his badass shooting-the-fuck-out-of-people skills. Where did this humble, straight-laced member of a quaint little community acquire such badass mofo-ery? Ah, therein lies this film’s intrigue. Without spoiling too much, I should say that Ed Harris is excellent in creepy mode and William Hurt is as good as I’ve ever seen him here. The final scene of this film is one that stuck in my mind for a very long time afterwards and remains there still.

#41. Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse (1991, Fax Bahr/George Hickenlooper/Eleanor Coppola)

People who have talked classic films with me should know how much I adore Apocalypse Now for its raw, cataclysmic power. This documentary-look behind the scenes of one of the most notoriously chaotic and troubled film shoots is a must-watch for any fan of Coppola’s classic. Blending actual footage from the Apocalypse Now location shoot in the Philippines with retrospective interviews with cast and crew, the line between fiction and reality becomes blurred as we encounter all of the horror, the horror, experienced by all those concerned with this hugely ambitious project. No particular point-of-view is expounded, but there doesn’t need to be, as the story itself is so scintillating. Is there a similar documentary about Apocalypse Now’s equally-adored cousin Aguirre, Wrath of God? I wait in slavering anticipation.

And speaking of waiting in slavering anticipation, with that I leave you until tomorrow, when we shall do this all again. Not with the same films, I should point out. Different ones. Trust me, it’ll be fun.

Films of 2011 Part 5: 60-51

2011-12-27T20:10:00.000-08:00

Okay, so due to work commitments (yes, on a public holiday) and grocery shopping commitments, and then social commitments (damn you, good friends!), I didn’t get around to posting a blog block yesterday at all. Furthermore, I didn’t – as expected – get around to posting a second block on Monday which means I now have to do two days of double postings. Which is fine; I come to you today from my laptop in the lounge room via a thumb drive (we don’t have Wi-Fi) with the fifth block of ten to get us halfway there.

Just a forewarning: I am expecting much wrath and indignation as a response to some of the films in this block.

#60. Cars (2006, John Lasseter, Joe Ranft)

*Braces for first hot wave of seething resentment*

So I’ve put Cars higher than Ratatouille (and many, many other things; Bec is still indignant that Mansfield Park was so low). The trouble is, there’s this thing called expectation. When they’re high – such as ‘Brad Bird directs a film about a rat cooking in a French kitchen’ – they’re vulnerable to disappointment. When they’re very low – such as a unanimous agreement that something is by far the worst Pixar film and why did they even bother blah blah blah John Lasseter is worse than Hitler etc. – but something is a well-told story, with plenty of comedy and pathos, enjoyable characters, a great voice cast including, of course, the love of my life Paul Newman... Well, the fact is you just start to like something a whole lot more, and are prepared to defend it. I hope I have done that.

#59. Fanny & Alexander (1982, Ingmar Bergman)

If Bec ever reads these posts, I will face more anger from her about this film’s positioning after I stupidly decided to sit her down in front of this to watch it with me. However, although neither of us really enjoyed it, the ensuing debate where I found myself taking the position of apologist, oddly opened my eyes to dimensions I hadn’t appreciate while watching. Marketed as Bergman’s most accessible film (why is completely beyond me, to be honest), this very loosely-autobiographical film tells the story of a family of performers separated by the death of the patriarch, and the children (the titular duo) being forced to live with their mother’s new husband, a strict clergyman. The dimension I discovered in defending it was simply the ambiguity which runs through the central theme, which is ‘what sort of life is worth living’? While the film appears on the surface to present the point of view that an epicurean lifestyle of fun and bacchanalia is more worthwhile than the simple and pure life of devotion, if you take a step back and look at the evidence itself – rather than the way it’s presented – the shadow of doubt lingers. For the reason alone that it presents opportunity for debate, I promote this film.

#58. Hugo (2011, Martin Scorsese)

Recently given a nod by the Golden Globes for best picture, this is another film with the potential for debate. Billed largely as a children’s film but far more accessible as Scorsese’s love note (well, one of many he has made) to early cinema. The obvious comparison for this film is Giuseppe Tornatore’s Nuovo Cinema Paradiso due to the similar themes of childhood fascination and enchantment with the moving picture, and I think the comparison does justice to both films. What’s most glorious about Scorsese’s piece is the glamour and magic of the aesthetic. I think it’s one of his most stylised films to date, but also one of his most rewarding (full disclosure: I’m not a big fan). The two leads are enjoyable while admirable support is given by Ben Kingsley and Sacha Baron Cohen. I think it would be hard for most people not to be a little charmed by this film.

#57. Modern Times (1936, Charles Chaplin)

Part of my top 250 catch-up and also part of my Chaplin binge I experienced when I discovered you don’t need to fork out $36 for a Chaplin DVD. I mean, $36, really? This film is remembered largely for one scene where Chaplin’s tramp gets trapped inside the cogs of a giant factory machine, but is enjoyable for a bunch of other reasons. Paulette Goddard, who plays his romantic interest is quite beautiful and because of her waifish look (ie. No ridiculous Vaudeville makeup) appears strikingly modern in this, and the love story between the two of them as they struggle to cope with the pace the world is growing is sweet, and funny.

#56. Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977, Steven Spielberg)

Just one of those films I felt I should watch. I enjoy a good no-frills narration, and I feel that this film achieves it admirably. There are some highly stylised sequences, particularly featuring Melinda Dillon and her son, but ultimately the storyline follows the premise of Earth’s first encounter with extraterrestrial life in as straightforward a manner as possible. I know I’m making this sound more boring than watching continents move, but what I’m trying to say is that the end result, with a subdued and hypnotic pace, and where the mystery lingers at the film’s conclusion, is far more effective than throwing shitloads of modern CGI and explosions and expecting the story to follow. Are you listening, Roland Emmerich?

#55. Moneyball (2011, Bennett Miller)

Another of the potential Oscar winners this year, this look at the Oakland A’s manager Billy Beane trying to reverse the fortunes of the unsuccessful baseball franchise using an untested statistical method is far more enjoyable than it would appear on paper. Baseball and statistics? Thanks, but I’ve got some continental drift to watch. Talky as it is, Moneyball is held together largely by more crackling scriptwork from Aaron Sorkin who just has a gift for making the unwatchable captivating. Jonah Hill puts in a very nice turn as Brad Pitt’s assistant, and while I think some appreciation of baseball is essential, it’s a very good sports film. One of the best, in fact.

#54. White Heat (1949, Raoul Walsh)

OK, so firstly let me say, when I ran Jez’s sorting program to order this list, I got given the direct choice between White Heat and Heat. I chose this as the superior film, but I did think the two would make an interesting double feature. Both gangster films with scintillating showdown sequences, I do pick this as the deeper and more complex film. This is largely due to Heat’s clear self-awareness as part of a genre, while White Heat is still treading the waters. As a result it’s very much a good guy-bad guy aesthetic, but the twists and turns of the plot are fast-paced, and James Cagney as the mother-obsessed Cody Jarrett is just... well, creepy. Top of the world, ma? Well, #54. Not bad, White Heat.

#53. 50 First Dates (2004, Peter Segal)

*Braces for a firewall of murderous indignation with the power of seven Hells*

Remember what I said about expectations? Now just picture my expectations when confronted with Adam Sandler, in any form. Firstly, the main enjoyment of this film centres around the chemistry between Sandler and Drew Barrymore, which we’ve already seen work well in The Wedding Singer. Secondly, while the plot is... hmmm... is ridiculous too strong a word? It astonishingly manages to elevate itself from low-brow rom-com territory to become at times a touching drama (with a highly contrived premise). The unfortunate thing is that this film is a product of studio marketing committees, and so they had to ruin it by letting Rob Schneider within 300 light years of it (that’s about the minimal distance from him for me to feel comfortable) and throw in a stupid musclebound Sean Astin. Why? Oh, because apparently the sweet and charming parts of this film don’t sell tickets. Needs more stupidity. I might jump into FinalCut Pro or something and see if I can edit Rob Schneider out to make this a pretty great film. The truth is, I really enjoyed this.

#52. Martha Marcy May Marlene (2011, Sean Durkin)

One of my more anticipated films of this year in spite of the fact that it doesn’t seem to be getting much academy love, this movie almost managed to pull an anti-50-First-Dates in being a crushing disappointment to my high expectations. However, I realised how powerful it was when I woke in the middle of the night a few nights later just completely unnerved by the possibility that John Hawkes’ character from this film might be around. It’s a haunting and challenging watch, with a beautifully subtle lead performance from... hang on, is that an Olsen sister? And I just love any film that stays with you, and while I expected it to anyway, this film definitely does.

#51. Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989, Stephen Herek)

I’m not expecting vitriol for this one, but if I do, well haters gonna hate right? Oddly enough, we caught this as a double feature on Go or 7 mate or something, following 50 First Dates. The strange thing is, I grew up watching this film’s sequel Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, it used to be one of my favourite films, and I’m not sure I ever fully got it. What’s more, I had never watched the original until earlier this year. And, wow, I hate to praise a film for this and this alone, but damn it’s funny. Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter are instantly likeable as the hapless slackers Bill & Ted and the farcical clash of cultures as they travel through history gathering ‘material’ for their history paper just makes me smile. Socrates, anyone?

So that’s all for now. More will come later today, hopefully with a little less pre-emptive defence against the flaming of me, and more nodding and stroking beards and saying ‘Hmmm, what an interesting point being raised’.

Films of 2011 Part 4: 70-61

2011-12-25T15:41:00.000-08:00

This should hopefully be the first of two posts I put up today, it being the day of staying at home and cleaning up all your loose ends post-Christmas. Unless, of course, the cricket is too captivating... But haha, no seriously, the cricket won't be captivating at all.

#70. Drive (2011, Nicolas Winding Refn)

I kind of wish I had caught this film in a cinema instead of on a totally legitimate online streaming site, as the languid pace and intense camera techniques would surely be more effective when you're forced to pay attention, whereas sitting on a computer makes it easy to be distracted. That said, this is a very tight, suspenseful thriller, with a creepily catatonic lead performance from Ryan Gosling. If it is up for any Oscars, I'm hoping Albert Brooks will get the nod; not just because he's playing so far against type but because he's just such a delightful villain here.

#69. Ratatouille (2007, Brad Bird/Jan Pinkava)

I may incur some wrath here, but I was surprised at how high up this is. I think it's probably being towed along by an unfair advantage of being part of the Pixar family that I love without reservations (I will incur more wrath in about nine films' time I'm sure). But if truth be told, apart from the fun and the magic and a couple of really fine voice performances - above all one of my favourite Twitter boys Patton Oswalt in the lead - I didn't enjoy this nearly as much as I'd thought. A couple of the contrivances really irked me, particularly the love sub-plot which I didn't know even existed until suddenly the two characters are kissing in the middle of an argument ("What the...?" would neatly sum up my immediate reaction). It was undeniable fun though, and was always going to be.

#68. The Untouchables (1987, Brian De Palma)

So again I have major problems with this film. I get that there's supposed to be this major hard-boiled film noir aspect to it where you can't trust most of the corrupt police force, but am I really supposed to believe that Eliot Ness finds it appropriate to use a team of five...oops, four, oh, no, now there's only two... people to bring down arguably the biggest crime syndicate of the twentieth century? Again, contrived plotting aside, the mood and wash of this film is gorgeous, and a couple of sequences - not least the famous pram-down-the-stairs slow-mo - save it and make it well worth watching.

#67. Warrior (2011, Gavin O'Connor)

Another of this year's potential Oscar nods, I'm now thinking it less likely this will be up for anything. It would be a little disappointing if Hardy, Edgerton and Nolte are all ignored, but at the same time I wouldn't be surprised. The film on paper is so unlikable, dealing with what I can only see as a fad of MMA cage fighting in a way that is really just stock-standard cliches from Rocky to Raging Bull and up to last year's The Fighter. Yet the acting is so solid, with Hardy as a monster of on-screen charisma, that one can even forgive the sometimes laughably absurd plot - that is, if one wants to.

#66. Midnight in Paris (2011, Woody Allen)

A lot of 2011 films in this block, eh? This is an odd film in the midst of Allen's work in that it works mostly as a besotted love note to Paris from Mr. Manhattan himself. It's amusingly plotted and well-paced and does include a lot of those enjoyable Woody Allen hallmarks that keep you entertained. I'm not sure that Owen Wilson fully worked for me in the lead, but the standout moments are the cameos as Paris-based luminaries of the 1920s who lend the film the Bohemian aesthetic of which Allen seems so enamoured. They are really the heart of this piece as well as the internal mechanics.

#65. Princess Mononoke (Mononoke-hime, 1997, Hayao Miyazaki)

I don't think I've incurred enough wrath in this post yet, so let me just say I don't like most of Miyazaki's films. Whoever decided for the world that Spirited Away was some kind of masterpiece just because it made no sense was an idiot. With that in mind, I was pleasantly surprised at this film. The whole fantastical element seemed far less laboured and more organic with the story, which in turn was well-worked. I unfortunately could only find this in a dubbed version, but it didn't detract too much. It's a very entertaining adventure.

#64. Dazed & Confused (1993, Richard Linklater)

I went on a major Richard Linklater spree earlier this year, owing to the fact that I had seen a full zero of his films. This high-school graduation coming-of-age what-do-we-do-with-the-rest-of-our-lives-who-gives-a-shit-let's-get-drunk story is one of the best of the genre, and I'm not even sure why. The plotting is haphazard and most of the humour fairly juvenile, but there just seems to be more of an intellect behind the hijinks, and the cast of characters come across as more than just stock cliches. It ultimately left me a little hollow (in a 'what was the point?' kind of way) but still entertained.

#63. Sullivan's Travels (1941, Preston Sturges)

I have been trying to get my hands on something by Preston Sturges by years. It seems that no distribution company outside the US is interested, and I can't for the life of me understand why. This is not only an interesting movie historically as it seems to be one of the earliest films about the film industry, but it's a jolly good romp as well *puffs on cigar*. Essentially just a screwball comedy in which the famous film director of what we would now call 'popcorn entertainment' tries to make a movie about the real America - misery, hardship, poverty - and keeps getting foiled. There's a bit of dating to it, particularly the ending, but it's well worth a look. I encourage everybody to ask for more Preston Sturges at their local film distribution company's head office.

#62. Before Sunset (2004, Richard Linklater)

What was that about Richard Linklater? This follow-up to his 1995 Before Sunrise (spoiler alert: it's coming up later in the list) reunites the American Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and the French Celine (Julie Delpy) after their one evening of romance nine years ago. As they rekindle the old chemistry, there is the heart-aching tension as we know that, again, the clock on their time together is ticking down. Like its predecessor, this is a film about two people walking and talking together, so if you're into big explosions and spectacular CGI, you should definitely, definitely check out this film. I guarantee you'll like it. Totally. Just do it. I'm going to stop talking now.

#61. Heat (1995, Michael Mann)

It's hard to enjoy this film without really enjoying the clash between Pacino and De Niro (I must say I was surprised to find out that so much of the publicity behind this film revolved around it). But of course, I was sucked in. The two of them, detective vs. thief, sitting across a table from each other trying to 'negotiate' the terms of their showdown, is electric. Add in the rest of this ensemble class and the great Michael Mann, plus - let's face it - a rollicking heist plot and it's a unmistakable winner. With so much effusive praise, why is this down at #61? Well, I'm not really that much into long, tense, high-stakes crime capers, even though this is one of genuine quality.

And with that we come to the end of another harrowing block of ten. Tune in probably later today as I round out the bottom half of this list, and then we get into the really interesting bits.

Films of 2011 Part 3: 80-71

2011-12-24T14:35:00.000-08:00

And it's a very merry Hanukkah everybody. Here is my present to you: the third instalment of my exhilarating countdown.

*Pauses to absorb riotous cheers, women throwing underwear, etc.*

#80. Blazing Saddles (1974, Mel Brooks)

Now I love a good Western, and I love a good spoof, so naturally I should expect to love the combination of the two? Yes and no. As with all of Mel Brooks' work, at times the silliness factor here becomes a bit self-conscious, where the actors are too aware of having to overplay everything. But there are plenty of laughs, and the final showdown sequence is quite brilliant. I feel like all spoof films need the mock-gravitas of a Leslie Nielsen (ideally the Leslie Nielsen) in order to work on every level.

#79. The Major & the Minor (1942, Billy Wilder)

Ah, accidental pedophilia. Such a rich font of comedy potential. Seriously though, this borderline-creepy screwball comedy about an out-of-pocket working girl disguising herself as a schoolgirl to ride the train half-fare would probably not work without Billy Wilder at the helm. He manages to extract all the humour from the scenario without shying away from the troubled premise. Ginger Rogers is almost believable in both personas but there's still a bit of disbelief in the idea that nobody - from Ray Milland's titular major to the boys at his military academy - would notice that something was seriously afoot.

#78. Carnage (2011, Roman Polanski)

Another film I think hasn't yet graced our shores but one I will recommend when appropriate. Two pairs of parents meet in an apartment to have a frank and open discussion about a schoolyard spat involving their two sons. Basically Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? ensues without the same level of absurdist dialogue. With such a claustrophobic setting it's essential for the actors to carry the film, but when you're looking at Kate Winslet, John C Reilly (in his second 'hapless husband' role this year) and Jodie Foster you're in good hands. The great Christoph Waltz, however, really takes it to another level, and his smarmy, smartphone-obsessed lawyer is the shining star here.

#77. Nights of Cabiria (Le Notti di Cabiria, 1957, Federico Fellini)

Another of my top 250 catch-up, I went into this one a bit apprehensive since I'm not the biggest Fellini fan. To my surprise I mostly enjoyed this one, with the sassy mini-dynamo Giulietta Masina adding heart and soul to yet another largely incoherent Fellini fantasy. I was on the verge of believing this could have been an exception to his 'carnivalesque' oeuvre (he says with a very pretentious tip of the cap to Bakhtin) with some semblance of realism entering the mix towards the end... but then, oh the final sequence. It even has a carnival in it for no reason.

#76. The Best Years of our Lives (1946, William Wyler)

Another in my top 250 catch-up which coincides with an ongoing 'maybe I should watch all the Best Picture Oscar winners' project, this somewhat depressing film deals with three veterans of WWII (one with hooks for hands) who all return to the same small town after the conflict, and their struggles to reintegrate into 'normal' life. It's got a largely spirited message but the characters at times seemed so flawed that I didn't quite buy the ambivalence they were supposed to be feeling. It might be more an interesting historical statement now than a perfect film, but it's well put together and worth a look.

#75. American Psycho (2000, Mary Harron)

This is one of very few instances where I've read and enjoyed the book before encountering the film, so my main apprehension going in was that half the book was completely unfilmable. Fortunately Mary Harron struck a decent balance, not shying away from the shock factor while omitting Easton Ellis' more electrifying sequences (plenty of in-puns here for fans of the book). The film dwells more on 80s excess in general than on Pat Bateman as a figurehead for the culture, but the satire is very nicely toned, and the business card sequence is one of the most brilliantly hilarious I've seen this year.

#74. Crimes & Misdemeanors (1989, Woody Allen)

Oh dear, I have a feeling I may have to mention Anjelica Huston again. There, I've done it. This was classic Woody Allen territory, with flawed characters, both jaded and unrequited romance, a delightfully pretentious git played by Alan Alda, and a central theme of trespass and its various consequences. It's hard to cover such an ensemble piece in a few sentences, but suffice to say that this film and its excellent cast did not disappoint.

#73. My Cousin Vinny (1992, Jonathan Lynn)

I was quite surprised to find out after watching this that it was directed by Jonathan Lynn (of Yes, Minister fame), but at the same time it does carry similar hallmarks of hapless characters comically struggling out of their depth. Joe Pesci is the cocky but infelicitous New York lawyer called in to defend his cousin and his friend who are wrongly accused of murder in the deep south. Marisa Tomei in her Oscar-winning role puts in what I can only describe as a lovely performance, and while the film has certain long-bow contrivances, it's primarily an amusing and well-paced fish-out-of-water comedy.

#72. A Christmas Story (1983, Bob Clark)

This is such an iconic film, I think, to people who grew up in a certain time and a certain place. Watching it now for the first time, it's undeniably dated and quite childish. But having said that, you have to have a soft spot for a sweet Christmas story, particularly one that's told with a good sense of humour. I think the voiceover narration by writer Jean Shepherd drives this film and keeps it grounded, where otherwise it may have had a tendency to come across too whimsical and cutesy. Appropriate that I'm running through this one on Christmas day.

#71. Muhammad & Larry (1980, Albert and David Maysles)

And I round off this block of 10 with a sad and uncompromising documentary from the inimitable Maysles brothers. It deals with the commercially-driven push for Muhammad Ali to come out of a well-earned retirement for one last fight against Larry Holmes - a fight he had no chance of winning. It's a tough indictment of the world of boxing and its fans that there is this hero worship and love of spectacle that ultimately leaves at least one man bashed and bruised and gasping for breath. The Maysles hold a steady, subtle hand as we watch the drama unfold naturally.

