(Alternate) Reality TV

The television show, Fringe, takes its name from its focus on (the edgy) ‘fringe’ science and though I have only watched Season One, it seems to be heading in the direction that postulates the existence of an alternate reality.  Of course the underlying premise may end up being something different*, but I think that is what Aussie expat Anna Torv, Joshua Jackson, John Noble and Leonard Nimoy are all about at the moment, as they investigate a ‘pattern’ of events and unexplainable phenomena. 

Though I watch, and am devoted to, my share of the fantastical (Buffy, Firefly and Pushing Daisies to name but a few) the concept of an alternate reality is not something in which I believe - though the movie, What The Bleep Do We Know certainly confused the hell out of me and caused me to ponder on the notion for a minute or two! 

This idea of us co-existing in a parallel universe is not new to cinema or television.  In Me Myself I, single career-oriented Rachel Griffiths got a glimpse of an alternate life as a wife and mother; and in Sliding Doors, Gwyneth Paltrow’s world split before our eyes as she lived two lives but ended up at the same place.

So, while I don’t believe there is another ‘me’ living in some other realm, I have often pondered those “Sliding Door” moments in my life when I could (or should) have followed one path rather than another: decisions about whether or not to pursue a relationship;  decisions about what to study at University.  Interestingly for me, most of these occurred when I was younger and are probably decisions which could have taken my life in an entirely different direction.  The choices I have made over the last 10 – 15 years, though important, have not been as pivotal (literally). I recently wrote (elsewhere) about wanting a “Do-over” to go back to my youth and start again.  To not make the same mistakes; to take more chances and risks; and to make different decisions.

Sadly, this wish has not been granted.  And there is no alternate reality.  Or if there is and my life there is a more fulfilling one, I will never know (unless that ‘two worlds colliding’ thing really does happen!).   But, as a New Year dawns, we all have the opportunity to make new resolutions, set new goals and ponder our decisions more carefully.   Maybe a change in direction lies before us, or passion pursued.  A deliberate Sliding Door moment in this reality perhaps... 

* Though it took me a while to settle into Fringe, I ended up enjoying the show immensely.  Despite being a natural cynic, I found myself accepting the storyline on the screen before me, going with the flow and opening my mind to the world being offered.  Having said that, I read an interview with creator, JJ Abrams, as he discussed the potential ‘direction’ he envisaged the show taking.  As someone who believes that Lost got WAY lost I hope he doesn’t ‘try’ quite SO hard (to make it different or interesting or unpredictable) this time around.

Morning Pages and Basketball Shots

My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know.  We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course.  While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength.  She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au).

Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path. 

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do.  In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises.  I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit.  I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort.  However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.

A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages.  I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates.  I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do.  But the Morning Pages I found quite useful.  Eventually.  That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.

The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning.  Long-hand.  A brain-dump as such.  To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron. 

Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me.  I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations. 

But I soon came to learn the difference.  When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop.  With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages.  Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.

So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall.  One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun.  I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’.  I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child.  Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest. 

Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager.  The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop. 

So, the homework exercise should have been easy.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me.  Or something.

Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework.  Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.

But...  Perhaps it is not too late.  A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20.  I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed). 

Another few weeks passed.  But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court.  Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful.  I had no ball control.  My shooting action felt ugly.  But… no one else was around to see.  I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free.  Free to play. 

I have been twice since.  My ball control still sucks.  I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills.   But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.

I hope to continue going.  Once or twice a week would be fine.  Soon I will feel more confident.  I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line.  But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do.  It will just be about ‘doing’.  About ‘being’.

And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again.  Work through it.  Do what I like.  Skip over what I don’t.  Who knows what will come next?

Everything old....

I discovered something about myself this morning….  I am a sucker for a sample, as in the type that is mixed into another song.  Perhaps I am living in the rose-coloured-glassy past (like my father who believes that footballers today don’t measure up to footballers of yesteryear!).  Or perhaps it is just some longing for the familiar; but it occurred to me that I have spent many an hour searching out an original song which has been mixed into something new. 

Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.  As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!).  Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes.  I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.

A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”.  And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music.  And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.

 Everything old is new again, it seems.

The Grand Gesture

Starved of anything better to do on a recent Monday night, I found myself watching the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs. A movie I vaguely recalled seeing previously and, while I wasn’t glued to the screen, it kept me entertained in between channel surfing for something better.

I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did ‘want’ John Cusack’s character (Jake), Diane Lane’s character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.

As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.

In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.

In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape – to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.

I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.

The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.

Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.

I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?

Reading Jane

Locked away for a period of a month recently I realized I wouldn’t be able to read in my normal manner – in which I can easily read a book a night.  With my luggage space and weight limited I decided, therefore, to take with me a book I was given about 10 years ago but had been afforded no more than a quick glance in that time.

The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels.  Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.).  The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.

Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen?  I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen.  Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor).  Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be.  Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully.  I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare.  Nor do I want them to.

But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined.  She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing.  Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!). 

What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs.  The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit.  I skim-read.  I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically.  As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers.  This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me.  I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker.  I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them.  I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason - just to get to the ‘action’.  (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not.  I mean the next phase of the plot.)

I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here.  Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work.  Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like. 

Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak.  Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent.  But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female.  Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.

Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her.  She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice.  Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly.  Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.

Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism.  It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory.  Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.  

I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style.  As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….”  As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along. 

Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending.  As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after.  This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.

Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels.  Perhaps she just got bored with her characters.  Who knows?  What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old - so I will forgive her that one).

The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work.  Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.  

I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era.  Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts. 

Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817.  My age.  And that makes me sad.  For her and for me.  Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely.  And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?

Addiction

I am, as it happens, obsessive by nature.  My addictions come and go and range from the unhealthy – champagne, red wine, caramel filling, chocolate, to the healthier – watching episode upon episode of my latest favourite TV show, or reading book after book.

There are some things of which I cannot get enough.  For a while (on the healthy side of the scale) I read incessantly.  I inhaled novel after novel.  Some good, some not-so-good and some pretty crappy.  (I do however have SOME standards, so there were a few returned to the library unread!)

The Twilight series I found bizarrely addictive; the simplistic style of writing inviting me in so I needed to know more.  Needed to know what happened next.  I also have a habit of reading and re-reading my ‘comfort’ novels and I use them in the same way I use ‘comfort’ movies or TV shows, or ‘comfort’ food.

So, for I while I was reading between 7 and 10 novels a week.  And working fulltime.  I ignored favourite TV shows, scorned movies and DVDs or outings in general.  It was all about reading.

But more recently it has been TV that has taken my fancy.  Or more specifically, TV on DVD.  That way I don’t have to worry about pesky advertisements AND like all good addicts, instant gratification is mine as I don’t have to wait a week for the next installment.

I have been working through TV series on DVD for some time.  Some out of boredom while others have become an addiction and I cannot get enough of them.

I have recently discovered Dexter; Mad Men; True Blood, Firefly; Dead Like Me; and  Pushing Daisies this way.

Even more fulfilling to someone like me is when I discover something years after it actually commenced, which was the case when I stumbled across Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2000.  Five seasons into its filming.  With (mostly) 22 episodes each season, I had hours of ready-made viewing at my beck and call and had to work out in advance how many hours I could possibly watch in a night; or over a weekend.

Of course this addiction – like so many others – does carry some risks.  Too many episodes without a break and you find yourself in West Wing dreams.  Or when you find yourself conversing in Buffy-speak (and people don’t know what you mean when you say you déjà-ed that vu!) you know that you have been ridiculously entrenched in the celluloid world of your own choosing.

My latest discovery is Entourage.  Though I had heard of it and its success, I hadn’t been tempted until I stumbled across the pilot episode on SBS (TV in Australia) recently.