And with that, I bid you a fond adieu until the morrow, in which I will probably put up two chunks of ten in order to catch up and finish the countdown on New Year's Eve. I shall now leave you slavering over that thought like the dogs you are.

Films of 2011 Part 2: 90-81

2011-12-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

Well now that I'm in full countdown mode, I imagine very little introduction is required. So I shall simply kick on with the next block of ten. Eh?

90. Hud (1963, Martin Ritt)

Ah, Paul Newman. He makes men's clothes fall off just by looking at them. Which is why this film was quite a pleasant surprise, to find him playing a troubled, reckless and potentially irredeemable youth stuck in a small town that doesn't want him. The main trouble I had with this film is, firstly, I have such trouble detaching myself from Paul Newman's charm that I can't fully suspend disbelief when he's in this character. Secondly, it was a little bit slow in the middle. Aside from that it's worth checking out for his performance.

#89. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004, Wes Anderson)

I am quite a fan of Wes Anderson, and while this particular less-acclaimed of his works was a bit over-ambitious and befuddled at times, it remains a good romp. I think by this stage I've seen enough of Bill Murray doing depressed and middle-aged, but solid support comes from Cate Blanchett and the great Anjelica Huston (who will crop up again later in this post I'm sure). There are some very funny Wes Anderson-esque lines ("Don't shoot him. He's an unpaid intern") and a fast-enough pace to carry this over the line. Nevertheless, I was actually a bit surprised this wasn't lower on the list.

#88. Animal Kingdom (2010, David Michôd)

It was a big surprise to me to hear that a small-budget Australian film was doing the box office rounds in the US earlier this year, with Jackie Weaver subsequently receiving an Oscar nod. However, knowing the success of the Underbelly series, it seems that we Aussies do gritty crime pretty well. And this was no exception. A subdued wash over the film gives it an air of simmering tension, and while the muted performance of James Frecheville seemed a bit alienating at first, the whole thing gets a big pay-off in the end. It's hard to talk about why this film is good without spoilers but all I can say is it's worth sticking it out if you're bored at any time.

#87. Out of Sight (1998, Steven Soderbergh)

Okay, this is the first of the films I watched purely on the recommendation of Filmspotting which has a love affair with Soderbergh and puts this film in their 'pantheon' with such classics as Citizen Kane and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Why? Well, I'm still not sure. This is a fun crime heist with a surprisingly good chemistry between Clooney and Lopez, but even with the Don Cheadle factor thrown in, it's still just a fun crime heist. It's entertaining, at least.

#86. The Fighter (2010, David O Russell)

Okay, I really wanted to hate this film. It's an Irish Raging Bull. Or, really, it's every 'poor kid grows up in the wrong environment yet still makes good' film since, I don't know, Rocky? I'm sure even further back than that. Trouble is, you put David O Russell at the helm and throw in Christian Bale, Amy Adams and a wonderful Melissa Leo and not even Mark Wahlberg himself as the lead and foil can ruin it. There's ultimately nothing particularly innovative about this and I'm kind of disappointed that this was Russell's latest choice for a film, but it's a good, reliable boxing movie.

#85. Scarface (1983, Brian De Palma)

This is obviously one of the films I really needed to catch up with, this late in life. I mean, I've already missed the stage of my early 20s where you can run around yelling "Say hello to my little friend" and for it still to be cute. If I can mislead you down the garden path for a second, this film was everything I expected it to be. Which is to say, it was alright. I found Tony Montana to be vile enough that I stopped caring what happened to him about halfway through the film (even before you're meant to) and when you've got half of a three-hour film to get through without caring, it will end up as #85 on your list. A lot of people have this at the top of their 'all-time favourites' list.

#84. The Battle of Algiers (La Battaglia di Algeri, 1966, Gillo Pontecorvo)

Part of my top 250 catch-up, this down and dirty look at the events leading up to the Algerian push for independence from France manages to be both tense and epic at the same time. We're not given much of an insight into character as it's told more as a sequence of vignettes about freedom fighters/terrorists (depending which side of the Mediterranean you're on) doing what they do - namely blowing shit up. It didn't excite me as much as it could have, which is why it's as low down as it is, but intrinsically it's excellently put together and definitely worth a look.

#83. Devdas (2002, Sanjay Leela Bhansali)

One of two Bollywood films I caught on SBS2 this year, this seemed at first to be going in conventional romantic love-story directions before alcoholism, marital abuse and prostitutes starting being blended in (also, is there always a prostitute? What's with that?). This film is quite insultingly long, but I appreciated the grand scale of it and it definitely had me mostly gripped throughout. Plus, Bollywood music and dancing is just joyous, isn't it? Can I get an amen on that?

*Crickets*

#82. Mansfield Park (1999, Patricia Rozema)

Now, I'm preparing to check my testicles at the door when I admit that I can be partial to a well-told Austen story. And while this film adaptation of 'the comedy Jane Austen loved best' would have benefited from having a Colin Firth in it (ideally the Colin Firth), it was cute and mostly fuzzy, adeptly capturing the mood of the age, and the casting and performances were pretty much great across the board. Can I just say as well in its defence, who wouldn't love a story about a poor girl trying to marry her cousin?

*Crickets*

#81. 50/50 (2011, Jonathan Levine)

So I know this film hasn't made it into Australian theatres yet (Whoo for totally legitimate online streaming sources) so I'll try not to spoil it too much *cough The Butler did it cough*. While this is undoubtedly a charming pathos-filled comedy, it fell down a bit for me by the fact that it was so aware of itself as a charming pathos-filled comedy. Gordon-Levitt plays the young man who is diagnosed with a rare form of spinal cancer, and his performance is deliberately muted throughout as he tries to deal with the news. My favourite part here was - as with Steve Zissou - the wonderful Anjelica Huston as his mother, while I didn't wholly care for Seth Rogen as his best mate. He's just playing Seth Rogen, but to be honest the bro-chemistry (bromistry?) didn't quite mesh for me.

So that's the second chunk done. I hope you all have a very enjoyable Christmas Eve and I will be back with a surprise present for you all tomorrow (hint: it's #80-71).

Films of 2011 Part 1: 100-91

2011-12-22T21:28:00.000-08:00

So I've been watching films like a crazy person this year (crazy people watch a lot of films, right?), thanks largely to completely 100% legitimate online streaming services that I can utilise on my lunch breaks. For much of the second half of the year I've been tossing around the idea of doing a countdown of all the films I saw this year because, as anyone who knows me should know, I love ranking things and making lists. It wouldn't do simply to do an alphabetical rundown of all the films I saw, or a top 10 highlights package or anything, I had to rank all of them (125 all up) and from that, construct a top 100.

Now, the way these posts will work is this: I will be counting down in blocks of ten - one post a day - concluding on New Year's Eve with the big unveil. This means of course I will need to do two posts on one day to catch up. Before I begin, I just wanted to run through some housekeeping rules:

1) Each film on this list I saw for the first time this year. So included in this list are films released this year but also any other movie that has never crossed my viewing radar before, for various reasons. There are some very big films on this list that I'd just never caught up with. So apart from 2010 Oscar contenders, and potential upcoming 2011 Oscar contenders, there is also the result of my trying to finish all the IMDb top 250 films I hadn't seen, and a bunch of recommendations from various sources (largely Filmspotting) that I thought I should catch up with.

2) Each film I must have watched all the way through. That should seem pretty self-explanatory, but for example even though it was really obvious where 'Julie and Julia' was going, and the bits I didn't watch I could hear from the bedroom because Bec had the TV up too loud, I'm discounting it.

3) Each film's ranking is based entirely on my own personal preferences. There are many universally revered films that will be low on my list, and plenty of movies regarded generally as crap that get popped up, because I liked them. This also means that expectations may have played some part, and films that disappointed me will be slammed as a result. Even though I think this should go without saying, don't take my opinions as gospel, unless you are also prepared to don a silly cloak and follow me around bowing in constant reverence.

4)Once I have finished counting down to number 1 I will do a supplementary post of all the films that didn't make the cut, and I have to say I was surprised at some quality titles that got knocked off. I think because I was picking and choosing, there just weren't many truly bad films I caught this year.

So without further ado, I shall begin.

#100. La Grande Illusion (1937, Jean Renoir)

An odd place to start, and I think a low ranking that disappoints the Woody Allen fan in me. Watched this as part of my top 250 catchup - even though it hovers around that #250 mark and, at present, is no longer on the list - and all I can say to explain its spot in the doldrums is that it was simply unmemorable. It's about three guys imprisoned in WW1 who subsequently escape... But aside from that, I can't tell you much. By-the-numbers plotting, not a lot of stand-out scenes or impressive imagery. I wasn't bored watching it, but I'm a bit bored trying to come up with interesting things to say about it. Certainly a re-watch could be on the cards; maybe I didn't fully appreciate its subtle craftsmanship.

#99. How to Train your Dragon (2010, Dean DeBlois/Chris Sanders)

Okay, how embarrassing, from a French classic to a modern largely kid-focused animation. This was another part of my top 250 catch-up and it ultimately was entertaining enough. If I had to criticise (and I must, I simply must) I would call it predictable, and largely lacking in the sardonic sense of humour that makes animation accessible to a wider adult audience. Plus ultimately, the plot is kind of just Monsters, Inc. without the humour or the imagination. Oh and also, as far as I know Vikings didn't speak English with Scottish accents. That little hiccup aside (in-joke for those who've seen it) (OK, fine, I'll explain it. The main character is called hiccup. And he's little), it was quite good fun.

#98. Batman (1989, Tim Burton)

For some reason I missed the beginning of this franchise when it first came out. Oh, that's right, I was 4. Still, I felt I needed to catch this up particularly after watching (later post spoiler alert) Batman Begins and the Dark Knight for the first time, so I could do a comparison. To be perfectly honest, this one doesn't quite make the grade of Nolan's reimaginings by any stretch of the imagination. Jack Nicholson seems a little too obvious a choice to play the Joker and as a result he seems to be going through the motions here. Plus there's a bit too much comic relief here and it just wasn't as dark as I'd been led to believe. Again, entertaining enough, but Chris Nolan really added something special to this franchise, and to me it's fairly easy to see how this fairly mediocre opening film ended up as Batman & Robin.

#97. Jackie Brown (1997, Quentin Tarantino)

Ah, Tarantino. Such a polarising guy. Well, to me at least. I can never really bring myself to truly love anything he brings out, and to me he's really more an entertainer than an artist or anything. With Jackie Brown, most pundits felt he'd dropped the ball, and I'd be inclined to agree. It just lacks a bit of his usual flair and his iconic comedic asides. It's still a stylish crime romp, but no part sticks in the mind like the "Stuck in the Middle with you" or Big Kahuna Burger sequences.

#96. 300 (2006, Zack Snyder)

To be perfectly honest, I didn't want to watch this film, even this year with all my free lunch-break time. The concept of a film-length battle sequence in sepia-toned uncanny-valley graphics just made me shudder. In the end, it didn't disappoint, although there were times when I felt it a bit tedious, as there's only so much of this one concept I can watch. You can pretty much just fast-forward through all the bits that aren't Leonidas yelling "THIS IS SPARTA!" and you've seen the highlights. It's a big bag of macho silliness, and it's fun - but little more.

#95. Vicky Christina Barcelona (2008, Woody Allen)

People lump this together with Match Point as examples of how Woody Allen hasn't totally lost the point of late. Now since I loved (LURVED) Match Point, it seemed appropriate that I would love this. I liked it; it's got a classic Allen "it's complicated" love plot and the performances from Rebecca Hall, Javier Bardem and particularly Penelope Cruz are top-shelf stuff, but in some ways it left me hollow. I think it's meant to, but I mean in the sense of unfulfilled potential.

#94. The Hustler (1961, Robert Rossen)

Ah, Paul Newman. He makes men's clothes fall off just by looking at them. Which is why this film finds itself quite low on the list. I felt the mood of this film was quite dour and unsatisfying, and I found myself lacking sympathy for most of the protagonists. It's obviously an ambivalent kind of film with Newman's Fast Eddie Felson a bit of an anti-hero, but it dragged quite a lot in the middle and by the time it got to the conclusion, I was expecting a bigger pay-off than I received.

#93. Cape Fear (1991, Martin Scorsese)

Now to spoil the list a bit, I didn't catch up this year, nor have I ever, with the 1962 Cape Fear original. Yep, that's right, you can stop reading, I knew you were waiting specifically for that. So before I watched this, my sole knowledge of this film was the Cape Feare episode of the Simpsons. While I was at first surprised by the lack of people stepping on rakes in this, I was also quietly amused by the contrivances and far-fetched plot twists. I did, however, read an interesting article on this film called "Re-Evaluating the Hitchcock Formula" in a book called "Film Remakes" that gave me an added appreciation of some of the classic thriller techniques used by Scorsese. In the end, it's a bit of a farce though and is carried almost entirely on the shoulders of a wonderfully creepy De Niro performance.

#92. Thoroughly Modern Millie (1967, George Roy Hill)

Okay, well those who know me well will know that my crowning achievement as a copywriter for Harvey Norman was an ad for Miele kitchen appliances with the headline "Thoroughly Modern Miele". That was all I knew about this quite stupefyingly silly comedy-musical before some friends and I sat down to watch it as a kick-off to 2011, on New Year's Day. And my God, what a ridiculous little film it is. From the racist undertones that would make DW Griffith proud to the dialogue, which is so farcical it's hard to tell if the scriptwriters were trolling or just plain stupid. There's no doubt in my mind that this film would have been further down the list if not for the fact that I watched it in such good company, with everybody enjoying the absurdity of the plot and script. I would thoroughly recommend watching this with good friends, and try and appreciate it in those terms, rather than on its own.

#91. We Need to Talk about Kevin (2011, Lynne Ramsay)

So we wrap up the first block of ten with the first film of this year. And what a joy this was. As you know, I love frat-boy comedies, and this is one of the most flatulent and low-brow of the lot, just catnip to me. I've also been lying a lot in the last few sentences. Meditative and haunting as this film tries to be, I found it a bit self-conscious, as though it was trying too hard to be this poetically cathartic explosion. It manages to be unsettling, but I detached myself easily enough because it was so overblown, and while some scenes are masterfully evocative, the film as a whole didn't really speak to me.

So with the first ten done, it just falls for me to say be sure to tune in tomorrow as Miranda finds out who the father of her demon octopus baby really is. Good night, all.

Gilead: A Companion Review

2011-01-12T02:27:00.001-08:00

Firstly, before I begin my review of Marilynne Robinson's Gilead, I would like to apologise for how ridiculously long-overdue this post is. This is not directed so much at my readership (Hi, Dad), but at the readership of Catie, who has kindly put off posting her companion review of Robinson's companion-novel Home in order that I might finish my review first. Secondly, I would like to apologise that in spite of the foot-dragging and time spent on this, the review is still a bit half-baked owing to the fact that I didn't really feel all that affected by Robinson's otherwise wholly competent and skilfully written novel.

Gilead is a novel in the form of a memoir, ostensibly written by an ageing pastor, John, facing his final days on Earth in a small midwest town. It's all written in first-person reflective form and focuses largely on the themes of mortality, spirituality and grace. There is also a strong emphasis on notions of the 'self' and identity; as the narrator says in describing a sermon, there are three ‘selves’: 'the self that yields the thought, the self that acknowledges and in some way responds to the thought, and the Lord.' (There is possibly room to do a Freudian reading but I'm not touching it with a ten-foot pole).

As our narrator nears his inevitable final day on Earth he seeks to leave his young son (who is addressed throughout the book as 'you') with a comprehensive collection of thoughts to remember him by. His intentions are complicated by the unheralded return of the town’s prodigal son, Jack, the son of his best friend and fellow pastor. The book/memoir begins to take on the form of a personal struggle, as the narrator grapples with twin threats: Jack in the present, as well as his memories of Jack from the past, to which he has failed to reconcile himself.

His conflict is intensified as Jack starts to get along well with his (John’s) wife and child; and he wavers between wanting to warn his family away from Jack, and wanting to remain gracious and forgiving in his final days.

The narrator keeps returning to this trichotomy of self as he describes Jack as his ‘other self’ (Jack being the colloquial form of John - Jack was actually baptised after our narrator) and, being a pastor, God is an implied omnipresence looking over their interactions and – one hopes – guiding his conflicted self as he looks to impart his wisdom through these pages.

The struggle introduces an emphatic theme of forgiveness and grace; and his communication takes the form not only of a memoir but also a reflection; he frequently has to check himself as he verges on value judgements which are unnecessary and unwelcome in the rationalising and sobering thoughts with which he wants to leave his son.

One of the shortcomings of this theme is that through the constant conflict, and correcting himself, we kind of lose the character of the narrator in the process. The memoir style and the fact that it is all addressed to 'you', forcing us to see it through the eyes of his son, makes it less about him and more about his ideas, and the occasional contradictions - while apt - sometimes made me lose track of whom I was reading and he emerged at times as an irritating Hamlet-esque character. In spite of his waverings, it was obvious that he would eventually spill the beans on Jack to his son, and at times I felt like yelling "Just do it already!" at the book, although I actually didn't feel like that, because that would be a bit weird.

The memoir style starts to drag on a bit towards the middle where I felt I'd had enough of his reflections, and then just when you feel the book might be dragging on, the memoir style almost fails itself as it starts to take on far more of a straight narratorial style. John begins to dictate to the journal not only what had happened 'in the past' but also what is happening in the present - or rather, the events of the past 24 or fewer hours. Jackbecomes not only this uncomfortalbe figure with a shadowy, questionable past that John keeps trying to avoid mentioning, but also an uncomfortable, slightly unwelcome figure with even more shadowy present circumstances and he elucidates Jack's past gradually as he narrates Jack's present.

So while I started to feel slightly uninspired by the mid-section, I started to feel a bit incredulous by the end as the book, in its ambition to maintain an unconventional narrative voice, took an inevitable slide into more conventional 'this happened. Then he said this' kind of techniques.

My major criticism with the book, though, lies in its ending. Without giving too much away (and remember, it's a dying memoir, so presumably when it ends it means our narrator is dead), let's just say it doesn't end with any highly cynical meta-sentence like "Oh my God, son!! You'll never guess what just ha-" *book ends abruptly* Instead, the book ends very, very neatly, with the plot tied up and even some room left for a few concluding, carefully chosen resolution-style remarks to summarise the book's themes.

I'm sorry, but life just isn't like that. Therefore I feel where Gilead's ending is concerned, art does not imitate life. It's quite possible that I'm coming at this book from a too wordly, cynical perspective, given that Robinson's emphasis is on spirituality and themes rather than gritty biographical realism, but I thought a little ambiguity in the ending wouldn't have gone amiss. Instead our 'I could die any moment' narrator is given a convenient chance to finish his epilogue and leave the world with a complete memoir, which bleeds into my pet peeve of authors giving us too much of an idea what we're supposed to think. All it really did was make me over-conscious of the fact that I was reading not a memoir but a book, and a book written by someone who was trying to make a point and draw out themes.

So, criticisms aside (and my gosh there have been a lot, haven't there? Aren't I Mr Negative), how did I feel about the book? Well as I said at the start of this blog post if you'd bothered paying attention, it was a bit of a middle-of-the-road work. I believe in many ways I'm completely the wrong audience for this book, but I also feel that people who are the right audience for this book will get little more than I did out of this book, other than a reaffirmation of their own thoughts about forgiveness, mortality, etc.

And there's a lot to like in this book, too. Robinson's musings on spirituality and interpretations on scripture are intriguing, and her extrapolations from the notion that grace ultimately comes from God into the 'real World' are where the book works.

But then those strongest points are nothing I feel strongly about, and therefore while there's nothing to dislike outright about Gilead I also found nothing to fall in love with either. It's a good book - possibly even great - just not my cup of fur. (That's a ridiculously arch reference, by the way)

As Clarkson would say, and on that bombshell, I'm a pompous twat with my head up my ass.

Blog Revival?

2010-10-26T17:03:00.000-07:00

Hi there, all the really bored netsurfers out there who have so reached the end of their tether that they decided to hit up my blog and read some public toilet reviews for old time's sake.

I've been getting this strange, uncontrollable desire lately... but enough about that. You'll hear about it in the papers soon I'm sure.

Seriously though I have been wanting to start blogging again lately. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I often express snippets of my opinions in 140 characters or fewer on Twitter, but sometimes my opinions are so wordy that I require more than 140 characters to do it. Just sometimes, though. And then this desire hits me to write up my opinions in full, together with my trademark snide sarcasm and pointless cocksucking swearing, in order that future generations can ignore them.

Trouble is my blog's been so dormant for so long. I occasionally come up with an idea for a post but am nowhere near a computer so can't post it or even draft it up; and whenever I look at my blog all I can come up with idea-wise is to write (again) about how my blog's been dormant for ages, and I can't come up with any blog post inspiration.

So here's the deal. Anyone who comments on this post will get to pick a topic - no matter how obscure or abstract - on which I will be forced to write a blog post. Like seriously, the mandibles of your average house termite. I'll write about it.

And by 'anyone' I mean, you know, a few people, preferably who aren't bots. I feel fairly safe in making this promise rock-solid because I feel that the maximum number of people who ever read this are negligible at best, and is nobody at worst (myself included).

Anyway, it's out there now. Get those comments rolling!

Flotsam in a void

2010-03-08T14:54:00.000-08:00

So for one reason or another, I just visited my blog for the first time in about a year, and for the first time in about three years, I kind of missed having a place to rant online to the ether.

Especially as I spend most of my days at work now basically telling other people who are ranting online to the ether, in so many words, to "turn that frown upside-down".

Not that I'm going to rant today. I just thought it would be amusing to post something on my blog and see if anyone notices. I wonder if my Dad still checks this daily, or if he's given up on me... I bloody would have.

United 93 vs Snakes on a Plane

2006-08-24T05:44:00.000-07:00

In the space of less than a week (and totally by coincidence, I might add), I've seen two movies at the cinema dealing with life-threatening situations on planes, and I just thought it would be interesting to look at the different ways in which the filmmakers dealt with the same basic premise. Now I'll do this in a point-by-point fashion, just comparing little aspects of both films until we have reached a verdict as to exactly which one extracted the most ambrosia of quality out of the thing-from-which-ambrosia-comes of story. And indeed, it is sentences like that last one that lead people to dependence on drugs like alcohol and toad poison.

So here we go.

POINT NUMBER ONE

United 93 dealt with a shocking, devastating true event that changed the way we see the world, in a captivating way.

Snakes on a Plane dealt with a farcical, ridiculous concept with no grounding in reality whatsoever and did so in a very silly way.

POINT NUMBER TWO

The makers of United 93 had clearly done a great deal of research into the people that were actually involved on that day and obviously had a great deal of sympathy for all of the characters, including the terrorists.

The makers of Snakes on a Plane quite clearly didn't give a shit about the characters except the ones who had large tits or could yell in a very loud, very black voice.

POINT NUMBER THREE

United 93 had a carefully constructed real-time plot with eerily everyday dialogue and human reactions.

Snakes on a Plane used endless, unbelievably inane dialogue as it limped from one Deus ex Machina situation to the next.

POINT NUMBER FOUR

The makers of United 93 had recruited a cast of unknown, amateur actors which lent the film an air of foreboding realism.

The makers of Snakes on a Plane had recruited a cast of unknown, amateur actors which lent the film an air of really bad acting.

POINT NUMBER FIVE

United 93 had a number of powerfully moving moments as the doomed passengers passed loving farewell messages on to their families.

Snakes on a Plane was full of shallow, schmaltzy faux-sentimentality in the spirit of the Hollywood credo that life-or-death situations always make everybody incredibly horny.

POINT NUMBER SIX

United 93, although viewed from the perspective of the plane who supposedly 'fought back against the foreign black murdering bastards', there is a minimum of obnoxious, Americo-centric heroics.

Snakes on a Plane stars Samuel L Jackson, and is therefore a non-stop montage of obnoxious, Americo-centric heroics with the occasional piece of plot development thrown in.

BUT THE FINAL POINT-

United 93 had no snakes on a plane.

Snakes on a Plane did.

THE WINNER? Snakes on a Plane, obviously. Hands-down.

P.K.Simpson & Co.

2006-07-22T04:14:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was watching late-night TV (as you do), and as I was getting increasingly and more violently irritated by the barrage of ads for phone, internet, SMS dating and Jenna Jameson's eyes being blue, I was suddenly STRUCK with the collosal, magnificent power of The. Single. Greatest. Ad. In the history of everything ever. Now brace yourselves, you're entering a new dimension from which it will be impossible to extract oneself because of the sheer overwhelming force of the ecstatic bliss that accompanies the knowledge of what I am about to divulge.

It consisted of a plain blue screen - I mean, genius right there, yeah? Whoever could conjure such magic? And not just any plain blue screen, but a plain blue screen, WITH WRITING ON IT. I mean, have you ever dreamed up such a concept? The masters are always the ones who break the rules, who take such a simple concept and twist and meld it to form their own little pattern until the rest of us can only look on, enviously, like Antonio Salieri, and wonder, how does he do it? How does he make it seem so effortless?

Yet there was further divine sorcery afoot. As I watched this ad for the Traffic Injury & Compensation soliciting firm P.K.Simpson & Co, jaw gaping moronically, the voiceover spoke the immortal words by which I shall henceforth guide my life. A slogan from the heavens above, words that Jesus Christ himself couldn't conjugate, that make the combined works of Shakespeare, Chaucer and Dickens look like the Sun Herald TV Guide's interview with Paris Hilton.

"Homer doesn't work here, but P.K. does"

O ye speaker of divine truth, I bow down before my immortal creator and suckle at the ground ye made, I am but a groundling, a wretch, in the face of such eternal wisdom.

Heavenly visions aside though, I would dearly love to jump on the promotional bandwagon, because genius like this is something I want to heavily encourage and foster to blossom, and bloom, and grow, into something beautiful and precious for the whole world to enjoy.

So if you've received an injury at work and want to make a claim, don't be embarrassed, come and meet with one of the solicitors at P.K. Simpson & Co. The first consultation is FREE and can be arranged after work hours.
Call Sydney (02) 9299-1424 now, or visit us at Level 6, 49 Market St, Sydney.

If you have a query, simply email enquiry@pksimpson.com.au, and we will call you back.

Homer doesn't work here, but P.K. does.

Disturbing Self-Revelations

2006-07-04T18:25:00.000-07:00

On my recent weekend trip to Orange, aside from receiving a constant chiding from my father and brother (hickory sticks and everything) to post on my blog more often, I also came across something else which inspired me to post.

One of Jez and my tasks while we were up there was to go through a plethora of kitschy crap that has piled up in boxes and cupboards and bags all through what used to be my bedroom, and decide what of it was worth keeping (such as the giant papier mâché cat sculpture with huge teeth my aunt gave me for my fifteenth birthday) and what was utter and complete crap (my birth certificate, photo albums, sporting and academic awards, etc.) Anyway, while we were going through a box of papers on which I had written or drawn (badly. I seriously can't stress how bad I was, and am, at drawing) at some time or another, I came across a piece of writing, clearly in my own hand, that really rather disturbed me. Given the explanatory sidenote that my own grandparents are called Eula and Lloyd, here it is, in its entirety:

THIS IS WEIRD BECAUSE LLOYD IS NORMALLY REALLY TWINKLETOES FAIRY MAN

Winter
Terry spends all his time in his room
Grandpa Lloyd gets worried
He decides to take Terry & Grandma Eula up Mt Fosho (a long task without cars)
They catch a train and begin climbing up (with huge rucksacks)
Terry is always complaining about the cold
Grandma Eula cracks and rants and raves non-stop
As they go up, Grandma Eula is getting more & more annoying
She is driving them crazy
Grandpa Lloyd threatens to throw Grandma Eula off the edge
Grandma Eula continues to rant
Grandpa Lloyd cracks and loosens Grandma Eula's grip on a rock
Grandma Eula grabs his hand and they both fall down
They take the food with them (By the way, they are dead)
Terry runs down and finds them dead.
He has to survive on the food.
When it runs out, he has to eat his grandparents.
When other people come up, he gets rescued
Police find the remains of Eula & Lloyd
They arrest Terry for murder.
Terry gets sentenced to life.
He likes getting locked up in solitary confinement.
AND THEY ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Now what really disturbed me about this, apart from the fact that it's just plain weird, is that despite the fact that I clearly wrote it, I have absolutely no discernible memory of doing so. I don't know when I wrote this, I certainly have no idea why I wrote it, and I am absolutely stupefied as to what particular substances I was smoking at the time.

This disturbance was compounded further when Jez came across a couple of other pages featuring the exact same characters, one of which was a map of the house in which the three lived, and the other was a table listing their particular character traits and habits. So this wasn't just some isolated baby-panadol-induced hallucination, this was some sort of weird serial with unnecessary character depth. While it helped to explain a couple of the more ambiguous passages in the above opus, it ruined my ability to laugh it off as a freak occurrence in my otherwise sane and mentally-undiseased childhood. Just for illustrative purposes, here is the table in the best reproduction I can manage, without being bothered to screw around with fancy HTML commands:

Reads:
GRANDMA EULA
Horror
Crime
GRANDPA LLOYD (From other side of family)
Flower Fairy Books
Barbie Magazine
TERRY
Comedy
Mystery

Plays:
GRANDMA EULA
Shooting Games
Electric Guitar
GRANDPA LLOYD
Hungry Hungry Hippos
Triangle
TERRY
The computer
Saxophone

Likes:
GRANDMA EULA
Listening to AC/DC
Taking Heroin
Lifting Weights
GRANDPA LLOYD
Listening to Janice Ian
Cooking vegetarian meals
TERRY
The TV
KFC
Macca's

Dislikes:
GRANDMA EULA
Grandpa Lloyd
Terry
GRANDPA LLOYD
Grandma Eula
Heavy metal music (That includes opera in his opinion)
TERRY
Grandparents
Spending time in the house outside of his room

So realistically, this latter portion should have clarified it a lot. I mean, there's a fair bit of material in there that helps with the dating and it's clearly just me being silly and over-the-top, but at the same time, it's still creepy (I mean, the heroin reference really isn't cool), and the fact that there is more than one of these suggests I should really remember it. Especially considering my memory of the weird, Freudian mess I call my childhood is usually pretty acute (For example, the story Jez told at my 21st about me and my 'body exploration' in kindergarten class was nothing he was present for, I gave him that story word-for-word specifically so he could use it at my 21st). So basically my discovery of these strange works was sort of like watching a video of oneself age three playing a game of bathtub 'find the cucumber' with Uncle George that one had successfully repressed.

But then again, it's been fairly well established that I'm a strange individual, so why should this make a difference?

11 Pages of Utter No Sense

2006-02-02T03:09:00.000-08:00

For want of a real post, and because I'm bored, I thought I'd share with the world a conversation had by me, Bec and Cat via Microsoft Word in BAC a few months ago (I just know it was in the middle of the exam period, can't provide an exact date), largely because I know the three of us often refer to this conversation in a somewhat amusing context and it might make more sense if everyone could read it. So although this is going on my blog, it was of course a group effort.

(I have tried to establish who was typing at the start but it gets really hard later on)

Bec:You see the guy with black hair, your 2 oclock, with the black shirt

Sam:Yes

He’s julian, I’ve bumped into him three times now in the space of one week. It must be fate

That’s not such a bad fate… he’s pretty dreamy

I’m wondering should I go over and ask him about the test?

No, I think you should go and ask him to a movie…

Hey cat, julian the choice guy choice bro?

I don’t get it but anyway, oh…..

Hey cat, I bumped into him outside target at Macquarie centre, the one thatsam used to work at, turns out that he LIVES in epping, and has beenworking at target for a few months the same target that’s three shops awayfrom MY WORK!!!!

Woah, freaky… hehehe

Hang on, he just turned around properly, he’s not really dreamy at all, Iretract my statement. PS This is confusing with three people typing, andI’m Bec

NOOOOOOO, my identity has been stolen, I’m THE REAL BEC

Damn you all, you know I’m bec!!

Yeah well I must be Bec because *Bec laugh* see? Nobody else can imitate mylaugh!

No, I’m bec because I don’t use capitalisation….damn Microsoft word autopunctuation thing

Hehehe, you don’t fool anyone!

Yeah, see I don’t use capitalisation either, so I’m bec

Hang on, surely we can learn to share and care, i mean, surely there’s lotsmore bec to go around

Well yes I mean I’m sure there’s a little bit of Bec in everybody…*sings* ‘and a little bit of this and a little bit of that and shake yourbum…’ *claps*

*raps* I’m Bec, yes I’m the real Bec, all you other Becs are just imitatingso would the real Bec please stand up, please stand up, please stand up*stops rapping*

I’ve stood up, *stands up* so I’m the real bec I must be anyway this issillyJulian, let’s get back to him, this is fate I tell you all

Shut up Sam, stop pretending to be me (Bec)

No, sam’s just obsessed with julian, bec, that’s all

It’s so dangerous opening word, it just ends up being a silly conversationhehe it’s funnyJulian is funny

Last time didn’t it turn into a silly one-line-at-a-time hard-boileddetective story instead?

That was classic literature… we need more of that

Money reaping classic literature…or mmmmoooooorrrrreeee studying? Hmmmm

Money reaping! *sings* ‘I want money dododo that’s what I want’

*sings* sugar dodododododo oh honey honey…

Will you be my nasty girrrrrl. Feisty little one

Feisty… or nasty?

Either suits me

But not sweet?

Hello, I’m James and I’m an alcoholic.\\sdlkgjas

Hello james! Are you drunk?

Ioruweoirwiutyoqejdfsnmj wevn, weofj,dcx

Youre a very good player Scripto20.And no, you’re not expected to get that.

Go away you random thing, here we don’t tolerate that sort of randomness!!!

*sings* oh ypu random thing, oh you random thing

Randomly sexy? Hello?? Hello??

No, I think my sexiness happened for a reason.

Am suddenly very curious, for what divinely inspired god given reason?(by the way I can’t believe that sam is managing well reading his lecturenotes AND participating in this)

Why not? It’s like a real lecture

Yeah, you’d be surprised how many similarities there are between discussingepistemological theories of intelligence and this conversation.

You in other words you have been reading theories and also applying thosetheories at the same time?

Oh hell yes. Me very epistemological.

What does it mean? The computer won’t tell me… *sulks* I keep thinking thatother word that means where wordes come from and stuff

I think I know a word that cat doesn’t whoa…..

Well, you see wordes are born when a mummy worde and a daddy worde loveeach other very much…

And then what happens uncle sam??? *bec tugs at uncle sam’s shirt wantingmore information*

I’ll wait till you’re older and can download it for yourself…

So uncle sam, if you have a whole bunch of wordes, what is the proper wordfor a collective noun describing a group of wordes?

I’d say a whole bunch of wordes is sufficient terminology…

Bloody wordes, ther’re too many of them these days, why don’t they all goback where they came from?

/A giant super duper mummy worde and giant super duper daddy worde?

Yes, Bec *pats on head in tentative, oh my God this bitch is fucking insanekind of way*

*bec slaps uncle sam*

*uncle sam starts getting disturbingly aroused*

Ewwww, that’s so wrong, she’s your niece….

*bec slaps cat*

*uncle sam deliberately misreads “niece” as “nice” and says* She’s not justnice, she’s also NASTY.

*bec slaps uncle sam feistily*

*cat brings out the pillows*

*as julian is exiting from the building*

Wouldn’t it have been funny if he’d come over and read this?

*bec slaps uncle sam*

*as uncle sam, a grown man, cries and takes his hanky out*

You must have slapped him pretty hard…

and uncle sam is lost* for words?

Nah nah, ‘WORDES”

Yes, all those bloody wordes went back to from whence they came

Where did the bullet come from uncle sam????

The bullet came out fromnowhere……

No it didn’t, I just shot you cos I’m sick of getting slapped…

Climatic moment in the thing, *bec gets shot, and falls*

Noooo!! Why? She was so young? Bec, bec, can you hear me???

*bec mutters ‘my dying wish….world peace…world pea….’ And dies*

MEDIC! MEEEEEEDIIIIIIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *starts sobbinguncontrollably while looking at blood gushing from Bec’s wound*

Does anybody know CPR? Where can I find a world pea?

In a world peapod, silly.

Ok, where can I find a world PEAPOD?

Good question. But I still say it’s lucky she wanted a world pea, insteadof world peace, for example. Because I have NO idea where we’d find aworld peace.

Hahahahahah ha ha ha…. Yeah… what a stupid idea THAT would be

Perhaps she meant world piece, like, a piece of the world.

Bec you’re dead. Stop typing. And I’m not Bec.

Whereas I’m a recantation of bec, so there!

I was hoping the ambulance would get here in time, and so on, but now itseems we’re stuck with this recantation… recant?...

Yes and instead of the ambulance, we just got a whole lot of ambivalence…

Hello? Can I type here?

Maybe you didn’t die, you just went on a diet, and it was all a typo

Type? Typing typo? It was all a type

Of goose

Ahhh, so this is what they mean by the slipperiness of language

No, they actually mean the slipperiness of LUGGAGE.

Especially if it’s leather, and gets rained on

A leather luggage that reigns?

I’d vote for that

I’d veto that

I’d Danny De Vito that

Danny de Vito’s hat?

Danny de Vito shat?

Presumably at some point

The point of shagging? Shatting? Difference?? (does anybody out there getme?????) (well at least I thought it was funny,…sort of…)

Well at elastic I thought it was.

Well at elastic, I. thought it: “Was”

Was elastic

Well at elastic, I thought it: “Wash”

Elastic washes well

The elastic well washes

The electric eel washers

*shocked* BOOM BOOM

The eclectic seal wishes

(the mitsubushi electric bulldogs)

The elective well wishers

Bee collective shell fishers

She collects sea shells

She sells sea shells by the sea shore?

By the see-saw

You see? That saw?

That store? Youse see that saw?

Youse see dat mofo?

HABIB!!!!!!

El Bashu

El Bash-U

I’ll Bash you?

You’re bashful?

I’m brash-ful

Ful of brash?

Full of trash

Brashy trash, and a little tiny rash?

Brassy trace, and a tinny bass

Barren race and a shiny face

Oooh, deep. Poetic, beauty, SUMBLIME

Darren Hayes and a shiny face

Poetically beautiful sump-line?

Poetically beautiful sump oil

Poetically beautiful strumpet?

Trumpeter with a big brassy thingThing, ‘thing’. Whatchamacallit? Or trupet? Or trumpet?

Mister trump holding the trump card.

Boom boom? Definitely deserved one. Yeah.

Sam and zoned out

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sitting in a tree

Z z z z z z z

Hello, I’m Sam, and I’m a sittinginatree

Hi Sam! You can beat this problem with our handy ten step program

Wait wait, you ARE shattinginatree, you’ve been such a BIG fan of yours

That is, without a doubt, the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.

Okay, okay, so you’re not, no need to get all aggressive about it

Just cos YOU haven’t had ‘enlightenment’

How to reach enlightenment, now in a handy ten step program

Silly, you start with step one….But if you ring in the next fifteen minutes, we’ll throw in these bonussteak knives!

St ives?

I don’t know if I want enlightenment, but steak knoves… and I’ve alwayswanted to go to St Ives, lots of cats I hear

What’s a steak knoves?

That’s what I want to know. Hence the appeal of winning

Winning enlightenment? What, you say?

Steak knives and st ives? PLUS CATS???? Talk about jackpot(and bigamy)

As I was going to st ives, I met a man with 7 wives, and I asked if hewanted free steak knives

Well as I was going to st ives, I met a man with 7 knives, and I asked ifhe wanted free steak wives.

Well I was going to st ives, I met a Woman

Well I was going to st knives

I met a cat with 7 lives

At st wives?

I met a wife with 7 cats

YOU met a WOMAN?? Tell me about her…

A woman, who was a wife, who had 7 cats, who each had 7 steak knives

You do the maths

Did each steak knife have 7 lives?

7 cats + 7 steak knives = one badass mofo killing machine

HABIB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

KEBAB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FELAFEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BANKSTOW!!!!????????

PADSTOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PADDINGTON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHERE????????????????

THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ON THE STAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I DON’T CARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

IF I DON”T SHARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

STOP STARING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

STOP STARTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

STOP FARTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

POP TARTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

POLE VAULTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PAUL VAUTIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FATTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHATTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHANTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHANNON NOLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GRASSY KNOLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GRASSY NOEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*sings* I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…

CLASSY KNOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GLASSY KNOCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GASSY ROCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

giGANTIC KNICKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FANTASTIC FLICKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nine pages of nonsense

No sense???

No cents???

Nine pints??? Or is that just going too far?

Too far???? Ooo fart (bec loves LOVES toilet humour)

Was just noticing that… *tut tut*

Bec loves aqueous humour

Watery femur???

Wafer-thin lemur?

Waffle linen

mmm… thses sheets are so soft and sugary

Gough Whitlam

Axed prime minister- axe murderer?

Fax machine

Fart machine

Dart board

Fart board haha got in before Bec

Fart hoard

Fart stored

Fart ward

Mark Waugh

Steve Waugh

Phil Waugh

Evelyn Waugh

Feel war? Even A war?

Evener wart??