Though I actively pursued Dexter Season 3 and will watch Mad Men Season 2 when it returns to my video store, I cannot get enough of Entourage.  Like Buffy or West Wing, I cannot wait for my next hit.  I have watched three seasons of the show in one week.  I would have watched more but some pesky customer has borrowed Season 4 and I am waitlisted.

I already know I have to buy it.  And I am – despite all accounts – fussy about the TV series in which I invest, having only procured Buffy; Sex and the City; West Wing; and Firefly to date.

Some shows I love – Dexter and Mad Men – but I know I won’t watch them again.  And again.  Entourage I will.  I already know this.  Though the storyline interests me, knowing what is coming won’t prevent me from re-watching.  Like Buffy and West Wing, it is the characters and the dialogue which draw me in and spit me back out.  Sated but ready and willing to take more.

Meanwhile, as I wait for Season 4 of Entourage to find its way back to the video store, I realise I need to start pacing myself.  Season 5 has only just been released and Season 6 is currently screening in the USA.  Soon I am going to have to wait.  Delay gratification.  Or just find my next drug of choice…..

Lollipop-heads and trout-pouts

Half a dozen or so years ago, the term lollipop-head was coined to describe the actresses and the A, B (and D) listers who became so thin that their heads looked disproportionately large compared to their bodies. It described the then-fashionable wafer-thin Sarah Michelle Geller, Olsen twin and Nicole Richie, amongst others.

Despite the continuing swarm of chupa-chup starlets (the chicks from the new Beverly Hills 90210 and The Hills whose names I refuse to learn; and the likes of yo-yoing Lindsay Lohan) we don’t hear the term as much. But as I watch a rather-thin Miley Cyrus gyrating around on television, I can’t help wondering how their scrawny necks cope with the mountain of hair they carry upon their seemingly-large chupa-chup heads.

The thinness thing is not new, nor does it seem that it will ever get ‘old’. Weight (loss and gain) remains the fodder of women’s magazines which guilelessly feature articles on excessive thinness and eating disorders beside those on how to lose 20kgs in a week.

Given my recent predilection for TV on DVD and the ability to watch months of television productions over a weekend, I am finding myself intrigued with those actresses who become thinner as the show progresses. I suspect the change is more evident when – like me – you watch the series in one fell-swoop, rather than from week to week where the difference is more subtle.

You read about the ‘peer pressure’ on set when everyone else is thin. But the phenomenon that also interests me is the change between the ‘pilot’ and the rest of the season. Presumably Directors and Producers select actors who impress them – for whatever reason (talent, looks etc). So it is interesting that the timelapse – however long – between the filming of a pilot and the rest of the first season can bring about dramatic changes and I wonder why the actresses feel this need to ‘streamline’.

I have just finished watching the first series of the 2003 show, Dead Like Me. Foisted upon me by the helpful assistant at my local Blockbuster video store, I find myself entranced by the show centred around a bunch of grim-reapers.

The actress playing the lead role, Ellen Muth, isn’t your typical starlet. Not stereotypically beautiful, Muth playing misfit George (who is killed by a falling toilet from a Russian Space Station) is perfectly cast as the apathetic 18-year old and delivers her deadpan lines in her own alluring way.

I noticed nothing unusual about her as the series commenced, but she became noticeably thinner as the season progressed. I wondered then, when she had started to change and if her twig-like body had previously been hidden because of its vanishing girth. With a naturally round face, the lollipop-head phrase could have been coined with Muth in mind. Mid season she bares her arms and I could ‘barely’ look. Her forearms were actually larger than her biceps and so thin that an ever-present large vein looked like a tattooed racing stripe on her upper arm. I cringed every time I looked.

But, as I was loving the show, I squinted through the remainder of episodes. In fact I liked the show so much I went online after I had finished watching Season 1, to get information about the second (and final) Season. I am not sure why it is I keep discovering shows on DVD which were axed years before – Firefly, Pushing Daisies, now Dead Like Me. If I was more self-obsessed I would think there was some cause and effect thing happening and it was all about me….?!

My extensive research (hurrah for Google) also uncovered a made-for-DVD movie of the show, filmed only this year. Interested, I clicked on the link to take me to the movie’s website and that was my moment of disappointment.

The website featured an interview with star of the show and (new) movie, Ellen Muth. Now 5-6 years since the Season 1, Muth (who purportedly is a member of Mensa, so should not be unduly influenced by inane Hollywood fads) has done the unthinkable. She has (hmm….how to put it politely….?) “had some work done”. In fact, it almost certainly appeared that she now has the apt-phrased ‘trout-pout’. Already blessed with full lips, Muth’s mouth is now over-inflated and ridiculously caricature-like on her face.

I don’t understand it. I am not generally opposed to plastic surgery (as long as one admits to it – cos otherwise it is basically lying. I often fantasise about botox but know I would feel obliged to admit it to anyone who asked. Or even anyone who didn’t! And, my upper lip is a tad thin, so sure a bit of inflation would be great – but I wouldn’t dare go there as we have oft-seen the disastrous results).

I – like most of those on this orb-we-call-earth – was a huge Meg Ryan fan. Until the plastic surgery debacle that resulted in her cute impish beauty becoming the inscrutable mask, which has seen most of her recent movies tank in a big way. I recall the release of Kate & Leopold (possibly the beginning of the end), and everyone’s horror at what she had done to herself – and her career. I can’t help wonder if Nicole Kidman’s current fascination for smooth skin will also see the demise of her career.

While the plastic surgery horror-stories are many, what intrigues me are those who don’t seem to realise how ridiculous they look. When it first aired, I was a fan of TV show, Cold Case. I recall much of Australia was smitten with Kathryn Morris – she of the barely-pinned-up hair, fragile features and porcelain skin. I wasn’t actually smitten, but I could see why people thought she was attractive. And then, somewhere along the line something happened. I cannot pinpoint exactly when, but when a new season of Cold Case started I innocently tuned in, only to be horrified by the TV-cop who was once a favourite. She was all lips. I couldn’t focus on anything else. Kathryn Morris’s face barely moved – there were no expressions, just these swollen things in the middle of her head pouting and slapping together. I haven’t been able to watch the show since.

Perhaps there is some scientific basis to it all. I wonder if the whole inflated-lips thing helps the lollipop-heads’ balance, or reduces the pressure on their tiny necks? Akin to a helium balloon on a piece of string? Hmmm…. something to ponder.

But for now, I am flummoxed. Having recently discovered Dead Like Me, I can’t help wondering when Hollywood’s obsession with homogenization resulted in the lead actor, Ellen Muth’s decision to go-the-way-of-others-before-her and adopt the trout-pout. I hope I can at least get through Season 2 before I am distracted by her oversized choppers! From all accounts the movie is a bit of a dud anyway!

Felicidades – parte dois*

When I first returned (from living in Mozambique in Africa in 1996) I attempted to retain what little Portuguese language I had learned. At the time there was a Brazilian soap opera on one of our TV stations. It was called Felicidades – essentially meaning happiness in Portuguese. While the show itself was typically soap opera-like, I fell in love with the word (rarely used in its plural form).

Although I continue to work in jobs that (by their very nature) require me to constantly be ‘available’ I have been considering cutting back my hours. And no, I don’t mean just to start only doing 8-9hr days, but rather working a 4 day week. I have done the sums and I cannot really afford this. But I am getting closer and closer to approaching my boss about it.

And I wonder now about the concept. Of happiness. I have just written about two women’s searches for happiness, in Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Eat, Pray, Love (EPL) and the movie (based on a book and featuring one of my favourite actresses, Dianne Lane), Under the Tuscan Sun.

I defended both as not being self-indulgent, superficial quests for ‘happiness’ or ‘meaning’ but rather attempts to regain some of the lives the two women had lost when they unwittingly lost themselves in failed marriages.