We started off sane…And now INsane

But I wanted to get OUTsane

And OFFsane?

Or ABOUTsane

Or BEHINDsane

It’s just NOTTHEsame

It’s just not cricket

I know someone who eats crickets, barbecued

CHILLI FLAVOUR

LIGHT N TANGY

But not chicken

Cricket and not chicken

It’s not CHICKEN!!!

Nor butter chicken

Sorry just wanted to look at the in-joke I used earlier…Because couldn’t remember what it was

And it was the “Youre a very good player Scripto20” line

And we were all confused

What are we doing here anyway?

Living and dying

But what’s it all about, really, when you get right down to it?

If there’s been a better note on which to end this conversation, I haven’tseen it

THE END

Adolf Hitler uses "Jew-gon" brand Hydrogen Cyanide!

2006-01-19T01:35:00.000-08:00

I don't know if anyone's noticed this, but in DVD stores these days... or at the very least, in the Virgin section of Myer - I haven't checked out any other DVD stores for a while - but the occasional DVD has a little sticker on the cover with a picture of Alan Jones and the caption "Alan Jones recommends" (or a very similar sticker, but with the name and visage of Jackie O instead).

Now, I have manifold, passionate and minutely detailed opinions about this newfound phenomenon, but to begin with I shall be succinct, brief and immediately to the point-

WHO

GIVES

A

FUCK

??????????

I mean honestly, who goes into a DVD shop, or a DVD section of a department store, and says "Gah, so many to choose from, if only I could have some guidance from an unenlightened dickhead celebrity with a brain the size of a male quark's left testicle?". I mean, what irritates me most is that it implies people who shop for DVDs are unable to make up their own minds. But what irritates me more-than-most is the further implication that a movie's merits alone aren't enough to warrant its buying... I mean one of the films emblazoned with one of these icons-of-evil is "E.T. The Extra Terrestrial" and are you seriously telling me that someone is likely to think "Hmm, ET... Sounds like a bit of a dodgy movie, but hey, Jackie O likes it, it MUST be good"

And this isn't something new, obviously; We all know it's been around for years and years, ever since the likes of James Dean et al. strode the planks of stardom and the 'celebrity' age was born, we have been brainwashed with this belief that what's good enough for some famous person is intrinsically, and without any need of evidence, self-testing or independent thought on behalf of a human being, the product to buy. Now admittedly, the average demographic of readers-of-my-blog are slightly more educated than people who would go and buy a tube of "E-Z Melt" glue after hearing Icarus testify that "I never use anything else" *Colgate smile*, so therefore I will bypass the two really obvious getters-of-Sam's-goat, namely the fact that A) It is with only the slightest amoeba of possibility, at best, that any celebrity actually has the foggiest idea which company it was who paid them ten trillion dollars to say "I heartily endorse this e-vent or product", and B) that Alan Jones and Jackie O, as ambassadors, are about as clever as the marketing manager of the Rolf Harris school of wobbleboard and about as effective as a “Quiet Please” sign at a Slipknot concert.

Instead, I will go on to mention the most galling and mind-boggling factor of all – that there are people out there who would actually be swayed by these stickers. I mean, I don’t know this for certain, I haven’t yet heard of people telling our Virgin employees, “Well you know, I’ve never heard of Gone with the Wind, but Alan Jones said it was worth a look if you enjoyed You Got Served. So I thought I’d give it a go” but it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Not because it’s logical, or a good marketing ploy, or because Alan Jones or Jackie O have the tiniest iota of taste in movies, but because it is the tragic and devastating truth that Australian people are stupid. Now, leaving aside the obvious fact that I am Australian and therefore this rule cannot apply to EVERYBODY, I will nevertheless provide you with a few short bits of evidence to show how quite overwhelmingly moronic and suggestible the Australian public can be:

1) Schnappi das Kleine Krokodil exists. And was successful enough to bring out a second single.

2) The Cronulla riots.

3) John Howard is in power.

4) Crazy Frog exists. And was successful enough to bring out a second AND A THIRD single AND AN ALBUM.

5) Australians continue to believe they can escape the drug sensors undetected at Indonesian airports.

6) Big Brother and Australian Idol are able to plan yet another series for 2006 and know that they will still be Channel Ten’s highest rating shows of the year.

7) Some people respect the opinion of Alan Jones and Jackie O.

And I know that all in all it does no good to complain apart from making me feel better having gotten needlessly angry and ranty about something trivial and completely unimportant. There will always be the mindless zombies out there, I mean if they didn’t exist, mass media itself wouldn’t exist. And that would be a terrible world in which to live, wouldn’t it? All I can say is that I think the message of The Lorax by Dr. Seuss rings ever more true, presented with these sad truths about human nature:

I said to the Lorax, “You poor stupid guy,
You never can tell what some people will buy”

What transpires, however, in this timeless and almost Orwellianly prescient work, is that it is not the Lorax himself who is poor and stupid but the whole damn lot of humanity. And so-

Let the coming apocalypse befall the cursèd heads of Alan Jones and Jackie O when we find ourselves astride a desolate and Godless rock, extinct and void of the beautiful Truffula Tree.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Sam Reviews Public Toilets V: Macquarie Shopping Centre

2006-01-06T04:20:00.000-08:00

I thought it high time, considering I haven't written about the places (and toilets) I frequent most outside of uni hours that I review:

Part V: Macquarie Shopping Centre (Food Court)
(Herring Road, North Ryde NSW)

Capacity

Very good. There are about eight cubicles and even during the busiest hours of the food court (which are even busier than the same hours at Carlingford), I've always been able to find a spare one. This is also the first toilet I've reviewed with individual urinals rather than a trough, and while I have no preference, it seems, for some God-unknown reason, that people actually prefer using these to troughs, and so it's not as common for people to use a cubicle for no reason other than male insecurity and shyness as in other places. 9/10

Cleanliness

Fairly poor. Although I never see people using the cubicles often, they really like to fuck around with the toilet paper and leave it lying everywhere. The floor is often quite wet as well - although this isn't quite as bad as in Manly, since I am usually wearing shoes when I'm in there. But considering the frequent rounds made by Macquarie cleaning staff, I think it could be better maintained, especially during quiet hours. 4/10

Washing Area

Good and bad. There are lots of taps (so many so that they stretch around a corner) and they're fairly easy to operate. But, as I have frequently become incensed at, all taps (and that means, for the whole centre, not just this particular toilet) spray out only hot water, which means it's really difficult to get a free drink. I personally think that's really poor form and is bordering on sociopathic by centre management. Okay and hurrah for encouraging enterprise by forcing people to buy cool drinks but I mean even the Horse & Jockey pub is legally required to provide cool drinking water if you ask. Plus they only have automatic dryers - and they're pretty hard to keep going. I remember the highlight of my week a couple of months ago was that I managed to keep one of these air dryers going until my hands were satisfactorily dry. 5/10

Tszujiness

Average. It's white and clean-looking but it's so early-nineties in its decor. It could seriously do with a Thom Felicia-style makeover (Although I'm not sure if he really does bathrooms). I mean, it's fine but there's just nothing attractive about it. It's just a toilet. And considering what all the Westfields are doing to their toilets, I'd say it's time for Macquarie to stick a crowbar into their wallet and renovate up. 3/10

Overall Satisfaction

Considering my main purpose in here these days is to shoot up, it's very good because capacity is what I care about. Otherwise it's pretty satisfying overall, I mean it's the sort of toilet you can use in a hurry when having lunch or something and be safe in the knowledge that you'll get a cubicle or urinal and you probably won't catch cholera. 6.5/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System

1) Ryde RTA Motor Registry
-> 2) Macquarie Centre Food Court
3) Carlingford Court Ground Level
4) Manly Beach Surf Life Saving Building
5) Top Ryde Shopping Centre Food Court

Sam Reviews Public Toilets IV: Ryde RTA Motor Registry

2006-01-06T04:12:00.000-08:00

Part IV: In the Ryde RTA Motor Registry
(Corner Blaxland & North Rds, Ryde NSW)

Capacity

Small, but I would say modest. While it's a busy place, it certainly isn't the first place you'd think of for a toilet to be and so therefore I would say it serves a minimal number of people and the one-person-wide trough and one cubicle is probably plenty for the number of users. 7/10

Cleanliness

Pretty good. I should make allowances for the fact that, as I said, not many people would use these, but nevertheless it's pretty well maintained. The smell is one thing I noticed, very well balanced and deodorized. 7/10

Washing Area

Only one tap, which could be a letdown but in my case it wasn't. Again, due to its lack of regular business I'd say, clean and free of any massive splashback. Hand towels for drying and a bin for safe disposal. I approve heartily. 7/10

Tszujiness

Well, meh. What can you expect? But I mean, even your average house can do better than this, but then they may entertain more often. This place isn't exactly a bag of laughs. 4/10

Overall Satisfaction

Considering I was in such a shitty mood at my treatment by the RTA staff and the way they like to make life all the more difficult for people with a medical condition, I was pretty well satisfied with these modest but nicely hygienic and welcoming toilets. 7/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System

-> 1) Ryde RTA Motor Registry
2) Carlingford Court Ground Level
3) Manly Beach Surf Life Saving Building
4) Top Ryde Shopping Centre Food Court

Macarthur Park is the greatest song ever

2005-12-25T01:39:00.000-08:00

Before I start with my rationale why Macarthur Park is the greatest song ever, I would like to issue a challenge to all those who read this title and thought "Heheh, Sam's being ironic - like that stupid pile of semi-musical horse shit is even worthy of the title of WORST song ever" to prove, logically, empirically and definitively with reference to at least TWO respected scientific journals, why it is not the greatest song ever. It cannot be done. Therefore, logically, it simply MUST be the greatest song ever. But for those sceptics who would like to throw my own arguments back at me, asking me to prove my own points, well I provide you with the WHY.

REASON NUMBER ONE: It was sung by Richard Harris. How many songs can claim that they have achieved this incredible feat? Well, eight, it seems. But of all the songs in the world that are generally regarded as 'the greatest ever', virtually none. (Although "How to Handle a Woman" did once make it to number 834 on the 'most popular songs ever' list produced by the national recording company of Malawi). Anyway, the fact that Macarthur Park was sung by Richard Harris in itself makes it the greatest song ever, as found by Vingerhoetz et al. in the distinguished and really down-to-earth empirical scientific journal, volume 34 issue 2, September 1968, which stated that "Any song made by anyone who isn't Richard Harris is NOT the greatest song ever"

REASON NUMBER TWO: It is about a cake. This is singly the greatest idea in the history of music since some guy said "Hmm, I think I'll invent music", and what's more is that writing a song about a cake is incredibly difficult in itself. But what makes this song even greater and therefore intrinsically worthy of the title 'greatest song ever' is that in this case, the cake is simply used as a metaphor for what was seemingly a nicely fulfilling springtime romance with a young person of the ladyship persuasion that was tragically fated, and will never happen again. The brilliance of using the cake as nothing more than a metaphor is a mark of absolute genius that alluded such other similarly themed opuses as "Pat a Cake, Pat a Cake" (Although there is a rumour that this latter song is very subtly and sinisterly a revelation of who really assassinated JFK). Furthermore, this metaphor is joined by the greatest simile ever put onto parchment, "Like a stripey pair of pants".

REASON NUMBER THREE: It's really, really long. Often this would be considered a downside but in this case, since it is a song about a cake, it is a feat worthy of smacking the ground with one's violently-dropping jaw in absolute awe. It is barely even imaginable the idea of being able to insert one line about a cake into any song, let alone drag out a song about a cake for seven minutes plus. Just imagine John Lennon trying to produce an extended version of "Imagine" to include the bridge:

Imagine there's no cake
And no chocolate icing or whipped cream either
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one...

Would that work? Of course not. But in the case of Macarthur Park, not only does the cake theme MAKE the song, but it transcends the whole song. This is more than a song, ladies and gentlemen. It is art itself.

REASON NUMBER FOUR: Unlike all other songs, it is actually ENHANCED by being played on the tabla. This is not because the song by itself is poor, but in the same way that it being about a cake makes it so much better than it would be if it weren't about a cake, an otherwise unbeatable, perfect song is only made better by being played on an obscure, non-musical instrument from the Asian subcontinent. It is the genius of Richard Harris' original version that makes the original absolute perfection and yet made better in subsequent, tabla-involving recordings. No other song can claim that it anticipated further recordings to the point where it was perpetually destined to be improved in this way.

I hope I have put you sceptics in your place. No other song, in the history of everything, can claim to be by Richard Harris and use a cake metaphor as its primary theme. This stands in the face of any contrary evidence and proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Macarthur Park is the greatest song ever. It is a sad fact that Richard Harris is now no longer with us, and knowing that, like him, we (the human race I mean) will, indeed, never have that recipe again.

Sam Reviews Public Toilets III: Manly Beach

2005-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

Part III: Manly Beach (In the yellow surf lifesaving building)
(North Steyne, Manly NSW)

Capacity

Somewhat less than adequate. There are two cubicles and that's it. I imagine that during any busy periods, there could be lines out the door. And as I'll get to in 'cleanliness', this could be fairly unhygienic. The trough is average size, three people can stand there without feeling uncomfortable. 3/10

Cleanliness

Oh dear. There's something about beach toilets - I mean I don't know what is involved in the maintenance of such toilets but starting with Brighton-le-Sands (I think it was actually Monterey, thinking about it, but we started in Brighton and just walked down the beach) my experience with beachside public toilets has been pretty abysmal. So I think maybe 'nothing' is what maintenance of such toilets involve because seriously, it's quite bad. And it's made worse by the thought that people might be walking on that stale urine-soaked floor with bare feet. Mercifully I was wearing thongs at the time but if I had not been, well let's just say I'd happily hold it, or at the very least I'd be grateful for my proximity to the water, so I could wash and scrub them clean. 1/10

Washing Area

This was a shade better. The taps were pretty crap but at least they were normal faucet-style ones, rather than push-button that just vomit out one sudden gush of water and then stop. Unfortunately, only air dryers. And crappy old ones, at that. 5/10

Tszujiness

It's a purely practical facility. I daresay they assume there's no need to make the toilets nice since it's a beachside suburb and nobody really cares about what's in the inside. Plus everyone presumably urinates in the water anyway. We all know what surf people are REALLY like. Having said that though, if it weren't so filthy, it might look okay. They were going for some sort of tile-floored, concrete-wall motif I'd say, with a stunning diamonte fleur-de-lis that sadly didn't make it to the final blueprint. 5/10

Overall Satisfaction

It's difficult to say considering I really did need to go to the toilet when I went in, so upon leaving I was really quite relieved. Whether I was satisfied though, that's a different story. And a different answer. Which would probably be 'no'. I mean, they could have been alright but realistically they're bloody filthy. 4/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System

1) Carlingford Court Ground Level
-> 2) Manly Beach Surf Life Saving Building
3) Top Ryde Shopping Centre Food Court

Engrish, it's a funny old game

2005-12-09T22:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday when I was waiting for a bus at Epping Station, I was looking at a 'housemate wanted' flyer stuck to a post that had obviously been written by an international Macquarie Uni student (Is there any other type of Macquarie Uni student, by the way?) which had a delightfully incorrect piece of punctuation. Essentially it just had a comma where it should have had a full stop, and vice-versa. But the unfortunate result was that the final sentence read thus: "Non-smoking student wanted, including electricity and gas."

Although I can understand that getting a student who didn't come with gas would be quite irritating, it's obviously not what the author of said flyer was aiming for. Anyway, if there is a clearer example of what a silly and unforgivingly confusing language English is, I can't find it. Just two little symbols round the wrong way, and you get a sentence so hilarious some idiot who'd just had a long, hard, hot day at work would memorise it and use it as the basis for a blog post. What pathos.

I have realised lately though how much it would really suck to have to learn English because there are a million and one rules governing it, and a million and one exceptions to every single one of those rules. I mean it becomes quite apparent when walking through Lakemba on a Friday night which I do very often that half the people who were born here can't even speak a bloody word of the language. The other day I even said, totally accidentally (for once), said "more better" and I have no idea why - although the flagellation I gave myself as a punishment will remind me never to do it again.

But this has also been striking me a lot lately because I've resolved to learn to speak a basic level of the Chinese language - not just because Bec is Chinese but also because I deal with innumerable customers at Myer who are Chinese and some of them have a really very tentative grasp of English (Today I spent twenty minutes explaining the benefits of a Sunbeam Cafe Ristretto Espresso Machine to a nine-year-old kid because his Dad didn't speak a word of English - and like a nine-year-old would appreciate the benefit of a 15-bar pump system) so I thought it would be really quite handy if I could communicate to a basic level with them without having to resort to weird, pancultural body language (One lady's frantic and exagerrated hand symbols about a week ago were hilarious, although not quite as useful as the phrase "Excuse me young man, could you please direct me to the locale in which you keep your hand-held body massaging kits?).

To this end, I have learned a full one phrase in Mandarin, albeit the most helpful one in the world of customer service, "Can I help you?" Naturally, the most useful one in the real world is "I sorry, I doonut speeky dee Mandarin" but we're saving that for Advanced Mandarin lesson 1. The amusing part of the story however, is that when Bec got me to 'try out' this line on her mother (who, by the by, actually pronounces the word as "Engrish" which I think is really cute), I sort of mispronounced one word the slightest bit which changed the meaning from "Can I help you?" to "Can I hug you?" which is far more amusing - for me, at least - in hindsight than it was at the time. At the very least though, apart from being ample payback for all the times Bec and I have laughed secretly and maliciously at her Mum's pronunciation of difficult words, it made me realise yeah, language is weird. I mean, I can't even imagine now how hard it's going to be to learn a language in which tone is phonemic (That is, a different tone changes the meaning of a word) when the slightest pronunciation error so radically changes the meaning. Much like my friend 'David' who wrote the flyer mentioned at the start of my post might discover if anyone were ever pedantic enough to bring it to his attention.

However, with all of Engrish's little ambiguities, subtleties and downright silliness, I still can't figure out what the people in that Korean restaurant in Capitol Square were trying to say when they called their dishes "Sexy Chicken" and "Passion of the Eel". Can anyone help me with that one?

Sam Reviews Public Toilets II: Carlingford Court

2005-12-09T21:51:00.000-08:00

Part II: Carlingford Court Shopping Centre (Ground Level)
(Corner Carlingford & Pennant Hills Road, Carlingford NSW)

Capacity

One would assume these toilets have adequate capacity, since there is a trough as well as three cubicles. However, during lunch rush (which is the only time I need a cubicle for, as we discussed, medical reasons), there is a constant rush and everyone, EVERYONE heads straight for the cubicles. So all in all, for such a popular area of the shopping centre, the capacity is actually very poor. Because the trough is actually very small, as well. Only 3 people can fit at any one time. 2/10

Cleanliness

In spite of being very heavily populated, these toilets are actually pretty well maintained. This is because the cleaning staff, as I have seen, are frequently checking up on it; they don't just clean it once a day and so overall I have to say this is pretty good. 8/10

Washing Area

Average. Those annoying push button taps that explode on you and then suddenly shut off. However, at least they provide cold water which puts them miles up on the Stalinist regime known as Macquarie Centre (which we will review later, of course). Only air dryers available, although they are pretty good quality for auto-sensor ones. 5/10

Tszujiness

Meh. They have all the stuff that was once considered trendy and new like the push-button taps and the auto-sensor air dryers but they're still the oldest type available and so they're really just annoying, in the way that a 1980-model computer is. As in, it may have been miles ahead of technology once but now it's just shit and user-unfriendly. However, cleanliness is a bonus. It's really just a very standard, bathroom-y type feel which all in all is all you can really expect. 5/10

Overall Satisfaction

I'm often inconvenienced by these toilets but that's more a problem with patronage than the facilities themselves. It would be nice if Carlingford could provide a staff only male toilet, to go with the female one. I mean I understand the need for more female toilets than male, but still, it's the patrons rather than the staff who insist on clogging up the cubicle system. Overall, 6/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System: "Amazingly" (Sarcasm detector explodes), this beats Top Ryde. Currently 1st.

Sam Reviews Public Toilets I: Top Ryde Shopping Centre

2005-12-07T23:17:00.000-08:00

Well, following on from my rant about the behaviour of public toilet patrons, as well as my super-normal frequenting of such places, both coupled with my desire to satirise my brother's blog and its "Rate the Oporto" section, furthermore added to by my belief that public toilets really should be scrutinised with the same critical eye as, if not to a greater extent than, we apply to opera and interpretive dance, intensified by the knowledge that my blog is distressingly sparse in and wanting of more posts, indeed Sam has forgotten how this sentence began and so shall end it abruptly.

So we present part I in a series of posts (or rather, a series of excuses for posts when nothing else comes to mind) exposing the highs and lows of the Sydney (and beyond) public toilet system. Each venue shall be marked (out of 10) on:

Capacity (How many patrons can fit per urinal trough, how many cubicles there are and how frequently they are NEEDLESSLY OCCUPIED *Sam wipes foam from the corners of his mouth and continues*, etc.)

Cleanliness (Surely this speaks for itself)

Washing Area (This includes how well the taps work including for other purposes such as filling a water bottle, the overall neatness of this area including water splashes, as well as the drying system provided)

Tszujiness (How stylish, modern or unique the toilets are)

Overall (How satisfied I felt upon leaving)

(And I mean, SATISFIED)

Part I: Top Ryde Shopping Centre (Near the food court)
(Corner Devlin Street and Blaxland Road, Ryde NSW)

Capacity

While I was the only patron at the time, it's nevertheless fairly obvious that if there were a dysentery epidemic in Top Ryde, we would be in trouble. The urinal trough is sub-average size, maybe four people could fit if they were particularly close or if one was a child. But worse than this, there is only one cubicle. Fortunately though, it's one of those cubicles with the door to the side of the toilet so if the door is unlocked and you push it open it doesn't smack into the backside of whoever's in there. 2/10

Cleanliness

Dear Christ, somebody please alert Ryde Municipal Council of the imminence of a cholera outbreak. There is a reason I was the only patron on this day, since there's only space for one person in between all the flies that inhabit this - and I use the term in its deepest and most literal sense - shithole. The toilet-related employees (to call them 'cleaners' or 'maintenance personnel' would both be hideous misnomers) seem to think the solution to this is to put more and more urinal cakes in. I mean there are six in this not-so-massive trough, at least two of which are quite obviously empty of any disinfectant-cum-slightly-banana-scented-air-freshener. And the final crowning glory of this putrid pit of pestilence is that the lock on the cubicle door is broken. I know that's technically not cleanliness but it does add to the overall neglected, I don't give a shit who catches what instantly lethal and rapidly contagious infection from these toilets, feel of them. 0/10

Washing Area

I'd say partly because nobody ever dares venture inside, splash wise this was okay. However, the cold tap on the left sink was broken, and yes, there were only two taps. I mean I know Top Ryde food court isn't the major place to hang out in Sydney but still, gah, poor poor poor. Crappy old air dryers as well. 2/10

Tszujiness

If this toilet were in the middle of a slum in plague-ridden London, I'd still think it was a bloody mess. I mean, quite frankly it wouldn't be too far to wish that this place were walled off as a hazardous waste zone. Useful only as a torture venue. 0/10

Overall Satisfaction

An absolute bloody disaster. You'd be better off shitting on the pavement. 1/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System: Currently 1st

Public Toilet Etiquette

2005-12-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

Before I begin today's rant, I should like to make it publicly known that this post is not in any way inspired or influenced by the recent spate of bombings, kidnappings and harming of innocent kittens that has followed my inability to post of late, but as I always stated, simply comes from my actually having something rant-worthy about which to rant for the first time in a long while. So, just in plain words to all those impatient hustlers out there, your insane schemes to intimidate me did not work, your lord and master Samuel has simply finally deigned to write to satisfy your plebeian thirst for drivel. Also, I'm really really really sorry I took so long to write and please don't hurt me *Sam cries and wets his pants in fear*

Anyway, down to business. Something that's always somewhat irked me but only recently has begun to actually piss me off to the point of mouth-foaming and complete stranger's head smashing with a ballpoint hammer is, as the title to this post would suggest, public toilet etiquette, or the lack thereof displayed by practically every male in existence.

Firstly, something which I've noticed for a very long time but seems to have only really become prevalent lately, is why does every single male, upon entering a public toilet, insist on clearing his throat in the most
disgustingly phlegmy way (in a room, let's not forget, with quite excellent acoustics) and hocking it into the toilet bowl? So okay, farbeit from me to complain about a place specifically designed to expel our bodies of substances in this way, but seriously, does everyone need to make such a public display of VOLUME as they do it? It's quite amazing but there are no exceptions to this rule - young and old, rich and poor, Caucasoid or Australoid, it's like the one thing that unites men across the world - no it's not Dr Martens boots - is making revolting throat noises in the bathroom.

I realise that in some respects this 'lack of bathroom etiquette' is in actual fact a triumph for otherwise public etiquette, in that it's no longer acceptable to spit in the street, but still, why the noise? I very rarely hear guys proudly displaying the noise produced by certain other activities that go on in there (in spite of what may have been mentioned in that pre-honours English tute recently) and honestly, I mean I know it's the most hygienic place to do it, it just astounds me that every time I enter a toilet, that's all I hear, over and over again - HWOOOOOOIK!

However, what really, really gives me the shits is nothing to do with hygiene but rather simple manners. This matter rather revolves around the use of cubicles in male toilets. This recently made me unutterably mad at Bondi Westfield when I was clearly waiting for one of the three cubicles, all of which were occupied, when this dude walked in and was about to head to the urinals when someone exited one of the cubicles, at which point this dude completely ignored me and wandered in...

Now when did it become the norm for males to want a cubicle to urinate? Honestly, the reason there exists such a thing as a urinal is that it is NOT genetically preordained for a member of the masculine gender to require sitting down when expelling urine. In fact, one of the greatest spots for male bonding is when two guys take adjacent spots at a urinal, each one takes a covert glance across, which is followed by either – a nod of respect from one to the other, or mutually between the two, or a sympathetic eyebrow raise – and from that moment on, an understanding is formed and a relationship exists. However, if you cloister yourself away in a cubicle, it’s either because you’re ashamed, or because you’d rather read graffiti that form alliances with other members of the male species. Either way it’s just plain antisocial, in more ways than one.

Because seriously, the reason it annoys me so much is because I don’t just use the public toilet, and cubicles in particular, for conventional purposes. I also use them as the setting where I give myself insulin shots. Call me crazy, but recently diagnosed as I am, I’m not entirely comfortable standing with people buzzing about me while I stab a needle into my flesh – and I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable with that. Besides, who seriously wants to see someone else doing it? It’d be like, ooh I don’t know, making everybody listen while you clear your throat of mucus… As in, it might seem perfectly normal to you but other people have their own views.

So all in all I’d actually say I have a medical reason for wanting a cubicle, not simply because I’m a little wuss boy who’s afraid of a male bonding ritual that goes back further than punching-each-other-in-the-head competitions. That means, and I’m singling you out, people who use the ground floor toilets at Carlingford Court near the chemist, you’re interfering with the treatment of a serious medical condition and if my feet fall off at the age of thirty because you’re too afraid to urinate next to someone else, I will personally come around and hack all your extraneous limbs off as compensation.
Stay tuned for my next series of toilet-related posts. Seriously.

Happy Birthday, Where's my tart? I want chips and tart!

2005-09-07T11:53:00.000-07:00

Yes my lovely readers, today marks a year since I first created this wonderful interface between reality and Sam's disturbed mind, and O, O what a year it has been. It's been a year that's seen war, death, famine, pestilence ride the ebony tram ride from one side of oblivion to the other, we've had fun, we've had laughs, we've had tea and biscuits and jam, what next, I ask? What next?

Well I guess we can't really see that far ahead right now. As the great philosopher Doris Day once said, "With a whisk-whisk here and a whisk-whisk there and a dustpan for the cinders, with a rub-rub here and a rub-rub there she could polish up the winders". The relevance of this quote to the future and the fact that whatever will be will be varies depending on how much vodka I've had of course, but the quote stands and will stand forever more.

So as a brief celebration of this momentous occasion, I thought I'd share with you a few highlights of my darling blog's life. Just a reminder of the very first entry ever to adorn its lovely, lovely pages:

Blah
I dunno, it seems I may have to create a post in order for there to appear anything on this page. And God knows I'd hate for anyone to miss out on the excitement of seeing a URL with "Sean's Beard" essentially included...

Astonishing eh? Such an indictment of the incredibly eloquent and flowery speeches to come. Or at least, remarkable to marvel at simply how far I've come, from the early days when I used my blog purely for the purposes to whinge to these days, when I use my blog in such a completely different way and for totally different purposes... Yes indeed.

So who could forget these classic moments?

- Me trying to investigate the origins of the term "axe wound"

- My critique of the Responsible Service of Alcohol educational system

- Melbourne Philosopher's brief adventure onto my blog at the mention of the word "pretension" which formed a great sympatico between me and him

- My description of behind the McDonald's grill

- Anonymous's Noel Coward-esque repartee "I think it's pretty clear that you are a nerd. Well done douche-bag"

- My insanely long, insanely pointless discussion of Norse mythology and etymology

- My philosophical musings on beauty and despair

- My rantings from an empty psychology experiment

- My foray into the world of our Vice-Chancellor and the substances he inhales

- My admission that I really am a nerd and a douche bag

- My in-depth analysis of war and cupcakes

- My educational discourse on the reality of Diabetes

- My pompous, self-congratulatory list of highlights from a year of my blog.

Ah, *wipes tear away from eye* the memories. Oh, such memories. You simply can't buy memories like this. Oh to think what happiness this ranting forum has given so many thousands around the world, ah 'tis to weep... And to think how much potential there still is waiting in her wings, ah when I think of all the wonders this world has to offer, all I can do is borrow from that other great philosopher Louis Armstrong, and say "Now she wants a butter an egg man, a great big butter and egg man from way down South"

Deep.

Hi I'm Sam, and I'm a diabetic...

2005-08-30T18:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, it’s official. At about 9:15 this morning, I was diagnosed with type I diabetes. I also did other fun things today, like throw streamers around the room and dance to Proclaimers songs.

But what does having type I diabetes mean? Well, medically, I have very little idea except that it makes me thirsty a lot as well as having another dreaded symptom known as “polyuria” which, while sounding like the name of a sun-laden tropical island, is something altogether and entirely different and not quite as much fun.

Being diabetic though, also means other consequences for me. Firstly, the three basic food groups for me are no longer sugar, Manning chips and beer, and I have to learn new, frightening words like “wholegrain”, “complex carbohydrates” and “alpha glucosidase inhibitors”. Essentially I will be put on a diet that consists of two alfalfa sprouts every two hours, and if I feel like a snack I can have a drink of distilled water through an eyedropper. Secondly, since I am insulin-dependent (another one of those frightening biological terms that you always hear but don’t ever want to know what they actually are first-hand, like “enflamed sphincteral cancer”), I will soon be required – yes, required – to shoot up once or twice a day. While they are going to start me on an insulin program first, after a while I’m sure my cravings will get stronger and I’ll start desiring the more psychotropic opiates. It’s only natural, really. And of course, finally, I will be forced to give up my life as a sardonic English student and instead wander the countryside in rags with bells hanging off me, moaning “Unclean, unclean”

Of course, you all think I’m being a bit flippant about this, don’t you? It’s true, I am, I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s funny but I finally learned through this what it means to be in the ‘denial’ phase. I mean for months now I’ve been exhibiting these really strong symptoms, without knowing what they would mean. And then as soon as I’m told I’m diabetic I suddenly feel a bit pissed off and a bit down and wanting to laugh it off. I mean, obviously my reaction would be a lot worse if I were told I have terminal dysentery or something, but it’s just funny that I need to wait for a diagnosis before I actually get annoyed at being unwell. It’s like, I’d rather just have this bizarre constant dehydration for no medical reason at all than to have a reason and hence be ‘labelled’.

Which is another thing that troubles me. Now I know this, am I no longer ‘normal’? Does this mean I will no longer be able to point and laugh at lepers and plague victims? Instead will I need to be shipped off to Molokai and get electric needles stuck in me on a daily basis? Are people actually going to step back and pull a handkerchief over their mouth when I introduce myself? Yeah. I totally, absolutely, believe all these things are going to happen. (Nah - I’ll always be able to laugh at lepers and plague victims)

What’s horrible though, is that I’ve found out I basically have this illness (syndrome? disorder? What to call it?) because my great-grandfather, George, also had it. This is the same great-grandfather from whom my middle name comes. The middle name I never liked, to the point where I was really willing to change my name legally to Samuel J Fletcher. I’m just thinking, horrible middle name and diabetes. What a wonderful legacy this man has left…

“Son, now that you’re twenty-one I think you’re old enough for me to pass on this disease that makes you crave sugar and be constantly thirsty and tired. When I was your age my father gave it to me, and he got it from his father, and one day you’ll give it to your son…”

I mean still, the poor guy had to live with insulin dependence AND a horrible name so I should definitely give him a break. It’s certainly not his fault that I’m in a pathetic whiny mood, but it certainly is more fun to blame someone. So, to be fair to my great grandpappy George, I’ll instead blame Gandhi. He hasn’t been blamed for anything for a while…

Two Clockwork Oranges

2005-08-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

Yes droogies, 'tis I, your humble narrator, back from a long hiatus of internet-inaccessibility. So much, O my brothers has happened since we last viddied one another but sadly since I can't like remember it all, it shan't be recounted.

However, as I oh-so-subtly alluded to in the previous paragraph by way of blatant plagiarism, one of the more recent things to have happened to me which I consider blog-worthy is my reading of Anthony Burgess' novel "A Clockwork Orange" about which I should like to share a few thoughts.

Firstly however, some comparatively boring background information. Not about the novel, but about me. As Clive James once said, unfortunately every line in my reviews is about me, and not the book. Now as most of my nearest and dearest know by now, for the past two weeks I have been employed by a textbook store chain called Texts in the City which has far greater success making puns on popular cultural references than I do when I try to write blog entries called "My Dinner with Gavin" which A has nothing to do with the film and B refers to a film which is not popular in any way. (Although in spite of this success they do have some shortcomings, in that everyone belives the shop is actually IN THE CITY, as the name may imply, whereas our particular branch of the corporate tree is nowhere near the city, well about as near as I myself am, which isn't nowhere near but is also not entirely in a state of being situated right-smack-fucking-BANG in the middle of)

Anyway, my exhausting and completely necessary work for this store involves standing behind a counter, being paid to read and eat chupa-chups all day. That is of course unless my employers ever read this blog, in which case the store is very very busy and I bend over backwards to completely facilitate the textbook-purchasing inquiries of every single one of my customers of which I have lots and lots and lots. However, in between this mad rush which seriously is driving me bananas, somehow, possibly with the aid of a tardis of which I conveniently erase any memory each time I visit it, I have managed to find time to read A Clockwork Orange.

For those with an advanced degree in Lumièrean history and no-one else at all, it will be a commonly held fact that said book was adapted into a film by the late great Stanley Kubrick in 1971, starring the not-quite-late but certainly great Malcolm McDowell. Certain individuals with an advanced degree in studies in Samuel Fletcher will know the further fact that said film is one of my all-time favourites, being not only wonderful as it is but also very sentimentally adored largely due to whoops I mean completely in spite of its heavy reliance on sex and violence.

Which I think sets the record for the most amount of pointless crap that has nothing to do with the topic however much I pretend it does I have ever inserted into my blog.

So, to the point already. I knew well in advance of reading this that Burgess wasn't himself a huge fan of Kubrick's vision of the film. He also wasn't too thrilled with the idea of his sole contribution to the world as having fathered Kubrick's vision, which would go on to become far more remembered and revered than the original work. And of course, slavering over Kubrick's corpse as I do, I approached this novel with a certain level of trepidation. After all, anyone who disagrees with Kubrickean philosophy must be an absolutely talentless buffoon, must they not?

Well, firstly, I disagree with myself in that last paragraph. What a silly statement to make, me in that last paragraph. The novel is of course written with anything but lack of talent. And the film of course would lose so much of its appeal if it hadn't actually been based on the book, because it wouldn't have two of its key elements, most of the dialogue, and the plot, which are fairly useful tools for any film to use.

Secondly, as most of the film-obsessed nerds I converse with on the IMDb frequently tell me, with any film adaptation of a book, reading the book before or after viewing the film will always add insight to said film. And this is obviously the case with ACO. Having said that though, the biggest omission from the film is any sort of explanation of what the buggery-bollocks "A Clockwork Orange" means, and I had already been told that this insight is actually entered into in the book. What it is, both apart and furthermore from being the book being written by Mr. Alexander when Alex and his droogs break into his house and rape his wife, is an allusion to the idea of government oppression of the masses. As the prison chaplain frequently repeats and gets paraphrased by Sam, "when a man loses the ability to choose, he ceases to become a man", becoming instead... *Sam holds the microphone out to the audience for them to yell what is so obviously supposed to go into this space*... which presumably gets wound up by the government and then just randomly does and goes where they want it to go until they're finished with it.

There was also speculation, which I read before I read the book, on exactly why an orange? One theory, and coincidentally, the only theory I remember, was that 'orange' is a corruption of the archaic 'ourang' from whence we get the term orang-u-tan for example, and which basically means 'man'. I have no idea how much truth there is to that, or how much accuracy there was in my retelling, but that's just the theory I remember. Also, I don't know if it's something I read in the same discussion or my own theory, but I wondered as I was reading it if it was at all an allusion to Death of a Salesman and the line "You can't just eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man's not a piece of fruit" which, having not read that play, I can't substantiate at all, but anyway I thought it was interesting.

But yes, all this was just a roundabout, long-winded way of saying this is one thing I liked about the book. It was mentioned only several times throughout the book so it worked well as a recurring theme. Naturally though, I don't know how they would have included this in the film and of course no reference to it makes it open to interpretation.

The main quibble I have with the book is the last chapter, and something tells me this may be a very commonly-held view from people who watched the film first. The film, as we all know, ends with Alex shaking the minister of the inferior's hand in front of lotza photographers, then cuts to a dream shot of Alex holding a knife and having rampant sex with a 'devotchka' with the voice-over "I was cured, alright" which looks very bizarre and non-sensical when you don't have the explanation of his mind being 'fixed' so he enjoys sex and violence again (which is in the book). Anyway, this is the conclusion of the second-last chapter of the book. Now, I won't renarrate the plot of the final part for you, since you've either read it, in which case you don't need me to, or you haven't read it, in which case I would ruin it for you like all those blasted Potter fans have already ruined the latest book for me by telling me that it's Harry who dies, but suffice to say, well it's tantamount to rubbish. The last chapter, I mean.

Now I decided long ago, but it was really hammered home when I saw Peter Jackson's interpretation of Return of the King that I'm not a big fan of resolution in stories. There is a very fine line, I believe, between a goodly amount of resolution, and ramming a huge load of triumphant, post-battle euphoria up my ass and sticking a cork in. And as Mr. Jackson did in the afore-given example, so too did Mr. Burgess in the predominant subject of this post. Well not quite, since he didn't ham it up to anywhere near the extent, but it was, I think, a very supercilious (is that tortological? Hmmm... I'll think about that next time I'm entering my PIN number into an ATM machine) end to what is at its heart a very deep, interesting and thought-provoking novel. There's a lot that makes your mind tick and makes you wonder, a lot of questions raised about human nature all throughout the novel, and then right at the end it's like *LARGE SPOILER IN THE NEXT FEW WORDS* Oh, I did it all just because I'm young, and now I've grown up, no more violence for me *END SPOILER. SORRY, HAD TO SPEW IT OUT*. Anyway it wasn't that badly done in the book, in fact I quite enjoyed it as I was reading it... But looking back on it now, it just strikes me as one of the interpretations you could give to the plot as it stands, and the fact that it is explained and spelled out in full just ruins the enigmatic effect that a book which is renowned for being enigmatic can have.

But let's stop. I'm not angry with Anthony Burgess, nor did I dislike the novel at all. But overall, it certainly hasn't quelled or diminished my love of the film, and given that one little quibble, chances are I might side with Kubrick in the nude jelly-wrestle to decide whose version of the story was better. But naturally, Burgess did a great job. It's not often you can know everything that's going to happen, and still enjoy the book. I guess that's what's slowing me down in reading Harry Potter. I mean, what's the point when I know Harry's going to die? Stupid Potterphiles... If anyone wants me I'll be in the Angry Dome.

Just a brief war-related rant

2005-06-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

As an organised procrastination activity today, I was reading up briefly on the Geneva convention, my interest in which was piqued yesterday during watching "Kelly's Heroes", which was coincidentally another organised procrastination activity.

The scene which incited me to briefly research said convention involves Clint Eastwood, in cold-as-ice, hard-as-stone, emotionless-as-both-of-these-and-for-that-matter-any-other-non-human-entities mode (unlike all his other acting roles PS I love you Clint) interrogating a German colonel who has been taken hostage, the latter of which frequently asserts "Under the Geneva convention-" before he is cut off by Clint saying some really cool, really tough one-liner only without wearing a poncho and talking to Mexican bandits, which is usually the context of such dialogue.