I have never been a big believer in the concept of happiness. I talk to my mother often of my ultimate quest for a sense of ‘contentment’ rather than happiness. To me happiness is fleeting – something experienced when you are presented with a nice meal or buy a new item or clothing. Contentment (to me) is less transient. It is more about our sense of ourselves, than derived from external sources.

Having said that, I do believe that unhappiness is less transient and more pervasive. I also believe it is possible to talk ourselves into unhappiness. One minute we are going along okay and then we look across the road and see someone else who has more, or better, and then we feel like we are missing out.

I am a walking-cliché. Constantly feeling discontented with my life, I constantly change things around me (usually jobs) searching for a possibly-unattainable state. I often describe my emotional state as bereft or melancholy rather than ‘unhappy’ which I think sounds as if someone has made me so. Sure, a lot of my discontentment is superficial or materialistic. I wish I had a bigger tv (as I am still living with the large black box instead of a flat-screen LCD or plasma tv), a new lounge suite, or fabulous rug. But, much of my malaise results from my lack of contentment with – well, me and what I have (or have not) achieved, what I do (and don’t do) with my time – essentially, how I live my life.

In EPL and Under the Tuscan Sun, both Elizabeth and Frances lost themselves in their marriages and it was only the end of that institution which led them to sit up and wonder where the hell ‘they’ were. I don’t have that excuse. Only in a work-sense have I had to compromise who I am and who I want to be. While I hate that I have always been single, I am fiercely independent so haven’t spend my life waiting for a partner. I have gotten on with things. But like Elizabeth and Frances, I find myself often wondering if there is anything ‘else’. I can’t help but wonder, “Is this it? Is this all there is?”

In the ‘war of generations’, we talk about Generation Y being even more self-absorbed than Gen X. I watched something recently where a ‘Baby Boomer’ – the generation who led the fight for rights which we now take for granted – called Gen X & Y the ‘I want it all’ generations.

I agree that we are becoming more and more demanding. Not just of others and of service and technology, but also of ourselves. We expect to be happy. Here in 2009, in some time-warped anomaly, we want the material possessions of the greed-is-good culture of the 1980s and we expect the fulfillment of the navel-gazing 1960s.

Once we scoffed at those who stopped and pondered on the point of it all. They were the hippy-wannabes or those who dropped out of life to live on the poverty line as potters or poets. We judged them and suspected that – clad in tie-died kaftans – they weren’t really happy, just constantly too stoned to know any better.

But in the dawn of the new millennium we are taking stock of our lives. In a post-September 11-world which has become more and more demanding (we are always at the other end of electronic media and constantly available), it isn’t only the disenfranchised and the recent divorcees who are poised at the precipice for change.

Some of us are ‘down-sizing’ or taking a sea- or tree-change to improve the quality of our existence. We realise that it isn’t all about money. And we are making selfless choices to improve our environment and the lives of future generations.

I have mulled over the idea for years. But, as a single woman, it is hard to justify. I don’t have the standard excuses – study or children. But I want to make a statement – that my life is not entirely about work. I want to give myself time to do other things like exercise, writing, catching up with friends and just doing chores at home.

Unlike Elizabeth or Frances, it hasn’t really taken a crisis to bring me to this point, but a number of things, including my decision this year to try to have a child; and my (particularly confronting ) time at a fat camp recently.

So, love it or hate it, more and more of us are contemplating our lives. I can almost pinpoint those in my social-circle who will ask ‘why’ I would contemplate a 4-day week. It is easy to make fun of those who are searching for ‘meaning’, happiness or contentment, or even just trying to rediscover our lost selves. It is easy to roll your eyes at those who stop to ask themselves if they are happy.

But I think that asking if you are happy is akin to asking yourself if you are in love. If you have to ask, then you probably aren’t!

* Portuguese (hopefully)

Felicita – parte uno*

Why is it that (in novels and films) people have to ‘leave’ to find themselves? Perhaps that is the only reason the novel exists. If, for example, Mary Smith discovered a sense of her real self between making the kids lunches and vacuuming, she wouldn’t probably bother to document the journey. But, had she traveled purposefully across the country or the world to stave off her inner discontentedness, well… then she might have a bestseller on her hands.

Coincidentally I came across two of these journeys in a weekend recently.

I read the book Eat, Pray, Love (EPL) for the first time and I watched a rerun of the movie (from book of same name) Under the Tuscan Sun.

The same morning that I discovered EPL at my local library I came across an article – scathing in its disdain about society’s current search for happiness. Berating our expectation of happiness along with the myriad of self-help type books, the journalist quotes EPL as being a favourite of some Hollywood-types for whom the book is akin to an existential ‘how-to’ guide. It seems fateful then that I venture across the book later that day and borrow it to see what the fuss is about.

I tend to dislike non-fiction. Well, I actually hate it, and usually don’t go anywhere near it unless forced. When I scanned the book along with my library card, I had no idea that EPL was in fact non-fiction, until I read the cover on arrival home. Nevertheless, I decided I could battle on and see how far I could get before suffering disdain equal to that of the journalist or just giving up out of boredom.

I read it in one sitting. And I loved it. I don’t believe it to be a search of happiness – as blithely condemned by the aforementioned journalist. This implies a glib, superficial self-indulgent search for utopia, or something equally clichéd (Edina’s constantly-changing religions in Absolutely Fabulous comes to mind).

Perhaps if someone told me of the book’s premise, I would laugh. OMG…. A middle-aged well-educated woman suffering from an existential crisis goes to an Ashram in India. True, Elizabeth sounds like walking cliché of a divorcee going through a mid-life crisis.

But, to me, her search through the world’s ‘eyes’ – Italy, India and Indonesia, is actually more about her actually discovering her (lost) self rather than a superficial search for happiness or even some self-actualised meaning of life – despite some of her sources of intellectual and spiritual nourishment!

I read an interview with the author of EPL, Elizabeth Gilbert. She was asked if taking a year off to travel around the world to ‘find herself’ was selfish? I wonder about this question. The notion of selfishness implies that our acts negatively impinge on others. As a single thirty-something year old woman, with the finances to fund her journey I find it bizarre that anyone would question her motivations. We don’t question the selfishness of 20 year olds who want to backpack around the world. Why are the expectations of a 30 year old professional female so different?

a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/26073312@N08/5105580631/" title="Under the tuscan sun by jovisala47, on Flickr">Similarly, Under the Tuscan Sun, features Frances, a bitter divorcee (do I sense a theme?!) who takes off and buys into a new life rather than returning to her old one.

Again it is about a woman trying to find her feet. Trying to find the person she may once have been, but no longer is.

In both the film and book, it takes a crisis for the two women to ‘act’. What does this mean for the rest of us? For those of us not really expecting a life of joy and happiness, but aware of the chunks missing from the jigsaw that is our existence.

Do we need to wait for a crisis? Or is the crisis itself the only reason we venture on such a journey? If there is no crisis, is there no rainbow?

And (crisis or not), is it possible to complete this search as we go about our everyday lives? In between our work, domestic and family commitments? Does this give us the time, energy and opportunity we need to take stock, or do we need to follow Frances’ and Elizabeth’s ‘selfish’ leads and take time out from our everyday lives.

Both of our heroines Elizabeth and Frances, ultimately live happily ever after, having successfully navigated their searches and peeled back the layers of their former lives to rediscover their selves. But, as is so often the case, it isn’t actually the rainbow at the end of the quest that provides them with the answers they seek. It is the journey through which they travel to get there. Frances’ eventual contentment in Tuscany is not arrived at despite the highs and lows during the restoration of her Italian villa, but because of them.

So, in addition to wondering if success is as sweet if there is no preceding bitterness, I wonder now if what we seek comes easily, would it be as fulfilling? Like a math problem, if we are given the answer without actually working out HOW to solve it, we are perhaps no better off than before...