Anyway, reading up on it, it really makes me think about how stupid war really is. I mean they set down these guidelines so that people don't 'mistreat' prisoners of war, or in some circumstances don't even take prisoners of war at all, and all such drivel. But the fact is, when these guidelines are broken, what difference does it make? One side won't go to the other and say "Hey, that was really shitty how you applied thumbscrews to all our boys until they kissed each other. I think I'm going to give you a right jolly spanking for that"

I mean that's what warcrimes are about right? But what's a warcrime anyway? I mean as far as I understand it, the rules of war are:

1) You need at least two parties
2) Said two parties must disagree on at least one issue (He stole my cupcake, he assassinated the Arch-Duke of Austral-Hungary eg.)
3) Said two parties must then proceed to try and kill as many of the opposing party as possible.

Now given that the point of this game is to kill and debilitate the opposition as much as possible, realistically who gives a shit about added subrules like those imposed by the Convention? I mean, if I were a Nazi colonel and I had an American intelligence officer in captivity, I wouldn't think "Hmm, I'd really love to know when the next invasion is planned, but oh damn I can't torture him or get him drunk, that wouldn't be playing fair. And then America might not invite me to their next birthday party, and call me a smellypants in the playground". No, I'd strap them down and beat the crap out of them until I knew absolutely everything, including what colour underwear the head of the joint chiefs of staff was wearing... But then maybe that's just me.

I mean realistically all I'm saying is it's just a stupid concept, war in general. In essence all it is is just a bunch of people trying to kill each other. But it's synthesised into this structured, glorified, and almost civilised concept - we can't just have people running around killing each other whenever a conflict arises? No, that would be childish and illegal. Instead, let's set up these guidelines and structures and tactics so we can kill as many people as we want and claim it as justified.

Mah, I clearly don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe I should just sit on a beanbag and play the bongos, everything else seems freaky and how now, brown bureaucratic to me...

Marge, there are two types of college guys - Jocks, and Nerds

2005-06-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

In high school, I was categorised under a number of different, yet ultimately synonymous, labels. “Dweeb”, “Geek”, “Dork”, “Brain”, and of course the classic, “Nerd” were but a few of these. At uni, however, I have never found myself branded with such tags. The main reason is that in the higher education system, especially in the prestigious surroundings of Sydney University’s Camperdown campus, the line between “Nerds” and “Anti-nerds” is far less distinct. Basically, everyone who wants to continue learning, and moreover, wants to do it at the place that that Doctor guy with the Polish surname gives talks, is a nerd to some extent.

But of course this definition then leads to a whole number of sub-definitions, or sub-categorisations. And I typically divide these sub-categorisations in terms of a single glass wall – that which divides the room in the south-east corner of Manning Level 1 (more familiarly known, of course, as the SUTEKH room, and to which I typically refer as ‘the Glass Menagerie’ and am waiting for the moment when a busload of Japanese tourists presses their noses against the wall and goes “Ooh, Nerd san”), from the rest of Manning Level 1.

That particularly categorisation, however, only works (or at least, only worked for me) up to the point where you actually sit down and chat with some of the more esoteric inhabitants of said menagerie. Because this is the point where I noticed that essentially they bear a striking, if not uniform, resemblance, to me and my dearest. The largest difference I noted is that they simply know more than me. And this, my dear friends, is the greatest irony in mankind’s evolution, in that the first and foremost reason that I was dubbed titles such as ‘geek’ or ‘fuckingfuckface’ seemed to be that I simply knew more than other people, or was, to coin a phrase ‘more intelligent’.

And so I ask the question: What is the point in being a social outcast if you don’t know more than everyone?

It occurs to me, however that perhaps the major reason I don’t know as much as these people who for no apparent reason put ‘K’s in their society names even though it’s completely orthographically nonsensical, is simply because I’m still that insecure 11-year-old who resented name-calling and who would happily burn a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal if only someone would invite him to their birthday party to eat cupcakes. In other words, have I ever truly embraced my nerdship? Perhaps not.

Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, here, on the greatest dork sanctuary known to mankind – the internet – I stand up with bosom thrust out and proudly declare that I AM A NERD. I admit I read Plato just for the sake of reading Plato. I admit I got a huge power trip when I was the only person in my English tute who recognised that Chaucer’s quote ‘Let me sing of arms and the man’ (House of Fame, Book I) was a corruption of Line I of Virgil’s Aeneid. I admit I feel like kicking the wall when I have all but one clue in the Herald Cryptic Crossword. But most of all, I admit that I like knowing more about something than any given person. And this is not simply because it makes me feel superior to do so, but also because in sharing my own knowledge of a subject, it brings another person one step closer to the veiled round table of nerdhood. (Is there room here for a ‘MENSA’ pun? Probably not, let’s move on)

Interestingly, the further thought often occurs to me that the main reason I no longer come across as remarkably knowledgeable on certain topics is that I tend not to refine, or alternatively, confine, my interests to any particular domain. This is of course both a good thing and a bad thing. It’s a good thing because, essentially, everything interests me. Conversely, it’s a bad thing because in conversation, once we pass the bridge of surface knowledge and begin hiking into the forest of intricate detail and over the mountain of historiographical contexualisation, I generally tend to get a hole in my canteen of ability to continue in conversations or really badly ruined and strangulated metaphors and have to go back to the fountain of giant robotic killer ants to fill it up with the water of sentences that are far too long and make no sense whatsoever.

I do sometimes remind myself of Lisa Simpson in that episode where the Eric Idle-voiced documentary filmmaker criticises her for not choosing a path and following it. Because the trouble is, as soon as I venture down any unexplored avenue, someone invariably comes the other way down it, and hands me a map of the whole street that they prepared earlier. Or at the very least, I see a sign on the corner that says “No Through Road, 6AM-10AM Mon-Fri, Buses Excepted”, and I tend to lose interest, as well as the ability to make metaphors coherent.

This isn’t entirely true of course, since I am just ranting and the truth often gets in the way of a good trough of pig shit, but nevertheless, the three things that have ever truly piqued my interest – movies, writing and Medieval Icelandic Literature – have about as bright a future as when Kennedy said “It’s such a beautiful afternoon, how about a drive on the motorcade?”

Which brings me back to my original point. Is it just that I’m too smart to be normal, and yet not smart enough to be a freak? Or is it just that my particular area of freakishness is incompatible with others’?

Or, radically, is it just how they always taught me in pre-school (in between me vomiting apricot muesli bars and pulling down my pants to impress the girls) that everyone is just different and no amount of social categorisation leads to any amelioration of one’s comprehension about civilisation’s idiosyncrasies? And just as a pointless side note, why can you never use the word ‘idiosyncrasies’ outside the context of sounding verbose for the sake of verbose?

It seems, overall, that I am destined to be rather stuck in the middle. Which I think is the truest possible way of defining me. One minute I could be corrected by someone for accidentally mistaking Milton’s time period to Dante’s (which, for those of you who may not know, is a really fucking stupid mistake for someone who spent more time on his holiday to Queensland reading Paradise Lost than he did cruising the beach inspecting bikinis, to make), and the next explaining the semiotic paradigm of Icelandic family sagas. While I will never fully comprehend the surrealism of The Real Inspector Hound, I will always scoff at someone who says “Stoppard? Didn’t he write that movie that woulda bin shit if it didn’t have Paltrow’s tits in it?”.

But realistically it makes far more sense to stop defining myself relative to others. It makes far more sense to enjoy what you have and revel in yourself. And to that effect I will say, in the words of that great raconteur and wit ‘anonymous’ “I think it’s pretty clear that I am a nerd. Well done douche bag”. However, in a world where intelligence is more intricately defined than simply being the ability to spell the word antidisestablishmentarianism in 4.7 seconds, it’s fair to say that unfortunately, I’m not the smartest person who ever lived.

Fucking Pythagoras.

New Age Peer Pressure

2005-05-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

Well there seems to be something going around tagging people and getting them to answer questions about literature on their blogs... Well at the sounds of the words 'literature' and 'blogs' I would normally have leapt at the chance. Unfortunately I had my ankles tied together with chicken wire so I fell flat on my face when I tried to leap. But nonetheless, I am susceptible to peer pressure and so who was I, really, to refuse this feast for the bored little mind?

Total number of books I've owned: What a quite amazingly stupid question. That's like asking 'how many minutes in your life have you spent asleep?' But in reality, two. You believe me? Then stop asking ridiculous questions.

The last book I bought: "For the Good of the Cause" by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Cheap bargain, really.

The last book I read: "Lady Chatterley's Lover" - D H Lawrence. Didn't really care for it. It was like a strangulated modernist book, it was straining too hard to break through social taboos and as such lacked depth in plot or character and there was absolutely no chemistry between Connie and Mellors.

Five books that mean a lot to me:

1) "The Satanic Verses" by Salman Rushdie - My first taste of the greatest living novelist and still the best. It changed the way I saw literature, the world and my own writing... Especially when I noticed how similar my and Rushdie's styles are, no joke.

2) "The Liar" by Stephen Fry - This used to be my read and re-read book for a long time in high school. It also first inspired my curiosity with Victorian pornography, which I have harboured for a combined total of three seconds or so. It also in no small part inspired my pretentious way of talking and ranting.

3) "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" by Roald Dahl - Need I say more? It's a classic!

4) "1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die" edited by Steven Jay Schneider - This book singlehandedly gave me a purpose and goals in life. I know now what I must do before I can die a happy man. Sure, so 80% of them aren't available in this country at all, and a further 20% of that 80% aren't available anywhere, in the known universe, except possessed by the great-grandson of John D Rockefeller who was able to lay his hands on the original reel which would disintegrate if anyone ever actually tried to play it. But I'm on my way anyway... If I bothered to count, I've probably seen about...100? Maybe? So that's halfway there...

5) "Dirt Music" by Tim Winton. Because it finally added support to my hypothesis that Australian literature is shit.

Tag five people and have them fill this out on their blogs: Yeah, cos that's going to happen. When are you internet people going to learn that chains die with me, MWAHAHAHAHA!!!

My Dinner with Gavin

2005-05-12T19:13:00.000-07:00

Yes that's right, the other day, I had my dinner with Gavin.

Well, it wasn't really a dinner. And it wasn't really mine, and I didn't have it, but if I were to accomodate all these factors into the title of this post, I wouldn't be able to include an obscure literary and/or film reference into the title, and that would be a far worse crime against humanity than taking a little poetic license. The fact is that this post is going to be, as usual, unutterably boring and pointless, so I must make the title as unfathomably amusing as possible in order to keep you reading. I hope I have managed that.

Anyway, the point to this post, which is sort of paradoxical since it really is very pointless and yet has a point *brief pause while Sam's rectum prolapses in utter confusion at this overwhelmingly self-contradictory statement*, is that the other day, Bec and I were walking along the campus of our delightful university for some reason that unfortunately now eludes me but as I was writing the word 'elude' suddenly no longer eluded me, we were on our way to our English tutorial from Fisher Library... Anyway, we decided to take the 'scenic architectural' route through the quad, which involves cutting across that delightfully colourfully blooming courtyard which my parents always seem to have stories about to which I never listen...

I hate to admit I've been sidetracked twice in the last paragraph already and have begun the next ramble with 'anyway' and I was so very close to doing it again with this paragraph... But yes, as we were walking through that courtyard, on one of the side benches was seated our delightful ocularly-misaligned vice chancellor Gavin Brown, who I don't think I've ever actually seen in person, or at least not since I've known who he is, and definitely not up that close (So lifelike, ooooh). Anyway, what was he doing but sitting, chatting to another old and important-looking individual in a similarly old and important-looking suit, and smoking a cigar. Pardon me for scoffing at the tragic destruction of another man's lungs, but what the fuck? We're talking 3 in the afternoon, and he's smoking a cigar? Where does he think he is, in 19th-century Suffolk? Cuba during the revolution? George S. Patton's general staff?

I don't think I'm the one who's totally out of touch, but honestly, who smokes cigars anywhere outside a poker night any more? And in public? It just seems funny to me, that while we're bombarded with casual socialists with Che on their t-shirts, emphatic feminists with 'I am part of the liberation movement' on theirs, or SUTECH members with green velvet jackets (You all know whom I mean), and yet at the top of the administrative pile there really exist these living, breathing anachronisms.

I'm not sure if my question is, what is our quaint, old-fashioned university coming to? Or, what the fuck is Gavin doing smoking a cigar instead of rolling up weed and singing "Give Peace a Chance"? (I think I may be slipping back a few years myself there, but I've already broken the artistic license barrier once in this post, so I think I'm entitled to a second slice from the artistic-license-barrier-breaking icecream cake)

But either way, it was quite a shock to my beliefs as a VSU-hating, tapas-eating, fouton-sleeping, mushroom-smoking arts student. I wonder what the vice-chancellor will be like fifty years from now... If he'll be sitting in the courtyard smoking pot and students walking past will say things like "Oh my God that's so gauche, why isn't he licking hallucinogenic toad poison?" Well you never know, que sera, sera etc.

The other type of "Experiment-gone-wrong"

2005-05-04T12:33:00.000-07:00

Hello there (Presumably whilst holding cup of coffee and stroking dog in front of fireplace and ommitting articles from sentences)

I'm currently sitting in Griffith Taylor room 543, posing as a psychological experimenter and waiting for subjects to arrive. Subjects that were supposed to arrive at 12:00. The present time being 12:23, something tells me they just aren't coming. There are several reasons for this: Firstly, this clashes with a lecture for PSYC 3202 which it seems, nearly everybody who does third-year psych does. Largely because it's compulsory for honours entry. (Why I'm NOT doing it is another story). Secondly, the people who were supposed to be subjects I believe were only informed they were to be subjects, and when and how they could do so, yesterday, or late the day before. Thirdly, well I don't know but I wanted to have more than just two reasons why I'm so pathetically sitting alone in this room, occasionally opening the door to check outside for friends. Or rather, *if reading aloud, please change to high-pitched Eastern European accent during the next sentence* new victims for my ever-growing army of undead, MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Anyway, the scheduling for this particular experiment is so bad that even my fellow experimenter couldn't make it, and hence I really am rather sad and lonely right now. Of course, the rational and more inventive side of me is saying that since obviously nobody is showing up, I could easily toddle across the road and sit in Manning for half an hour or so... But the lazy, stubborn side of me says two things, firstly that since I'm giving a presentation in here at 1, why not just stay and ''prepare"... and secondly, that maybe, just maybe, someone will turn up... If not a subject than at least an Alicia Silverstone look-a-like who got lost on her way to a dress-up-as-a-Playboy-bunny party... I think I should probably stop there.

It's amazing how philosophical you can get while sitting in a psychology tute room with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. It's basically not-at-all. It's actually quite mind-numbingly tedious.

Fortunately however, there is the blog. And this particular entry has killed about ten minutes of the time I have left. Just in case you wanted an update, no, still nobody here. Maybe I'll do the experiment myself and pretend to be a subject. I could really screw up our results that way, BWAHAHAHAHA (See that's so evil even a MWAHAHAHAHA wouldn't have sufficed) the power of being an experimenter!

How cool would it be to like, do all experiments on animals that are viewed as unfeasibly unethical these days, like sit there, strap them in and shock them endlessly, just to see the effects of unusual and cruel punishment on rodents. Or even cooler, I could do it on humans. I know they're always saying you'll never get published that way, but just imagine, doing experiments like that, finding so much about the effects of cruel and unusual punishment, and then centuries from now some alien archaeologist unearths the remains of my studies and says wow, this "Sam" creature sure made huge advances, even WE haven't discovered such things about cruel and unusual punishment, and being an alien species living in the distant future we're obviously far more advanced and intelligent than the rest of his species was supposed to be, he must have been much smarter than his brother Jeremy, hey let's bring him back to life by using technology, he shall be our new God...

I think I accidentally slipped into Simpsons regurgitation there... Well apart from the brother Jeremy bit, that was all my original creation, all hail my genius. Or in the words of Oscar Wilde, all hail my Guinness.

God I'm bored.

I'm back in BAC

2005-04-19T18:59:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm back in BAC.

Ah, the immortal words of Brian Johnson, adapted by me to fit this utterly pointless blog entry in pointing out where I am. Yes, BAC does indeed, as I'm sure none of you postulated, refer to the Brennan Access Centre. Because yet another Tuesday evening is upon us, which means that following our mutual English tute finishing at 5:30, and in a silly yet fruitful attempt to 'beat the traffic', Bec and I make an excuse to hit the computers and do some work. Or rather, she makes an excuse to do some work, I make an excuse to be bored and write shit in my blog in order to scab a free lift later. What a delightful relationships of mutual wants and needs we have.

So what's in the pipeline for young Sam on this fine but dark (curse you, fact that Daylight Savings is finite) Tuesday evening?

Well, firstly, there is the fact that young Sam has only four and a bit days of being able to refer to himself as 'young Sam' before he must alter this to something resembling "buggery old fart Sam" as he waves goodbye to that dank, cloudy swamp known as adolescence and leaves on the long, winding but ultimately rewarding path to that far-off and elusive land known as twentidom. (In non-literary wankerist terms, I mean me fackin' (Nyngan-style) 20th is on Sundee) What do I think about this? Well, firstly I'm worried about the obvious change in people's attitudes towards me because obviously everyone really gives a toss... I mean, so many expectations and heuristics regarding people in their twenties. Or rather, as I continually whinge about to people around me, I will no longer be able to blame my immaturity on the fact that I'm 'not even 20 yet', but instead will have to blame it on the simple fact that I am just very, very immature. Secondly, and on the alternative metacarpus, I am actually quite pleased to finally be admitted into that exclusive fraternity of twenty-year-olds, of which nearly all of my friends are already members. It's like a gentleman's club that you can only join when you're in your fourties, balding, and with a gut and fortune roughly comparable to each other in size and stature. What will the common room be like? Will I undergo any hazing procedures? What perks, rewards and bonuses lie in wait for me? Ooh, the excitement is as palpable as a pauper carrying paper to the papalcy.

Seriously though and in all honesty, it's simply an excuse to get together with a bunch of my acquaintances to "hoppe and synge and maken swich disport" (I really enjoy my medieval London course, on an extremely unrelated topic), all the while thinking and smiling about what an absolutely wonderful person I am and how grateful and fortunate we all are that someone as delightful as I could have enriched our lives so thoroughly and completely that... I think I'll stop there, I'm making myself sick.

So that's the big event on my calendar. Fortunately I have no further assessments due this week, nor next week, which seems to imply that I am free for such merriment on Sunday night, and God bless those Australian and NZ troops for deciding to land at Gallipoli the day after my birthday, where would I be without a statutory recovery day, regardless of the day of the week on which it falls?

But yes, to write about any more personal details would involve expending mental effort yet again so I shall leave you with this unconnected rambling about my birthday, and if the need arises to vent my spleen about any other qualms, queries or quagmires, I shall do so in time, in time, my darlings. At least now I have fulfilled my moral obligation to the leader of my posse (How's about that Ang? Another impersonal reference to you) and can sleep now. And Just to perpetuate my tradition of concluding with a reference to the Shaking of the Speare, I shall add: To sleep, perchance to be woken up at 6 AM by those FUCKING lorekeets again. Fucking bastards. Fuck all birds. I fucking hate them all.

(That's from The Merry Wives of Windsor, by the way. It's no wonder it's one of his lesser-known works. The language of the man. Tut tut)

There is a hole in the floor

2005-04-12T19:27:00.000-07:00

It's about time I had a title that wasn't a congratulatory reference to some obscure and archaic piece of literature. Yes, there is a hole in the floor here. My computer chair keeps getting a wheel stuck in it.

Is this a metaphor for life in general? Are all of our computer chairs constantly getting stuck in holes in the floor? Are we perpetually struggling to get our computer chairs out of the holes in the floor? Are we just ignoring the holes in the floor, hoping they'll go away? Should we fix them? Or should we create a new, innovative floor that never gets holes in it? Or better yet, create a computer chair with in-built floor-hole-resisting technology? Should we add walnut-burr panelling to such a chair? How much should we charge for these chairs? Should the marketing be done in an esoteric, attention-grabbing way, or in the traditional way by using buzz words like 'ergonomic' and 'Don't take my word for it, here's mister Buzz Aldrin' (pun definitely, and incredulously, intended)?

I think it's a question that is definitely worth looking into.

Second question worth looking into: Is it just me, or is Gavin Brown an incredibly unattractive man? I'm not having a stab at the fact that his eyes look in different directions, but he really does have that untrustworthy, sleazy politician look about him... I mean, he's no Arafat in terms of ugliness, but then who could be?

Third question, this one isn't worth looking into: In 10000 words or less (whichever suits you), critically analyse Baudelaire's integration of sensory perception in poetry and compare this with other writers of the Symbolist movement.

At the rate I'm going, I could probably do that right now.

"Than schal Sam torne into confusioun"

2005-04-12T18:52:00.000-07:00

Well, inspired as I am by reading all my newly discovered friend's blogs (That is to say, the blogs themselves are newly discovered, not the friends) I thought I'd write my own entry. One could no doubt apply a psychoanalytical reading to my motivation and suggest that I'm writing purely because I can't have any friends of mine be more consistent and prolific at anything in the entire known universe than me, all hail Sam in all his glory! Prostrate yourself at my feet, drunken subjects, and enjoy the suffering, sanity drained in disrespect...

Anyway, it's time for a publication (That IS the technical term for the act of making something public, is it not? It stands to reason, in spite of its other popularised connotations) of some of my personal woes and confusion. Deafening alarm bells are currently sounding as it seems almost inevitable that this entry may descend into a stereotypical let's-use-my-blog-to-whinge-as-though-anyone-gives-a-shit piece of writing, but I nevertheless trust in my extensive experience in whinging and my utter pomposity (or shall we say, literary wankerism) to make these complaints somewhat eloquent and perhaps even entertaining. Although I have a feeling that trust will prove to be about as misplaced as George W Bush in a Mensa meeting.

In short, my first woe is that I am about to be kicked out of my course. Now, before all my loyal subjects run screaming with burning effigies of Susan Colmar to the Education Faculty, let me clarify, or rather, completely and insultingly contradict my earlier statement, by saying that I'm not about to be kicked out of my course. What has rather happened is that I have dug myself into an enormous bear pit regarding my enrollment and my stubborn refusal to do what subjects I was supposed to simply because I didn't want to, and rather than doing what Susan et al. will in time recommend - which will presumably require extra effort on my part - I am resigning myself to the fact that there is no point in accumulating further HECS, and committing further effort and potentially a further year of study to get a degree that I only want because it would give me license to have lots of letters after my name, and so all in all I'm not being kicked out so much as I am finally relenting to subconscious wishes I've had since about half a minute into first year, and quitting this degree. And we'll see what happens from there.

Secondly, I hate the police. This isn't a recent epiphany of mine, nor is it in any way pertinent to that about which I've been talking for the rest of this entry, but rather a completely unrelated and spontaneous call to mass-insurgence. Actually it's not even that but I think it would be interesting to write that and then see in a couple of weeks if my name and headshot have found their way onto the national security database (which I will check, next time I hack into the database and change all the terrorism suspects' photos to nude fakes of Britney Spears). Anyway, I don't think I'll go into too many details as to the wherefore, but suffice to say I was once (only once, so yes, I'm quick to bear grudges towards authority figures) treated very badly by a couple of over-zealous men with enormous genital-compensatory truncheons while sitting with a friend who, together with me, and remarkably similar to me with the possible exception of the pronouns I'm about to use, was minding her own goddamn business and doing absolutely nothing except sitting and occasionally talking. It just so happened that the way I was spoken to and the way in which I got a blinding flashlight shone in my face made me wonder why I bother being a law-abiding, system-fearing citizen when in remarkably innocent moments like that I'm accosted for doing the worst and most heinous crime known to man, sitting on an oval at night time and chatting... *WOOP WOOP NATIONAL SECURITY ALARM SYSTEM BEING SET OFF, WE'VE GOT TWO MORE ISLAMIC SUICIDE BOMBER BASTARDS DISGUISED AS UNI STUDENTS PRETENDING TO SIT ON AN OVAL AND TALK WHILE ACTUALLY CONSPIRING TO BOMB THE PRIME MINISTER'S HOUSE AND SHIT ON HIS DOG...* Anyway, obviously I'm not about to cut off my nose to spite my face and actually go out and meet with extremist sociopaths (as a sidenote, apologies for my very xenophobic implication that all terrorists are of the Muslim faith), but it has changed my opinion of those boys in blue to whom I so jovially and coherently wished "Happy neewwwww year, police" at about 1 AM on the 1st of January. And so I protest in my own way by, for example, posting garble like this on the internet (I love the word garble, don't you? I keep using it these days), and also as I discovered the other day, I have the Eastwood police station telephone line in my phone under the name "Fuckwtis", which suggests to me in so many ways and for so many reasons that I was once manifesting my anger at said authority while under the influence of certain fermented vegetable products.

Thirdly, just an hour or so ago, we had to leave our Politics & Poetry in Medieval London tute to evacuate the Woolley building when the fire alarm went off. that wasn't annoying so much in itself, but the fact was we didn't move at all and in fact tried to continue learning, or rather, arguing, about the middle english poem Athelston. The reason for this is that the Wooley fire bell is very faint when heard from the other end of the building and we interpreted it as coming from another building or place entirely. It reminded me an enormous amount of when I watched the very uplifting, subtle and understatedly produced show Seconds from Disaster, simply in the abscence of being able to watch my VCR or DVD player, and it ran the story of a fire on a Scandinavian cruise ship in the 80's/early 90's, the name of which alludes me, that killed around 250 people. essentially it was stated that one of the reasons why so many people died in said fire was because the fire alarms which were sounded on account of said fire (if anyone's getting annoyed at my continual use of the phrase 'said fire' please let me know at my postal address of 142 I don't give a shit street, Crow's Nest, NSW, Australia) were just too far away and too faint that anyone who was in their cabin, asleep, blissfully unaware that said fire existed, were not, as tortological as it may seem, aware that said fire existed, and so did not try to escape said fire by screaming and wetting their pants. Anyway, I hate to finally have to admit that there was absolutely no point to me saying this at all, but there really isn't. It just reminded me, that's all... But yes, if a fire was actually in existence in that building this afternoon and we as a class did not interpret said fire as an emergency of some kind due to the relative inaudibility of the afore-mentioned fire bell, and hence were consumed by said fire and died in said fire, and said fire was then referred to as the Woolley fire (which could no doubt spark some amusing puns, but would also spare us from having to refer to it any further as 'said fire'), and everyone cried and said 'if only that fire bell had been more audible this never would have happened, oh the humanity', then I may, in fact, become rather ticked off if not for the fact that I would in fact, be dead.

Anyway, it is apparent to me now that I am writing this entry purely to kill time in the Brennan computer access centre. So please note that there was no deeply seeded authorial intent present in this entry at all, but rather a bored and idle mind trying desperately to fill the hours between his air-whittling class and his appointment at the staring window. Ay me!

Melbourne: It's not as bad as you think

2005-03-25T13:19:00.000-08:00

*HEADNOTE: This blog entry is essentially a month late, due to university commitments and Sam’s general all-round laziness*

As most you who know me will know, I typically despise Melbourne. There are numerous reasons for this, into most of which I shan’t go (Oh dear me, I’ve started with the shitegeist already, it seems) but instead will focus on one: My first experience of the city. As a brief recap for those of you unfortunate enough not to have experienced the utter delight of my anti-Melbourne-rant, my brother and I travelled down on the XPT one night in 2002 to see Leeds United play Chilean club champions Colo Colo at the Telstra Dome. Essentially, the one full day we were down there was spent drinking quite ridiculous and nausea-inducing amounts of coffee (mostly with caramel flavouring as well, which any dietician with an intense desire to lose his license is sure to tell you is very good for you and makes you feel great afterwards), hanging around a very dull hotel room and of course, as the crowning festering piece of dog shit in the septic tank, watching the infamous Scooby-Doo, otherwise known as “The reason Raja Gosnell is the number one candidate in the known universe to have his testicles bitten off by a rabid gorilla”.

Anyway, that was before. The bottom line, and the major point of this post, is that my opinion of Melbourne has changed very dramatically in the past week from my second trip to the Victorian capital. I would rather enjoy writing a long spiel on all of my experiences, my thoughts, observations, and musings, but firstly, while that idea could potentially amount to the greatest collection of philosophical manifestations since Les Chemins de la Liberté, it is far more likely to be about as interesting as categorising and filing the plumbing details of a group of accounting students, and secondly and excessively more importantly, I just can’t be fucked.

So instead I give you the abridged, annotated version of “Things I learned in Melbourne”:

1) Melbourne, in its entirety, does NOT consist of the 250-metre area around Spencer Street Station. Yes, that particular area is rather cruddy, but naturally it is a rather foolhardy thing to do to judge an entire city by one particular aesthetically unappealing area of it. Naturally I would be rather put out if a Victorian visited Belmore and viewed it as the centre and epitome of the Sydney style of living. I have spanked myself a suitable number of times with a wooden paddle for being so small-minded.

2) Sharing an ensuite bathroom with two girls is not nearly as horrible as I thought it might be. (‘might’ being the operative word, I mean it ‘might’ also have been the hottest time in my life) This, however could be attributed to the fact that we all shared different, and very compatible morning schedules, and also the fact that I had packed more bathroom products than either of my female companions put together. Hence subsequent to this new piece of knowledge is also the fact that I am even more frighteningly effeminate than I ever dared to believe. Shocking.

3) There are a number of excellent night spots in Melbourne. The first of these is E-55, which somehow manages to straddle the border between a trendy upmarket bar (They seemed to stock a minimum of Adjunct Lagers and there was plenty of Little Creatures Pale Ale to go around) and a Hippy lounge in Newtown. While we were there I also learned the fact that, apparently “We are so cool. Everyone in this bar wishes they were as cool as us”. So let’s all remember that fact, eh? Secondly, there’s the Night Cat in Fitzroy, which was everything that was promised – drinks, dancing and the fact that it was in Fitzroy. (Well we had to go there at least once, surely) Unfortunately though, it must be stated that a bottle of VB there goes for five dollars – and no, it’s no special type of VB that doesn’t make one want to beat one’s wife with a wooden spoon, it’s ordinary, run-of-the-mill, godawful VB. Yes, I don’t understand it either. The third, and of course most important (despite what the Melbourne yuppies who led me here were spouting on about) night spot is the Portland Hotel/James Squire Brewhouse, simply because it brews a range of beers that are to be found… well, nowhere else? I’d have to check that. But anyway, along with that side of my personality that desperately wants to own films like Det Sjunde Inseglet and Ladri di Biciclette because they’re unavailable in this country comes another side that wants to try beers such as Portland Pale and James Squire Speculator simply because I’d have a very difficult time laying my hands on them back in Sydney. All in all the pub is a bit dowdy, I must say, and reminds me of the Coolangatta Hotel (which we seemed to dub during our Queensland trip as the ‘hangout for drunken angry old women’) only without the light. And the drunken angry old women. But the beers were all worth drinking. Portland Pale is quite an excellent drinking ale, smooth and fruity and subtly complex (I’m sounding as pretentious as possible just to please my greatest critic of course). Speculator was a very complex but also very unlikeable sort of beer. No front palatte and suddenly hitting you with an unwelcome fruit hit, and an aftertaste that makes you want to eat gravel to take the taste away. No, it certainly wasn’t that bad and I’m glad I tried it simply because it was interesting. As for “The Craic”, well, all I can say is what I’ve said countless times when people ask about it. It’s black coffee. With a head. And there’s nothing more than can be said. Well, essentially the other ‘spot’ we visited at night was the Crown Casino, but since this particular annotation has gone on quite ridiculously long enough, I shall start afresh in number 4 on my Crown rant.

4) Crown Casino can very accurately and justifiably be compared to a special kind of black hole that leaves one’s body and clothing completely unharmed but manages to engulf anything on your person made of shiny metal or plastic with a famous Australian person’s face on it. From the “Five free dollars credit” for the pokies that can only be accessed once you have amounted thirty ‘pokie points’ (which approximates to about one hundred dollars’ loss) to the bar upstairs at which bottles of Heineken require $7, and games of pool require not only $4, but the ability to use one of those slot devices where you need to create enough forward momentum to propel, in one short, sharp motion, a freight train full of gold bullion from Mecca to Beirut, with enough speed that nobody in its intervening journey is able to see what the train contains and hence raise their spirits in a cruelly vain way, or else only a few of the balls will come out, without a second chance being given. The abridged version of the preceding sentence says, we had to pay four dollars for a game of pool with five of each coloured ball, and a second cueball instead of the black. Now of course I hear you all saying “But hang on, it’s a casino, it’s supposed to sap your money’. Now that is true. But stop interrupting me and get out of my goddamn house or I’ll call the police. (Oh yeah, cos they’ll do a lot, fucking fascists. Remind me later to do a blog entry on why I hate the police by the way) But in direct comparison to Conrad Jupiter’s, the casino is ridiculous. Did we get a free meal for joining the Casino? No. Did we get two free beverages, each night we visited, per members card we had? No. Were there $3 Daiquiris that were actually really nice? No (There were $5 Daiquiris that were okay) All that Crown contained was a large number of devices to sap your money. And that’s all.

Now, owing to the fact that this blog entry has taken about a month of my free time (of which I’ve hardly had none, incidentally), I’ve forgotten how I was going to end it now. But as my brother has smartly suggested, I could simply post this half and perhaps finish it off later when I have remembered all else that I learned about Melbourne. Especially since it’s been about three months since I posted anything here. I can’t disappoint my beloved faithful now, can I?

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de labîme, O Beauté?

2004-12-28T21:36:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I find beauty in despair.

This concept, as unconsciously aware of I have been of its existence for a while, was explicitly brought to my attention recently during an MSN conversation when, following a deliberately melodramatic and compliment-fishing comment from my friend that ‘nobody loves her’ I presented her with a pixelated wilted flower, which received a fair amount of similarly melodramatic scorn and indignation in response. What was misunderstood is the fact that I would never present anybody with a fresh, blossoming flower in such a circumstance when the aesthetic appeal is the only appeal of which to speak. This is for the simple reason that I find far more beauty in the tragically mortal appearance of a wilted, near-death flower. I’m not sure why, but I’m sure it has something to do with vulnerability and fragility of nature, as well as many other pointlessly long words that end in –ility. Sterility’s a good one, incidentally.

But it’s not just in botanical emoticons that this quirk of mine finds itself. Recently I got into a debate across a kitchen counter sparked by my outwardly-expressed enjoyment of the film Saw, with a girl whose DVD collection consists almost entirely of Disney films such as Beauty and the Beast, rom-com’s like When Harry Met Sally and numerous other films which not only conclude with an idealistic status quo but purport to exude the fact that there is simply no alternative in the way our lives pan out. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy such films, nor that I shed any sentimental tears watching Shawnee Smith nearly get her skull cleft in twain, but for some reason nevertheless, there is far more emotional resonance for me watching Cary Elwes saw off his right foot than in watching him resplendent atop a white horse, riding off into the sunset with Robin Wright Penn seated behind him.

Why, exactly, is this? Why do I prefer to look at crying, tearful faces than cheery, grinning ones? Why do I find That Time of Year Thou Mayst in me Behold far more ‘lovely and temperate’ than Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day? How can I adorn my walls with Dalí and Munch whilst ignoring Monet? Why am I spending my free time planning my own funeral, and why am I planning on ‘composing’ my own wedding vows simply so I can alter the final line to “Till human voices wake us, and we drown”?

In very basic terms, why am I such a cynic? And more to the point, why do I find happiness in cynicism? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not feeling confused or, dare I use le mot terrible, angsty, about the situation. I’m simply curious as to why I laugh at buildings imploding in Fight Club and merely scoff at similar buildings being lit up with love hearts in Sleepless in Seattle.

I guess in retrospect it could be that I’ve discovered world weariness at the tender age of 19. In even further retrospect it’s quite likely that I’m not experiencing anything out of the ordinary and in fact I could approach a hundred peers of mine with the phrase ‘life sucks’ and receive a unanimous reply of ‘totally’. But nevertheless there’s this unanswered question of the beauty I find in such unhappiness. I mean, I may be speaking out of turn, but the majority of my demographic tend to find joy and absolution in literary works such as Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. Aside from the escapist fantasy on their surface, I can find another major similarity between the two, which involves a certain Latin phrase I used earlier and the fact that both tend to conclude with essentially ideal ones. (That being said, I haven’t read either of them so I could be grossly mistaken) Meanwhile I find quasi-orgasmic pleasure from traipsing through the bleak, unforgiving corridors of Salman Rushdie novels. Secondly the majority once again seems to prefer the melodic and upbeat sounds of Good Charlotte or Green Day to the dank chaos that I primarily listen to. Admittedly some of the former’s lyrics aren’t exactly cheery reminders of love and rainbows but by the same token they can’t compare to such clangers as “False love turned to pure hate”, “Through your death I am reborn in a crimson tide” and of course, the classic and notorious “I could rip your guts out and let you watch me sacrifice your unborn child”.

I just think it’s interesting, that’s all. Interesting that my conception of beauty can in so many cases be an almost polar opposite of the next person’s. Perhaps that’s why I adore American Beauty so much, because it teaches me to search for beauty in places where others would find none. Or perhaps even still I should end this blog entry quickly before I descend into a nocturnal pit of sentimentality and optimism. I think I’ve ranted enough to keep you dribbling in anticipation for a month when I next come up with a suitable amount of unbearable garble to write in this thing.

I shall leave you now with the words of Lord Byron, “There is a very life in our despair, vitality of poison”. I think there's something in that for all of us, don't you?

The subtle influences of alcohol, and Rushdie

2004-11-19T22:39:00.000-08:00

It's funny, sometimes, the random, bizarre and yet ultimately trivial and pointless twists that life takes.

On Tuesday night, having completed my final exam, and hence being able officially to bestow upon myself the meritorious title of a 3rd-year-in-waiting, it was obviously a night to remember. Or forget, as it in fact turned out. However, one thing that was memorable was heading from the pub to the apartment of a bunch of international Macquarie uni students, due to my taking a great liking to one British chap called Fish because he hailed from a place less than 100 km away from Elland Road football ground, as well as my 'follicle fraternity' (not that I could pronounce that many syllables at the time) with an American guy named Clarke. Well, intricate details are easily forgotten when one has imbibed that much ancient hop-grain juice (That one's for you, Jez), but it was rather amusing this evening upon finishing three hours' slaving over a greasy grill that on the south side of the QVB whilst waiting for my bus I should run into none other than Mr. Fish, my friend from Elland Road. Or nowhere near but of course nearer than I've ever been.

It is in fact the first time to date that I have managed to cross paths for a subsequent time with a person to whom I have never shared anything except too much to drink. This is something of which I have previously been most grateful, as anyone will be aware who has heard me talk of my experiences crashing in the garage with Kieran the Blackthrone fan and Curly the 22-year-old-Lebanese-guy-who-was-dating-a-14-year-old girl. But in the case of Fish it wasn't all that awkward and he seemed a fairly amiable guy even without the aid of nine or so beers and a whole lot of goon. We managed to have an entirely sober chat about working in McDonald's, his planned road trip around Australia, and the amount of head we like. (Initially this was referring to the top of a glass of beer, although I'm sure by the end one or both of us was insinuating something in a really subtle, mature and not-completely-and-utterly-obvious-pun way).

Anyway, subsequent to this little adventure, I boarded a bus home and flipped out my current perusing fodder, Grimus by none other than of course the greatest living writer Mr. Rushdie, pictured a few posts below this one. Now it was only yesterday that I finished reading my fourth of his books, Haroun and the Sea of Stories. For those of you unfamiliar with this latter, it's essentially India's premiere novellist writing a work aimed primarily at preteens, and at times it's like reading Dr. Seuss's appropriation of The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Now I'm sure that comes across as an insult but it was both a smashing good read and a very quick, easily-achieved read. The trouble is of course that now getting back into complicated, erudite-to-the-brink-of-utter-pomposity Rushdie is about as easy as reciting Hamlet's soliloquy but simultaneously translating it into modern Khmer. We are talking about a writer who, in the space of less than four pages of text, uses all of the following words/phrases: "momentarily tautologous", "foray into necrology", "elucidate", and "disinvestiture". Now obviously this is not a difficult task in itself. In fact one could, and I often do, make the observation that somehow my own writing style manages to unintentionally resemble Rushdie's in a number of different ways, the most notable of all being the fact that we both like to use intimidatingly polysyllabic words just for the sake of using intimidatingly polysyllabic words, of which the phrase "intimidatingly polysyllabic" is a prime, obvious and very deliberately used example. I'm not trying to point this out, although I have done on many other occasions, in order to draw a delusional comparison-of-grandeur between me and the greatest living novellist, but rather to reflect upon my own amazement at how much my naturally-developed writing style could have been directly influenced by his, even though it wasn't. (I draw your attention, for a prime example, to p. 38 of Grimus, where Virgil Beauvoir Chanakya Jones esquire [which, as a sidetrack, is another amusing pretension-in-common] utters the phrase "the efficiency of my trousers is somewhat impaired")

It also makes me think about 1st-year English, when we read Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things and I remember her categorical denial that her writing was in anyway influenced by Rushdie, despite her neologisms & use of hyphenated-verb-synonyms, subtle underlying Indian politics and the fact that in her novel, two siblings lose their virginity to each other, which also happens in the first few pages of Grimus. (as just a few examples)

But yes, yet again I have created on my blog a rant with very little substance, or discernible beginnings or ends, and so of course there would in fact, never be a really suitable or fitting way to end it, and so instead

Freyja's-day morning, and it's cloudy in Miðgarðr

2004-10-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

I would of course be branded the most repugnantly excessive liar if I said I were writing my blog today for any reason other than that I was hustled by my brother to do just that, last night. And so for this reason the entry is not representative of a milestone in my life, or a manifestation of a significantly philosophical thought in the past couple of days, but rather a simple rant with no substance, no beginning and no end. Apart from this, which is effectively the beginning, and the conclusion, which if my vocabulary serves me correctly, is essentially synonymous with the end. As for the substance I’ll leave to your judgement, since I’m sure you’re capable.