* Italian (hopefully)

(Not) just a pretty face

I recently wrote (tongue in cheek) about my evolving taste in men. But I am afraid I have to admit that, while I am still primarily drawn to a man’s wit and intelligence, I still can’t go past a pretty face. Or more specifically, a handsome or sexy one.

I was confronted with my own hypocrisy a week after writing the other blog (http://rockafellaskank.wordpress.com/2009/04/11/the-fine-print/).  I flipped open a magazine from a weekly newspaper and there he was. Rupert Penry-Jones. Hmmmm, even the name is sexy (in a stuffy British way).

Beyond cute. And sexy. He’s both. And intelligent. Well, maybe not really, but he is in the TV Show, Spooks, where he plays Adam Carter, a MI5 Agent. I must admit at this point that I haven’t been watching the award-winning show. I watched the first two series and then when Penry-Jones’ predecessor (the popular Matthew Macfadyen) left I was disappointed. That was allayed when I laid eyes on the new star, Penry-Jones. But the excitement was short-lived when a wife appeared on the scene. A sharp-featured thin woman, I disliked her immediately and, with the loss of other characters I lost interest in the show. Having said that, Penry-Jones remains ridiculously sexy. (Of course, I discovered later that his on-screen wife was killed off. Damn! I missed out on hours of viewing pleasure…)

But it is nice to know I can still be flummoxed by a pretty face. I have to admit that, while I love Simon Baker’s quirky character in The Mentalist, I also watch the show because he is beautiful beyond belief. I don’t care that he is happily married and apparently sweet. He is stunning.

Similarly lovely is Gabriel Macht, who I discovered in the very-ordinary (but visually pleasing) Because I Said So, and appearing more recently in The Spirit. I find myself unable to decide whether he is cute or sexy, but then again – who cares?!

I should also admit at this point to a bit of a soft spot for Jeffrey Dean Morgan (who played the dying Denny in Grey’s Anatomy and the father in TV’s Supernatural). I was still watching Grey’s Anatomy when he appeared and, well… died. Single girlfriends and I complained bitterly after viewing the fairly-ordinary weepie, PS I Love You, in which Hilary Swank is not only widowed by the gorgeous Gerard Butler, but happens to stumble across Jeffrey as she tries to cope with her hubby’s death. I mean, how many gorgeous guys is one girl granted?!

While I’m at it, I have to confess to almost crying over Brad Pitt’s beauty as Benjamin Button. I mean, how can someone be so beautiful? (As the young Benjamin obviously, not the old one!)

Then of course there is George. While the oft-cited car-boot (car-trunk to non-Aussies) scene between Mr Clooney and Jennifer Lopez (in Out of Sight) caused some hot flushes, it was the hotel bar and ensuing bedroom scene that made me rethink the sexiness of a name like George.

Now, I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder – after all, while Blair Underwood can make me swoon; I still think Leonardo DiCaprio looks like a 15 year old; that Robert Pattison has a flat nose; and as for those boys from Gossip Girl….well, I just don’t get it.

But, after stumbling across Penry-Jones’ picture and giving the (what-attracts-me) matter more consideration, it was nice to be reminded that I am still a sucker for a pretty face.

So, while I no longer have pictures of Tom Cruise on my walls – as I did in the 1980s (and, I blame hair-perming chemicals for that lapse in judgment!) and I am not going to stalk Penry-Jones, Brad Pitt or George Clooney on Twitter, it’s kinda nice really – being this superficial. I was starting to worry I was a bit past all that.

TV or not TV

The facts are these…… I am fickle. This I will admit. When I was a young girl Charlie’s Angels, Bionic Woman, Starsky and Hutch had my heart – and my TV viewing hours.

My tastes have changed over the years. Matured – hopefully. Evolved – hopefully. Until today I find myself attracted with TV with intelligent scripts and witty dialogue. And a bit of an edge.

First there was Buffy, West Wing and Sex in the City. Then we were blessed with Weeds, Dexter and Mad Men. Original and quirky.

Well, quirky has a new name. And face. Having read about the show, last weekend I stumbled across Pushing Daisies at my local video store.

Commentated by voiceover with a dry, droll wit, Daisies features Ned, who learns at a young age, that he has the ability to bring the dead back to life. But like all good things (red wine and chocolate) there are negative consequences.

We first meet Ned as a child, where upon bringing his mother back to life, he inadvertently causes the death of his childhood sweetheart’s father; and upon a second touch, relegates his mother again to the afterlife.

We next meet the present-day Ned (aka the Pie-Maker) and his equally-quirky band of sidekicks at The Pie Hole.

Emmerson Cod, who most recently played the antagonistic and arrogant Edward Vogler on House, is a PI who, having discovered Ned’s secret exploits it for profit. By bringing the dead back to life (albeit briefly – having learnt his lesson from the double death of his mother) Ned and Emmerson can ask about the crime that led to the victim’s death, tell the cops and collect the reward. Well, sort of…

Daisies is well-served by its supporting cast of Anna Friel (as Ned’s grown-up childhood sweetheart, Chuck) and torch-carrying employee, Olive Snook (played with kooky charisma by West Wing’s Kristin Chenoweth).

The set and visual design of the show reflect its ‘larger-than-life’ theme. Like a big storybook, everything from the Pie Hole itself, to Olive and Chuck’s wardrobe is bright, colourful and almost cartoon-like.

Like many other underappreciated shows (Dexter and Mad Men), our doyens of taste (TV Executives) decided against rushing Pushing Daisies onto our screens. Instead, Channel Nine, having purchased the rights to the show, on-sold it to pay television after one year, where it screened for the first time in Australia in April this year.

I have previously complained about the fickle nature of TV Executives (which, unlike my own fickle taste, is highly unacceptable!):  http://rockafellaskank.wordpress.com/2009/02/15/benching-the-b-team-eli-army-wives-gossip-girl/

Unfortunately, despite its early success (the show was nominated for 22 Emmy Awards in 2008); it has since been axed, going the way of many-a-good-but-slightly-weird TV show.

However, all is not lost. The first season is now available on DVD and I have the second season to look forward to. I also have faith that more original and innovative boffins in TV- and movie-land will come up with my next viewing pleasure.

Twilight - the series

When I started this it was about my oft-used coping mechanism of watching and re-watching certain comfort movies.

I went off track sometime during the draft, however, as I talked about my latest crutch and it seems that this has turned into a review or analysis of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series. So, I will have to get back to the coping mechanisms later as I ponder the success of the novels: Twilight; New Moon; Eclipse; and Breaking Dawn. (Known from here in as 1, 2, 3, and 4 out of laziness). After all, it is rare that something can incite anticipation and passion in teenagers and adults alike. So why, I wonder, is the series so popular?

I have one friend who has read them for the vampire factor. Not a goth, but an intelligent and articulate mother, she loves all things other-worldly.

I don’t. If there was a reason I initially rebelled against reading the novels, it was for that exact reason. I don’t like the Sci-Fi or the Fantasy genre. Sure, I want to escape from the mundane-ness of my life, but not quite that much. Also putting me off was the fact that the novels targeted young adults – an audience I deviate from. Significantly.

I started inadvertently about six months ago. Almost by accidence or circumstance. My local library has new novels on weekly loans. And there it was, sitting there one day and so it was borrowed. In desperation (of reading fodder) more than design.

Immediately I was addicted. I remember my early thoughts. There, one Saturday afternoon in the bath. It was an easy read. Simple and welcoming. I read it in one sitting – in a couple of hours. And I was desperate for more.

What was it then; that drew me (and others) in? After recently re-reading the series, a number of things strike me.

It is the ultimate fairytale. Good girl falling for the bad guy. Not just a bad guy, but a superhero bad guy. Interspersed with hints of Jane Austen’s Mr Darcy, our hero, Edward Cullen is wealthy, dark, brooding, intense and enigmatic. He is fiercely protective of young Bella Swan and her honour. He is every girl’s (whether we admit it or not) ultimate fantasy.
Bella on the other hand, is described as nothing special. Attractive, but not beautiful. Awkward and shy. Though a novelty for the small town of Forks, she is pretty normal. Spectacularly unspecial, in contrast to Edward’s beauty and prowess.

Theirs becomes the ultimate love story.

Book 1 drew me in. Book 2 I hated. Fortunately for author Meyer, I had read the excerpt online of what was to be (and may still be) Book 5 (Midnight Sun) – Book 1 from Edward’s perspective. This novel provided much context and made me realize (retrospectively) that much was missing from Book 1. What surprised me the most, was – even though I knew what happens – I loved the draft Book 5 and wanted more. I wanted her to finish it. I wanted more of Bella and Edward.

After the disappointment of Book 2, I continued reading. I realized in retrospect that Book 2 provided context for later storylines, but it lacked everything Book 1 offered – Edward and Bella – the love story. I had heard from a friend that Book 2 was a let-down so I stuck around for 3 and 4, which I devoured with relish.

Having said that, I am unashamedly critical of parts of the novels. Meyer skips periods of time and then goes into detail about others and I felt as it was missing huge chunks of the storyline. I read on her website, that after Twilight, she wrote Forever Dawn, which further explored the Bella-Edward love story. She said it was around this time she got the publishing deal for Twilight and learned it was being marketed as Young Adult (YA) Fiction. She says that Forever Dawn wasn’t suitable for the YA market, so she shelved it and set about writing New Moon. She was therefore writing Book 2 as Book 1 was being edited. When she found that Jacob Black took over Book 2, she had to go back and weave him more into the storyline of Book 1. I wonder if that’s why Book 2 suffers. Perhaps she set out writing with no direction, other than to defer the Edward-Bella love story until she could work out how to weave it into the YA genre.

In some ways I can understand young girls’ adoration of the novels. In some ways they are a tad self-indulgent. Every fantasy comes true. Everything is a tad too perfect. Bella gets to remain the centre of attention, adored by some, hated (seemingly irrationally) by others who go to any end to see her destruction. Some of this is too contrived and, though it didn’t interfere with my reading, I consciously eye-rolled at the storyline from time to time.

Throughout the series I managed to ignore the lack of realism. I mean, the likelihood of our heroine coming across a vampire and werewolf in middle America? It was only the level of self-indulgence that Meyer allowed herself that irked me.

I agree though, with those critics who have commented on the extremity of Bella’s weakness and a perception that the ‘damsel in distress is rescued by the strong hero’. Meyer rebuts this, saying that in later novels, Bella in fact saves Edward. True, but only when she becomes a superhero herself. She explains that Bella seems weak in comparison to the Cullens and the werewolves. I am sure this is the case, but the constant references to Bella falling asleep and having to be carried around and her constant exhaustion offered me pictures of a pale, weak girl. Not a potential role model for young women.

My rant over, I must admit I can only recommend the novels to a potential audience.
I am not sure if author, Stephenie Meyer is a literary genius, but she has got a way with a storyline and she presses all of the right buttons, to draw us in and make us want more.

Appreciating Joss

I check out other blogs from time to time and one caught my eye recently.  Sufficiently impassioned, I felt obliged to respond to the author.  In a positive way. 

Kaye Dacus recently wrote about her favourite (new) shows which are currently airing in the USA.  One of these was the new Joss Whedon show, Dollhouse. 

I suspect it won’t be here (in Australia) for a while.  Some of my recent favourite TV series (Mad Men, Dexter) are actually here on DVD before they appear on our Free to Air television.

Nonetheless, I will look forward to the show – whenever it arrives.  

For those not-in-the-know, Joss Whedon is a director, come writer (etc) who created Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and now Dollhouse.  I was thrilled to see that blogger and writer Kaye (a sane, intelligent woman and not a sci-fi freak, as you so often see with Joss’s fans) appreciated his work.  And, as a result, I felt obliged to add my glowing recommendation (in response to her and in my own blog).

I became a Joss fan during the Buffy years.  Not the early years, as a show about a vampire slayer wasn’t something I would have even considered watching.  As it happened, in 2000 I was living in Asia and – in desperation – I succumbed to cable tv and one night (for something to do) watched an episode of Buffy.  I was intrigued so went back for more.  I then bought the DVDs to see all of the earlier episodes and waited for new episodes with a surprising impatience. 

I am aware a lot of Buffy-viewers were ‘goth-like’ characters themselves and loved ‘all-things-vampire’.  I must admit to fast-forwarding through some of the fight scenes, and cringing at some of the other-worldly characters as what I loved most about Buffy was the dialogue.  The witty-repartee, the Buffy ‘catch-phrases’ were what stuck in my mind. 

It would be easy to write off the show as trite, light-viewing, featuring some teenage-superhero-wannabe. 

I was well into the series before I realized how incredibly talented Joss Whedon and his crew were.  Through interviews accompanying the DVD series’, I learned that Buffy’s mother (Joyce) knew that she was to be killed off years before she was (and the episode of her death is one of the most poignant things I have ever seen on tv).  The obscure references to her sister Dawn’s arrival a year or two before she appeared intrigued me as well.  I guess I had thought the writers sat around informally and randomly came up with ideas and scripts.  I hadn’t expected that much rigour, talent and intelligence around the process.  

I read later that Joss is known for mapping out his shows in advance, but the commitment and adherence to detail that must go with that level of focus is amazing.

I can only imagine then, how devastating it was when his (post Buffy & Angel) TV series Firefly was cancelled after one season.  He must have decided long before what would happen to these new characters he created.  The movie, Serenity which came out later, I suspect was an attempt to get some closure.  And not only for the fans. 

Interestingly Joss has a habit of re-using actors he favours in his shows.  Eliza Dushku appeared as the rogue slayer, Faith, in Buffy and now stars in Dollhouse.  Nathan Fillion went from creepy bad guy in Buffy to sexy lead in Firefly.

He creates strong female characters: from the slayers and witches in Buffy; to River (the brain-washed and reluctant superhero in Firefly); to the ‘dolls’ being programmed in Dollhouse.  In an era when so few female role models exist on our screens, and women still so-often play the sidekick to the lead detective, it is refreshing to see quirky and (slightly) flawed female leads. 

So, I have missed Joss from our screens – he has an eccentricity that is rare and tries things others wouldn’t dare.  He seems prone to some self-indulgence (writing his own theme songs, appearing in some episodes) and I gather he is a tad ‘precious’ – wanting things HIS way, which I suspect is usually the right way.  Who else would think to write an entire episode of a show (Buffy) where no words are spoken, or another where all dialogue is sung. 

But, it seems I can now look forward to Dollhouse, though gossip is that its network is considering axing it – already.  Perhaps like Buffy it takes some time to whet viewers’ appetites and incite their addiction.    In the interim, I will await its arrival here with anticipation.

Family SATC-style

I rely on my parents, a lot.  Even though they don’t live nearby, my mother is often the first person I go to when things are going wrong.  I have close friends, but sometimes there are things I can only tell my mother.  When things aren’t going well and when I feel like a failure.  I know my parents will love me – no matter what.  (After all, that is their job.)

 

I am sure I rely on them too much, though I suspect this would be different if I had a partner.  I suspect those with lovers or husbands or partners arrive home and whinge to them about their day; seek a hug when they are stressed or fraught with despair; or share their tears when they don’t get a job they expected to.    

 

I have some very close friends who know almost everything about my life, but sometimes I don’t go to them.  They are mostly there for me, but I am not their priority and sometimes it is too hard to admit failure to those who don’t HAVE to love you. 

 

I have a number of single and married friends in their 30s, 40s and 50s.  Some have kids, some don’t.  For most of these friends, their families continue to play a major part in their lives.  Parents and siblings feature often in our discussions - in both positive and negative ways. 