Yesterday as my dear friend Bec was driving me home, we found ourselves, as so many people so amazingly frequently find themselves, in a discussion about Norse mythology. Not so much a discussion of course, but rather of me teaching her everything I have learned about Norse mythology over the past two lectures of Sydney University’s exclusive English course Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic Studies. Me of course being the only person in my clique who focuses purely on the Norse, or more correctly, Icelandic, portions of the course made me an ideal candidate for rants about the mythology.

And naturally, the more you actually get into it, the more fascinating it becomes, and the more you realise how much of our language today is derived from it. But of course this can also be said of any medieval or ancient culture, as I discovered later yesterday as I was perusing through Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. So yes, essentially I was reading the dictionary. Effectively, I only read it because on the way home, the name of the Greek god of war and their answer to Rome’s Mars eluded me. (And of course, 10 points to the first person who can answer that)

But of course the whole thing is fascinating. Well, fascinating in the way that a spur-winged plover’s mating call is fascinating (That’s for you, Dad). In other words, fascinating if you have a deep, genuine and ultimately obsessive interest in the subject, but otherwise quite vulgarly and brain-festeringly dull. So in no uncertain terms, o reasonable peruser-of-Where’s-my-tart?-I-want-chips-and-tart, I shall warn you that if you find discussions of etymology and / or Norse mythology something for which you would generally not stick your head in a toilet bowl in an effort to haze yourself into the fraternity of, the following section may come across as nothing more than a pompous jackass filling cyberspace with the most trivial and useless tripe ever to assault a computer screen. But of course, it’s not unheard of that most of you will think that anyway. So read on, Macduff!

My first thought as I was reading the dictionary, although this wasn’t an exclusive thought as I had had it in the two lectures on the mythology as well, was how much I have heard all these terms before and how little I had paid attention to them at the time. For example, in hearing about the structure of the Norse mythological world, all of a sudden the song titles which comprise the Therion album "Secret of the Runes" all made sense. For example, track 1, Ginnungagap, is named after the Great Void between Niflheim, which apart from being the region of fogs in Norse mythology, is also track 8 on the same album, and Muspelheim, which is both the region of intense heat in Norse mythology and also track 7.

Secondly I couldn’t help but remember the famed and hallowed PC computer game "God of Thunder", which essentially uses the mythology to only a slightly inaccurate degree, but to create a game which actually has accessibility to an audience, unlike this blog entry which is of course about as readable as Plato’s republic in its original text after someone's used it as lavatory paper. Naturally, one thing I did notice in the lecture, was that in the game "God of Thunder", they deliberately misspelled one of the most important aspects of the story, that being the name of Thor’s hammer, which is both his weapon for defending Asgarðr, the world of the Gods, against the giants, but is also oh-so-subtly symbolic of his enormous virility. The name of said hammer is given in the game as Mjolnir, which naturally in the heady days of my adolescence when I probably should have spent more time drinking heavily and chasing loose women than playing Norman-based strategy games on my computer, I pronounced phonetically. But of course the name, intimidating enough as it is anyway, is not Mjolnir at all but in fact Mjöllnir, which is pronounced about as far from phonetically as Raja Gosnell is far from creating a movie which doesn’t make one want to shit ice bricks. As a matter of fact, I’m not even sure if the Icelandic sound ö even has a definitive equivalent in English, with the possible exception of being one of the distinctive noises one makes just before throwing up. But of course I would presume that is a universal trait and not exclusive to the English speaking world. That said, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a Ukrainian person throw up, so I could be wrong. Anyway, the closest example up with which I can come is the French vowel sound present in the word oeuf, meaning egg. But even that’s not quite on the mark. Secondly, of course, the double l is not pronounced simply as an English ‘l’ but in fact more like the English "tl". I may be saying too much in presuming that eight-year-olds who vegetate in front of computer screens should be able to correctly pronounce the name of Thor’s phallic little hammer, but then again what genuine interest have they in the fact that Thor must defeat the androgynous god of mischief Loki and save the people of Miðgarðr?

Anyway, as much fun as that rant was to write, it can’t possibly have been that much fun to read and for that reason I will insert the word CLITORIS here to snap you all out of the bunker into which I have no doubt hooked you with my 9-iron. Hmm, something tells me I lost the metaphor just slightly in that last sentence, but I’ll try to make up for it.

Furthermore to this reading up on the fascinating world of Æsir and Vanir, I naturally perused a number of other terminology and thought I’d list some of my findings. Those of you who speak to me online will have noticed my latest screen name, "A one-night stand is a theatrical performance" which, in fact, it is. Or at least, was, before the popcorn-Charlie’s-Angels-casual-sex-Paris-Hilton-fairy-floss culture got to it, and now the term is changed forever. But originally, or at least listed first in Brewer’s, the term refers to "A single evening performance by a touring theatrical company or the like at a town likely to provide an audience only for one night".

Makes sense, doesn’t it? If you can only ‘provide’ for one night, you’ll only do one ‘performance’. And for those of you unable to grasp the subtle reasoning for my inverted commas in the last sentence, let me just inform you that I am no longer speaking in strictly dramaturgical terms. But of course, I’m no expert on thespianism and for all I know this term could still be used in very strict areas of such circles. But the connotations are still there and in fact when a theatrical troupe does their show in the Binalong community centre, perhaps that while everyone is referring to the show as a one-night stand, they are secretly implying that they wish to get off with the stage manager after the performance. But either way, I daresay we no longer view this term as meaning specifically a theatrical performance (depending on how highly we regard ourselves in the bedroom), but rather as a non-committal, often alcohol-lubricated (other types of lubrication may come into play, but I’d say let’s not go there if I unfortunately hadn’t already) sex act. And you ordinary mortals regard us Freudians as being obsessed with sex. Tut, tut. I hate to tell you this, people, but everything in life really does start from the groin. And I mean that quite literally as well as figuratively.

Lastly, I wanted to make a brief mention LABIA of something that’s been puzzling me slightly in my Norse studies. Again, I’m far from an expert, and in fact no doubt to an expert in this field I probably sound like George W Bush trying to pronounce the word ‘eloquence’, but in all my study of this Norse culture which, essentially, entails what is now and was then Scandinavia, I don’t recall having yet heard any mention of our friends the Swedes. Obviously we centre ourselves around Iceland, and we have a great interest in Norway, Iceland being a Norwegian province until about 1946 and also first being settled by a Norwegian viking. In the sagas we read, people go abroad to Denmark, we hear of Eirik the Red travelling west and discovering Greenland, and we even have this frequent notion of Vinland, the ‘mysterious land to the west’ which by the way, isn’t Finland. But there doesn’t seem to be any mention of Sweden at all. Again, I’m speaking from complete ignorance here, but why is that? Were there no people of note from this country back then? Did the country even exist? Is Sweden really only famous for ABBA, Volvos and raucous tennis supporters? I mean, that being said we have no mention of Finland either so maybe it’s just that our focus is drawn towards particular places more than others. But then, has Finland ever really given us anything apart from delightfully foreign-sounding formula 1 drivers’ names? Anyway, I thought I’d mention it.

Well, it’s that time again when my ranting juices have been sapped and I must now replenish that part of my body by feasting on pictures of John Howard winning the election, and people using phrases such as "more better". And of course for those who survived to the end, souvenir packs are available in the lobby. They mostly contain Prozac and cyanide, which can be used in varying intervals depending on how much of what I just wrote you actually read. Have a great Freyja’s day!

Behold, the Arches of Evil ascend screaming from hell!

2004-10-02T13:37:00.000-07:00

Oh how I love a blog. What other outlet is there in the world on which, after three and three quarter hours of working for a contemporary Nazi regime with more power than the combined armies of Hitler, Mussolini, Caligula and Stalin but with at least twice as much pure evil, then an entire night of bitching to your friends about how much McDonald's is a contemporary Nazi regime with more power than the combined armies of Hitler, Mussolini, Caligula and Stalin but with at least twice as much pure evil, you can then fart on in an angry, ranting sort of way and repeat everything you said last night and in fact repeat everything you just said a few sentences ago to anyone who cares, or even doesn't care? It's brilliant, isn't it?

Yes, last night, Mcdonald's at Martin Place sunk to a new low in terms of revulsion, lack of cleanliness, and lack of fair and equitable treatment of workers. And that was just when we thought that only in the building of the Pyramids could there have been any occurrence of lower treatment of underlings. But let's just say that last night I would have killed to be dragging ridiculously oversized pieces of sandstone around while being whipped, just so long as the whiff from the caked-on grease on the walls, floor and miscellaneous cables behind the grills would go away... Yes that's right ladies and gents and super-intelligent squirrels, last night for the first time in about six months (it would appear), the grills were pulled out from their superficially clean little alcove to reveal the abject horrors of the marsh beyond... Horrors that would dare not even be dreamed up at an acid party held by Edgar Allan Poe and attended by F.W. Murnau and Sam Raimi. Horrors that would make a Vietnam veteran yearn for happier times in a Viet-cong POW camp, sleeping in shit and watching their friends scream in agony as they're tortured slowly to death. And as though beholding that sight alone were not enough to suck all the hopes and dreams out of even the most pious soul, the laws of physics state of course that along with the sight of months of repulsive grease build-up must come a smell. A smell which could infiltrate a toxic sewer and force the entire contents to evacuate. And if you now imagine being forced to scrub away at this swamp with a white brush that barely fits into your hand and repeatedly having to traipse to the back sink to spray the remnants of five hundred thousand grease-filled meat-flavoured patties, only to return to the scene of the worst crime against hygiene again and again... well I daresay you understand when I say that both I and my coworker vowed on our lives never to eat the foul grime ever again. And I daresay you can understand my brilliant paraphrasing of a Bal-Sagoth song for this post's title, as well as last night's paraphrasing of a certain well-known character when I said "Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er knew true revulsion till this night!"

Anyway, it seems I've ranted enough for the minute. I came away from that place last night and a little voice said to me, "Sam. You must warn the masses. Before it's too late". And then another voice said to me, "Luke, use the blog!". And following this, a third voice said "Sam, you are hearing imaginary voices preaching hardcore Marxism and fictional rebel alliancism, you need to stop eating those mushrooms you find on the sidewalk" So here I am. The rant. The warning. In blogified form. Next time you have that craving for a quarter pounder with cheese, or a partially-gelatinated non-dairy gum-based beverage, remember this, and take the safe option. Eat Oporto's instead. After all, I've never seen behind their grills. And as a famous cliché-writer once wrote, Ignorance is indeed bliss.

2004-09-27T05:09:00.000-07:00

My old man. The man who gave me life and now buys me beers (which are one and the same of course). One of the three great Fletcher men in my immediate family.

2004-09-27T05:06:00.000-07:00

Salman Rushdie. Seen here dozing off, obviously while being teleprompted one of my rambling compliments about how much I love his books. Nuff sed.

2004-09-27T05:04:00.000-07:00

Stanley Kubrick. The greatest film director of all time seen here shortly before his death in 1999. An amazing mind with an amazing beard. Nuff sed.

Scary-Looking Middle-Aged Men with Beards

2004-09-27T04:43:00.000-07:00

I realised today how ridiculous my comment about having a disturbing affinity for scary-looking middle-aged men with beards could be. And let's just say, to all those who don't know me personally, that I don't want a repeat of the female weightlifter comment in its responses. For those who do know me personally, you know exactly what I'm talking about...

So just for your perusing pleasure I thought I should just clarify what I meant when I wrote that, or rather WHO I meant, in pictorial form... See above the three greatest scary-looking, middle-aged, bearded influences on my life.

New Heights in Pretension

2004-09-18T23:36:00.000-07:00

As those of you who know me well will no doubt attest (And considering the only person with a heavily-enough festering mental state to read a blog written by someone called "Sean's Beard" is my brother, that's probably the majority of you faithful readers), there are three major, and in fact, exclusive reasons, why I ever buy a DVD, or a book:

1) I have seen /read it before, and enjoyed it.

2) I have not yet seen / read it, but have always, or for a fair amount of time, wanted to.

3) It is an obscure / unusual / esoteric book / DVD which, when I show people my collection, I imagine in my feeble mind their supposed state of impressedness at the fact that I have in my collection such an obscure / unusual / esoteric book / DVD in my collection, whereas in actual fact they've obviously never heard of it and don't give half a flying fuckshit that it even exists, let alone that I was sad enough to fork over money to have it in my collection.

Today on my DVD-buying adventure it was numbers 1 and 3 respectively that reared their ugly little heads and said "Buy me! Buy me!"

The first, and less-interesting acquisition was Michael Cimino's best-known, and undoubtably in many circle, only-known work, the 1978 Vietnam masterpiece "The Deer Hunter". This particular film outperformed my expectations during my most recent 7 Weekly DVD Rentals for $9 offer at my local Video Ezy store, to become the most enjoyable and acclaimed-by-me movie of the lot, over such hyped classics as Arsenic and Old Lace (1944, Frank Capra) and Network (1976, Sidney Lumet). It also, in my recent revision-and-extension of my top 100 movies of all time to a top 250 favourite movies of all time, blitzed the competition in its genre to come out on top of the war movies list, slotting into place at #38 overall. But pointless statistics and utter verbal diarrhoea aside, it's a bloody awesome movie. So when I saw it advertised as part of Borders' (Yes I know, big evil American corporation) "Two DVDs for $40" deal, it was definitely at least on the back-burner, that was, until...

*Huge superfluous drum roll, as though anyone actually cares*

Browsing the titles, I came across what has now become both of the following:

1) The First Asian film title in what can now officially be called my "Pretentious DVD collection"

2) The First film that I have purchased based purely on its presence in my hallowed and personal bible "1001 Movies you must see before you die" by Steven Jay Schneider (ed).

I won't ruin the mood by trying to create written suspense while I reveal the title. Instead I'm not going to reveal the title but I shall allow the IMDb to do it for me HERE. And of course with this addition I have raised what some may call the prestige but others may call the sheer and utter and completely insulting pomposity of my DVD collection. So next when someone asks me "Are you a complete fucking wanker" I can, with complete certainty, look them in the eye and say "Yes. Yes I am"

RSA - Ridiculously Simple Attainment

2004-09-17T23:34:00.000-07:00

Don't you love my pseudointellectual attempt to take an acronym for one thing and say it stands for something else, when the two things are essentially the same anyway? Well, is it better than my pseudointellectual attempt to achieve coherence and sanity by verbally vomiting onto a worldwide blog website?

Yes, anyway today was indeed the day I trundled into uni at 9:00 on a Saturday (AM, by the way, I'm not trying to draw the same picture of relaxation and sociability as mister Billy Joel here) in order to spend seven hours supposedly being able to prove that I am competently able to responsibly work in any venue with a liquor license. Well, according to the certification in my bag now emblazoned with my name, apparently I have proven that. How, you may ask? And well you may, since I myself am asking the same question.

When one spends seven hours listening to some typical Aussie ocker talk about the do's and don'ts, the can's and can'ts, the ifyoulike's and the notinyourfuckingworstnightmares,d'youknowwhatimean,mate?'s of the whole liquor industry, and then has to answer a quiz on what he's spoken about, then hmm I guess that could be shown as some form of proof. But when the speech of this oratory ocker is interspersed with such subtle and mysterious hints as "Remember that, it'll be in the quiz later" and three different revision periods, during which he essentially asks questions that are later revealed to be verbatim copies of questions from that same quiz, and gets us to answer them as a group so we have an entire set of answers rehearsed in our mind... And furthermore to this, when someone answers a question like "What's the maximum penalty for serving an intoxicated person" with a response like "50 penalty units, which is $5,500" and he corrects them by saying "No, just write $5,500, that's fine"... Well hmm, I don't know about you but I begin to get a certain level of dubiety in exactly how much competency is actually proven by the administration of this test.

Of course, considering I now have that certificate which gives me license to clean up steaming piles of people's vomit and to have my eye gouged out by a pool cue while trying to break up harmless disagreements over the time-honoured male conflict of "Whatthefuckareyoulookingatmotherfucker?", I'm not going to argue with the system. But I do think it's worrying that all you have to do is spew out lines that have been rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed, and then you can (technically, although obviously not legally) sell as many bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label to as many inebriated 15-year-olds as your heart sees fit. And naturally, if you need proof that these people are still responsible servers of alcohol, they have that certificate. Remember, you can't fake that...

Hmmmm

"Colour is the New Black"

2004-09-17T02:11:00.000-07:00

I can't remember what ad it was which included the asinine title of this post... But I saw it last night and everyone at the dinner table, including me, went at least as far as raising one eyebrow and repeating what had just been said in some combination of mockery/disbelief at the sheer stupidity of what was just said. I believe my proportions were mockery 80 - 20 disbelief... The disbelief factor may have been higher except for the fact that it merely reaffirmed my faith in the utter lack of intelligence in the world of Australian advertising.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but essentially translated this statement IS saying, is it not - "Colour is the new abscence of any colour" right?

Secondly, I thought I'd give you a strange insight into the bizarre and utterly indefensibly esoteric state of mind I go through in the shower. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was in the shower this morning that the following thoughts went through my mind...

I was thinking about the slang term "axe wound" for a certain area of a specifically female anatomy that is probably best left to the imagination. It then occurred to me, along this same path, that the Latin word for the verb "To Wound" is "vulnero" (or something to that effect) from whence we get such classic modern English words as "vulnerable" and (believe it or not, yes, these two words have the same origin) "invulnerable". Anyway, as I was thinking there, using the shower gel in such a way that is probably also best left to the imagination, I wondered if, in fact, the word "vulva" was in any way related to the same word and named as such by some 19th century linguist who was having a fairly hefty acid trip while updating the anatomical lexycon... Well considering the word "galaxy" and the name for our particular galaxy come from the same Greek source, I thought in my shower-induced state that it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility that a crude colloquial term and a purely technical term for the same thing may have the same origin... But unfortunately, no, according to www.etymologyofthewordvulva.com, "vulva" in fact comes from the early Latin volva, meaning quite simply a womb, or female's sexual organ, which in turn is simply adapted from the verb "volvere" meaning "to turn around or roll"

Oh, by the way, that link isn't real. Do you think someone would be sad enough to create such a site? Anyone with that sad a life would instead start up a blog...

Stupid Just-Woken-Up Ramblings

2004-09-15T15:33:00.000-07:00

God knows why I'm even writing in this... I just thought if I were going to start directing people to read in such ways as "Yes, the famous Sean's Beard finally has his own blog" I should at least include something interesting in it. And then I thought, no screw it, let's waste time and space with some absolute rubbish that you think of only AFTER you've already typed it. So I'd say bear with me but hey here's news for you jackass, the internet isn't a neo-nazi kryptofascist regime and you have the right to leave this site whenever you please.

I was just reading my brother's blog and instead of writing a comment on that I just decided to rant on my own very special piece of bloggingness...

RANT #1

Don't you hate it when you work on a night when there's really good TV on, and so you set the tape to tape the really good TV, and then you come home from work at like 9:30 and you're dog tired and so you're hoping for some good sleep but of course you have the stuff you just taped and so instead of sleeping you actually lie in bed and watch the Simpsons and Law & Order and don't actually get to sleep until after midnight? And then don't you hate it even more when your circadian rhythms seem to think that they're kingsh*t of everything and they don't have to listen to your biological need for sleep at all and so they go "Hmm, I feel like a f*cking w*nker today, why don't I cut this sleep short at 6 hours just because the goddamn garbage truck's going past outside the window? Hmm yeah, let's really piss Sam off today and put him in a sh*tty mood so he goes and whines perpetually to everyone out there in cyberspace who gives even half a flying f*ck"

RANT #2

Vote Latham.

RANT #3

God I'm bored.... Why won't my parentage leave the house and permit me to wake myself up with loud Opeth music?

RANT #4

Vote Latham again.

RANT #5

Jeez blogs are tedious to type, especially when one has nothing to say...

Oh well remember to have fun, and never stick anything in your mouth that you just scored off a seedy Lebanese (Yes, I ethnographically stereotype, what's the big deal?) bloke in the pub. Unless it's a non-descript pill. Or his penis.

Blah

2004-09-07T02:20:00.000-07:00

I dunno, it seems I may have to create a post in order for there to appear anything on this page. And God knows I'd hate for anyone to miss out on the excitement of seeing a URL with "Sean's Beard" essentially included...