 

Like me, for some of my closest friends, their parents (mostly mothers and grandmother in one instance) remain confidants, offering constant and unwavering support and comfort.

 

As well as the emotional support family provides, there is also the practical assistance that comes from being a member of a family.  You babysit, even when it is inconvenient and you help out when someone becomes sick. You attend family get-togethers; from celebrations to annoying family requirements.  You make an effort even when you don’t want to.  After all, when everything else goes to hell in a handbasket, family is all we might have left. 

 

So, this is what I don’t get.  They don’t really appear in SATC.  Relatives that is.  In my recent spate of viewing random episodes on Pay Television, I watched Charlotte marry Trey.  She faltered just before walking down the aisle and grabbed Carrie to seek reassurance.  Concerns allayed, Carrie disappeared and an older man emerged from the wings and took Charlotte’s arm to walk to her down the aisle.  I can only assume this man was her father, or step-father, or equivalent.  But there he was – nameless and almost faceless.  Was there a mother I wondered? While planning the perfect wedding, I don’t recall Charlotte ever mentioning a father or mother. 

 

I know the show focused on the friendships, but it also focused on the girls’ lives – and I feel like there was a big chunk missing.  In some ways the show was a ‘manual’ for living (albeit in a more luxurious, fun-filled, exciting and extreme world).  So, while we learned lessons about men, relationships and friendships we were left in idle ignorance when it comes to dealing with our own families.

 

We meet Trey’s interfering mother and Steve’s annoying mother.  I even have a vague recollection of someone’s mother (Miranda perhaps) dying during the series.  But even from that episode, what I remember most is the support she gets from the girls, rather than the loss of a mother.   

 

So, where are they the rest of the time?   I mean, did Carrie even have parents?  I don’t recall them offering support when she had been dumped by “Big” (again and again), or Aidan.  Or any consideration of aging parents in her decision to move to Paris?   What about the man who walked Charlotte down the aisle?  Where was he during her stressful efforts to conceive a child and through her divorce? 

 

So, I am intrigued.  Where were their families?  Carrie’s, Charlotte’s, Miranda’s or Samantha’s?  We had the horror mother-in-laws, so what about the small-town mothers and fathers or siblings, not fitting into the girls’ NYC lives?  A few embarrassing relatives wouldn’t have gone astray - but they are largely absent.  Why I wonder?  Is family not sexy enough for the city? 

 

Did the four girls really emerge from their childhoods unscathed?  What about some residual baggage?  Sibling rivalries?  Or even some backstories to fill in some of the blanks?  After all, where did Samantha’s aversion to ‘love’ come from; and why was Charlotte such so desperate for Park Avenue and the perfect family?  

 

Perhaps a prequel is called for?!

SATC - The early years

There are a number of good things about this house-sitting gig.  Not just being away from the building site-that-is-my-home; the larder full of cooking stuff (like choc bits, which I will have to replace before I leave); the excuse that I am out of my routine and can’t exercise; but also having access to Pay TV. 

 

My brother doesn’t have the movies’ or sports’ channels.  The focus here is predominantly on all-things-Disney, for my niece (who has a bit of a thing for Avatar, Hannah Montana and some show about two boys who live in a hotel with their mother).  So I am spending most of my waking (and tv-watching) hours in front of ARENA and reveling in repeats of Sex and the City, which appears to be on constantly and usually in no logical order.  The other evening, for example, there were two episodes in a row.  The first one was the actual pilot episode (circa 1998).  The next was from Season Four.

 

Why I am glued to them I have no idea.  I actually have all of the DVDs at my place.  All six Seasons.  I could go and pick them up.  Or wait until I get home and watch them.  But instead, I am strangely transfixed to the randomness with which they appear on ARENA.  I have to admit, I had forgotten how many men Carrie and the girls went through over the years.  Samantha aside, the other three constantly dated with a never-ending stream of men through their lives. 

 

Is this why we liked it I wonder?  Not just for the clothes and fashions – and to see what strange combination Carrie would next don (and even more amazingly, pull off).  Or did we just envy their seemingly glamourous lives and the fact that they seemed to be constantly in demand by the men of New York. 

 

Critics railed at the realism of the show and the fact that – in the real world – similar women would be hard pressed to afford their apartments, let alone the lifestyle they portrayed; their clothes, their Jimmy Choos and constant stream of visits to the ‘happening’ restaurants and bars of NYC. 

 

But did we care?  Hell no!  Who cares if, in the real world, one pair of Manolo Blahnik’s would set Carrie back a year’s salary.  Instead we all envied their fabulous lives.  We all wanted to be them.  And, we’ve all done the Facebook quiz, wondering which of the four girls we really are.  I suspect we probably all wanted to be Carrie (around whom the SATC world revolves) and I think the Facebook doyenne believed me to be so, but I always felt more like Charlotte with a bit of Miranda thrown in.   Sweet but cynical. 

 

So, having been exposed to a veritable kaleidoscope of episodes in the past week, not only am I surprised at how little the women changed over the six seasons (yay for botox!), I am reminded of a few favourite moments (and seasons) and amazed at the things I had forgotten.

 

Very importantly, I had forgotten that in the first episodes (and perhaps a few to follow – I will have to check later) Carrie speaks to the camera and the show featured mock interviews, with little captions.  So, it started as a faux-documentary.  Watching it now, I cringe.  I resolve to watch the first season to see when this changes - when the producers realized they needed to go with engaging storylines, supported by narration, rather than a thought piece with a one-dimensional supporting cast.

 

I had also forgotten that ‘Big’ appears in the first episode. 

 

I have also seen the final two episodes in the last few days.  I remember – like hordes of others – being disappointed at the final episode.  Unhappy that, for a show about how it is okay to be single and alone, the four girls all ended up partnered off. 

 

I recall that when it first came out in 1998, the show was a celebration of independence and of strong single women.  So, while I sympathise with the producers’ desire for a happily-ever-after ending, it fell like a sell-out.  Carrie’s move to Paris was very much about her fear of being the ‘last-one-standing’ and being alone, rather than following her heart, or even her head.  Bringing in ‘Big’ at the last minute, seemed too contrived, with the producers obviously in a rush to wrap six-years up neatly, tie the bow and present it expectantly to adoring fans.

 

This aside, when I think of the show, I think of it being about relationships and most importantly, about friendships.  The scene I most remember from the movie, for example, is Charlotte’s anger (in the street) at ‘Big’ after he failed to show at the wedding ceremony.  Her distress for her friend felt real and devastated me more than Carrie being left at the altar.  It made me wonder about selfless relationships where true love, loyalty and devotion are fundamental. 

 

The episode I watched (The Agony and the Ex-tacy) after the pilot was about the girls attending an engagement party for a guy they had knew (and several slept with). 

 

The episode was about finding your soulmate.  I hadn’t remembered that the show had really articulated the level of desperation evidenced in that episode.  Miranda faking happiness at her singleness and Carrie’s despair (after everyone missing her birthday celebration) at perhaps never finding her soulmate. It ended with the girls deciding they were each others’ soulmates and the guys that came along were just a bonus.  A lovely sentiment – but in my self-styled Miranda-cynicism I wonder if they were saying the same thing several years later when they were all paired off. 

 

I have another week of house-sitting so who knows what morsels are before me.  Either way, it has given me a taste of a favourite-but-forgotten treat.  My appetite whetted, I will have to pull out the DVDs when I get home.

 

Finally, another perplexing question.  Whatever happened to Skipper?

 

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0159206/

 

Reinventing Justin

People reinvent themselves all of the time, but some do it better than others.  In my (humble) opinion, one of those who has achieved the great rebirth, is Justin Timberlake.

This came to me while ensconced in front of channel V last night (damn school holidays and the TV repeats they bring!  What, do TV executives think people don’t watch television while on holidays?!) 

But, back to Justin….The fact that he is even now (mostly) known at JT is a big change from the boy who started his career in the Mickey Mouse Club with the girl who was to become his high-profile ‘other half’.  In fact, what I remember most about JT’s earlier life, was the relationship with Britney Spears.  More than his successful career with boy-band ‘NSYNC’ and all of the teenage adulation (and hit songs) that came with that. 

Sure, it appeared that he could sing and dance, well as much as you expect of a boy band member.  But it was pretty much cookie-cutter stuff.  Nothing new, nothing amazing.  And then came the 2002 Justin-Britney bust up.  The childhood sweethearts were over.  Rumours flew, but they kept quiet about the why. 

But, rather than fade into oblivion, JT moved on to Cameron Diaz and a seemingly ‘grown-up’ relationship and, with his boy-band behind him, he struck out on his own.

I am not an huge music fan, but revel in Saturday and Sunday mornings with the papers spread before me, diet coke a-plenty, left over Chinese (if I am lucky) and music videos on tv. 

So, I was surprised when JT first emerged post-Britney and post NSYNC with Like I Love You.  There he was with some rappers, dancing and singing and looking kinda cool.  With them.  Not a boy-band pirouette/twirly-thing in sight.  The curls were gone and cropped hair hidden under a skull cap.  I wondered how the collaboration came about.  I was shocked: that legitimate ‘cool guys’ would actually deign to be seen with JT, let alone record with him; and even more so, that it seemed to be a good fit.  For him.

And then they kept on coming. The songs - as a solo artist and the collaborations – with very hip and legit producers and artists.     

He has had a stack of hits since he started his solo career in 2002, from Like I Love You, Senorita, My Love, Rock Your Body to the more melodic Cry Me a River and What Goes Around…Comes Around. 

But what I find interesting is that he has continued the collaborations with popular and obscure artists alike, from Beyonce to 50 Cent.  As well as a long-standing relationship with the way-cool Timbaland (Sexy Back, Give it to me), he has recently worked with Madonna (4 Minutes), Rihanna (Rehab) and TI (the current, Dead and Gone).  It interests me that, in some of these songs – Rehab, Give it to me – JT barely features.  In fact, on some occasions I am shocked to even discover he was involved.  I find myself admiring him.  A guy who doesn’t need the credit, or the adulation.  A guy happy to just get on with it, in the background.  Just doing the thing he loves doing.

I remember hearing feedback from a tour he did here a few years ago.  The die-hard (been-there-since-NSYNC) fans were disappointed.  The musos out there weren’t.  I gather that JT loves nothing better than just ‘jamming’ with his band, which is what he did on stage.  So, in my eyes his reinvention was complete.

He has pulled off what so many of his boy-band contemporaries have been unable to do.  While still able to ‘bring’ the moves, he seems content to focus on the music.  Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against boy bands, or performers (hey, I like the Pussy Cat Dolls for God’s sake), but I find myself bowing to this guy who has gone from clichéd boy-band member to cool and legit muso in a few short years.

The fine print

I have to admit to falling in love with people that I have never met. Well, not all of the people that I haven't met cos, well, that would plain silly. But a few of them.

I actually like to think that it is a sign of my maturity and sophistication that I am no longer drawn to men solely on the basis of cuteness. (Or a nice smile. Or nice arms. Or...)

In recent years I have found myself attracted to men based on their wit and repartee. Not in person or in conversations, but through their writing.

I first realised this when I came across a porn magazine while visiting a health retreat a few years back. The room's previous resident must have stashed it in a cupboard under blankets - presumably to hide it from the prying eyes of the cleaners - and forgotten it was there. Or something. Nevertheless, they forgot to take it with them and was left for my viewing pleasure.

While I have nothing against a sensible level of porn (the non-violent, not-involving-animals-or-other-weird-things-kind) I hadn't seen a magazine since discovering a stash at a relative's place 20 years before! It wasn't a well-known one and wasn't at all offensive. In fact, it was hilarious! Very tongue-in-cheek, rude but very witty. Mostly I ignored the pictures as the magazine gave a whole new meaning to 'buying it for the articles'.

The entire thing was obviously written by the one person. I suspect that, given the focus on the actual pictures, the article and caption-writing weren't overly arduous, so one person probably could have put it together in a month. But, there were enough words for me to completely become smitten with the author. I recall, at the time, pouring through the editorial info wondering who this author was. There was even a tone of irreverance for the target audience. I (very briefly) thought about writing to them to confess my undying love, but decided that would be, well... weird.

A year or two later (and magazine left for next health retreat resident) I discovered the next object of my desire. Reading a free inner-city weekly magazine I came across a weekly column spoofing political events (state and national). It was hilarious. The writer sarcastic and witty. Again, very tongue-in-cheek and obviously intelligently written. With no name on the column I scoured the editorial pages and the fine print wondering who authored it. I didn't go so far as to contact the paper to find out, but I did secretly hope the author was actually male. The fantasy wasn't as attractive otherwise. Each week I grabbed the paper, wanting my next fix until - suddenly there was a note to say the column was finishing. I thought of contacting the paper then to ask why, but again.... weird!

My latest fetish is for a cartoon called Vimrod (see link in my Favourites list). I know the authors are actually a couple, but my enamourment of the cartoon and the wit of its authors reminded me of my evolving taste when it comes to men.

I haven't 'fallen' for anyone for yonks. Once upon a time, all it took was a cute face, nice smile and nice set of biceps. From my discussions with friends, it seems common that - as we get older - we look for something different. My own 'wish list' has changed drastically over the past 20 years.

Intelligence, wit and sense of humour are at the top of that list (as well as a devotion to me, obviously!). I wondered once if it was just that (as we aged and the men-market dried up) we were becoming more desperate and were prepared to 'settle' for the less-attractive, but nicer guys. But it seems obvious that as marriages falter, the sizzle fades, the friendships become more important.

Last year I had the exact conversation with one of my best friends. As we bemoaned the state of our lovelives, I said that the most important thing for me now, in looking for a man, was that we had to have that 'banter'. I needed someone smart, witty and quick-minded, rather than just pretty to look at, or even just 'nice'. My friend said that she had accepted the fact that she wouldn't get that 'stimulation' from a man. It didn't matter if he wasn't her intellectual equal or able to 'chew the fat' on certain matters. She said that she could rely on her friends for that and no longer expected that in a potential partner.

The same friend has diligently dated over the enusing 12 months. Three months ago she had her first date with a guy she met over the internet. I met her the next day for a debrief. She liked him. Her only concern was that he was too much like her. He was her intellectual equal. She wasn't sure if that was what she wanted.

But, she perservered and they are still together. She sounds happy. I am yet to meet him, but am looking forward to it. My friend has always been a 'saver' and I love the fact that this time around, someone is there to meet her half-way. It is no more than she deserves.

So, what of this new revised wish list and my love of the witty writers.....? I have hung up my saddle on the relationship front for the time being. Not given up entirely, but am tired of 'looking'. Tired of not-finding and feeling rejected and alone.

In the interim, my love of the written word will continue and I will remain smitten about these men I come across, but don't come across (if you know what I mean).

Benching the B-team: Eli, Army Wives & Gossip Girl

It happens all of the time in sport. The star players get injured, or have representative duties and it is up to the ‘second string/ to suit up and keep the momentum going. They often do a great job and give some of the stars a run for their money. But, inevitably, the star players come back and the b-team are benched – often with little recognition for having carried the load for a while.

It just isn’t fair. The bench-warmers have kept everything chugging along; have earned their stripes; have given their hearts and souls; but like the bridesmaids – it isn’t about them – they should know their place. They are there to keep the seats warm. Like I said, it isn’t fair.

I am similarly aggrieved at the disdainful treatment of off-season television shows.

Always concerned at what TV Executives might foist upon us unsuspecting viewers during summer (here in Australia), I await the non-ratings viewing offerings with skepticism. Of course, sometimes I am surprised. Last summer, for example, we were treated to the quite watchable Women’s Murder Club. This summer, along with the inevitable re-runs of the tried and true favourites and a myriad of reality shows about police, customs officers, surf lifesavers and doctors, we were offered Eli Stone, Gossip Girl, Army Wives and (very briefly) the Ex-Files –to name but a few.

Like previous years, we were inundated with promotions for these shows and sucked in to their storylines as they appeared, slotted in between cricket, tennis and golf. Like previous years, we came to care about these shows, the characters and then they were unceremoniously ripped from our lives as TV Execs return from their overseas holidays and as critics and pollsters wipe the sleep from their eyes and stretch, awakened from hibernation. Summer has ended. The ratings season has begun.

But what about us? What about Eli and his tumour, the Army Wives and the Gossip Girl? We are left hanging. Sure, we have the old favourites back. And, I do say “Yay!” for new episodes of House, Law & Order SVU etc, but… what about the B-team? What about those the bench-warmers who comforted us through those (stinking hot) summer nights only to disappear when the first string returned?

Those of us who study the TV Guide closely each week (ie. who have no lives) are able to track down some of these shows. Eli Stone (promoted obscenely over summer) now features at 10.30pm on a Tuesday. Women’s Murder Club can be found on a Friday night at 10.30pm. As for Army Wives, it is now on twice a week at the witching hour (favoured only by insomniacs and University students) of 12.30am.

So I say, “What about a duty of care Mr TV Executives (assuming they are – in the majority – all male… after all, how else do they justify the number of motor racing events we are subjected to on weekends)?”

Are they sadists? They dole out the opiate, addict us, and then cut us off cold-turkey without any consideration to the angst it can cause.

I mean, does (the chick whose name I don’t remember) track down the ex-lover who is her true love, as foretold by the clairvoyant in the Ex-Files? Whatever happened to Geena Davis’ Commander and Chief? And, if I couldn’t ‘google’, how would I know if Gossip Girl's Serena and Blair ever become besties again? I mean, does this torture know no bounds?

Sadly I suspect I have no sway with TV Execs or those who decide what we watch on television and when. I am but one voice, in a sea of others (who apparently watch cricket, A Current Affair and morning television). Instead I will remain comforted by the return of House and Dexter, but I refuse to be sucked in again. Next summer I will boycott television completely. No way am I going to be tempted by TV-offerings of some yet-to-be-completed show, only to be forced into mourning its demise two months later.

Bruce Beresford definitely wants to do this….

It was the first time I had paid to go and see someone who was kinda famous. Actually, I must admit that I didn’t even pay. I possibly wouldn’t even have gone if more effort was required, but that says more about me than the event itself.


Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this… true stories from a life in the screen trade.
Bruce Beresford. HarperCollins Publishers. 2007

The stars and planets aligned as I received an email from the Queensland Writers’ Centre in which my local bookshop, Riverbend Books (Bulimba), offered free tickets to hear Bruce Beresford speak at the launch of his new book, Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this... As it was early, I was the first caller and easily secured the tickets. I never win competitions or get freebies, so I decided it was all fate and revelled in the idea that I would become some highly-evolved erudite attending only the most cutting-edge of events on the Brisbane cultural calendar.

As I queued for my book to be signed after Bruce’s formal presentation I wondered if I should feel at all pathetic or groupie-like. Should I have been embarrassed by lining up to have someone scrawl their name on my (just-purchased) $40 book - even if he was the author (and kinda famous)?

My lack of guile wasn’t because I was above groupie-like behaviour. In my youth I had a thing about athletes. Though, there was an ill-advised crush on Tom Cruise during his “Top Gun” (pre-sofa-jumping) era. In my own defence, I was a teenager who didn’t know better. I blame rampant hormones and general ignorance and, there shall be no further reference to that part of my life!

Besides, there were far more embarrassing fetishes. Cricketers, Hansie Cronje and Kim Hughes (who, I hear anyone under 35 ask!). Boris Becker (yes, the boom-boom jokes were indeed funny in 1986!); and god I think there were even a time when Pat Cash was of some interest. I was still in a teenager at that stage so the insanity plea (above) still stands.

Alas, I have digressed. But I did wonder what to say to Bruce Beresford. I didn’t want to sound like some star-crazed madwoman. I wanted to come across as some woman-of-the-world, much accustomed to meeting the intellectual elite. However, being a book-signing virgin I hadn’t realised I would not even get the chance to tell Bruce himself what I wanted in my book, but some harried helper alongside the queue, who took our words - and our dreams - and scribbled them on a little square yellow post-it note. Being the literary genius that I am, I had gone with, “To RFS, from Bruce”. So, when I reached the man himself, he simply copied my poetic prose onto my book. “Um, thanks,” I fearlessly mumbled as I moved on as quickly as possible.

So much for me explaining that my interest in his book related to how he turned diary entries into a book! I want to do something similar with letters. I think I had envisaged us ‘connecting’ on some intellectual plane; compare notes and eschew the meaning of life, and well, the universe. Okay, so I didn’t really think that, but I did think I might say something vaguely intelligible which would capture his interest. My lack of verbal capacity obviously wasn’t because he is a great idol of mine. He wasn’t (and isn’t). I guess it is still the ‘them’ and ‘us’ which comes from meeting those who have some iota of fame, while the rest of us wallow in obscure mediocrity.

What I enjoyed about Bruce’s presentation was that it didn’t appear to come easily to him. I guess I thought of him as someone fairly famous who was accustomed to the spotlight and so I expected something smooth and sanitary. He spoke for approximately 30 minutes and it seemed as if he struggled to find things to speak about as he jumped from topic to topic. I wondered if he had planned what to say. It didn’t appear so though he did occasionally refer to some scraps of paper before giving up on them entirely. I imagined a wife or manager behind the scenes, nagging him all day to prepare his speech. He seemed the sort to rebel against any such goading. He was, however, far more comfortable during the Question & Answer session. There was a good crowd at the event, and I suspect most were there to see Bruce the Director, rather than Bruce the Writer as all questions related to his film work.

I have since read Bruce’s book. I enjoyed the anecdotes and he is obviously an intelligent man who thinks and writes with much élan. The book however, is pretty much a collection of experiences over a two year period. It features references to friends, such as Barry Humphries and acting luminaries, Russell Crowe, Cate Blanchet and, of course, Josh Hartnett. And, it isn’t for the faint hearted or those not up for some salacious gossip! During his pre-signing presentation he quipped that lawyers had spent a significant amount of time pouring over his words.

Of most interest was how the whole film and television industry works. An industry of much uncertainty. Survival of the fittest in a world where money reigns supreme and those perceived to be money-makers (the ‘name’ actors) can be in possession of minimal intelligence but much power.

I read an interview in which Bruce commented that his daughters and wife remarked on the amount of time he spends (in the book) referring to women he came across. I think I would have (indeed) been somewhat chagrined about the reflections if he was my father. While not lecherous, he spends an inordinate amount of space contemplating the women he met, many of whom he was compelled to describe in enthusiastic detail!

I found the book easy reading. I didn’t, however, find it hard to put down – which in my world equates to a good book. Though there was a need to remember who-was-who in Bruce’s life, I was able to read it in chunks over a week as my bus crawled to and from the city each day. I happily pulled the book from my work satchel each time I boarded the bus. It interested me enough that the travel time passed without me being overcome with bus-rage which is quite an achievement.

Through Josh Hartnett definitely wants to do this…, I had a glimpse into Bruce’s world. A world I don’t think I ever wanted and now, one I don’t envy, despite the strange fetishes and bus-rage threatening mine!

I attended the Book Launch, hosted by Riverbend books, at Customs House in Brisbane on 9 August 2007.