Finding comfort

On Sunday I went to boot camp at the ungodly hour of 7am. WTF was I thinking? Yes, I know. However... the good thing about getting up early to exercise is that it's over and done with before most people are tentatively poking their big toe out from under the doona;  and one has the rest of the day to do important things. Like read the newspaper, have nanna naps and update their blogs. For example.


The thing I most like is that I still get to read the paper while eating breakfast and watching music videos on television, which is a throwback to my younger years - the music videos, not the paper! And last Sunday, it was even more exciting because the local Oz music video show, Video Hits, was hosting a 24 year retrospective. Sometimes the show comprises bands playing at local music festivals and I find that I don't recognise (or even like) any of the music. But Sunday, I got to relive the likes of Sonia Dada "You don't treat me no good no more" (one hit wonder anyone?), Oasis and Wet Wet Wet.


It was the latter that had me reminiscing last week, as the music video for their 1994 hit "Love Is All Around" features clips from Four Weddings and a Funeral, the movie that shot Hugh Grant to stardom. I'm embarrassed to confess to being a Wet Wet Wet fan back in the day and recall I had a bit of a thing for the lead singer - as a gal does when she's in her teens and twenties. But it was the movie that sparked some memories for me.


In early 1995 I went to work and live as a volunteer in Mozambique, in south eastern Africa. My time there was difficult for a myriad of reasons, not the least being that I was alone and half-way across the world. I made some great friends though and they helped me get through the 16-18 months I spent there. Once settled in I frivolously purchased a television video player combo which frankly that helped save my sanity because the nights were long and lonely (and there's only so much Castle lager one can consume!) and television-viewing options only included a very scary local station (which every couple of weeks played an English-speaking movie); an Angolan station; a Portuguese station featuring nonsensical game shows (I recall one where women had to lie under a sheet with their feet poking out and a man had to pick those of his wife/partner); a French channel; and CNN. But for about 20 cents I was able to rent pirated videos of dubious quality. It didn't matter. To me they were heaven.


While visiting South Africa however, I procured two videos and they became my coping mechanisms. Those two romantic comedies, Four Weddings and a Funeral and Sleepless in Seattle became my lifelines. I was like a child capable of watching Toy Story or Dora the Explorer again and again. And I did. Not quite weekly, but almost that regularly.... And from the moment I inserted the video, I felt comforted - wrapped up in a cocoon of familiarity and momentarily at peace. It got to the point that I knew the lines almost by heart, but it didn't matter. They filled me with contentment, but also with hope that I too one day would exist in a world of Hugh Grants or Tom Hanks'. One day a man would become as besotted with me as Hugh was with Andie; and fate would conspire to introduce me to my soul mate as was the case with Meg and Tom.


Over the intervening 15 or so years I have added to my collection of security blankets. The BBC's Pride and Prejudice held first place  for a while. I owned the video but bought the DVD as soon as it was out, because it allowed me to watch the dozen or so scenes I loved so much more efficiently. Then there was Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series which I discovered when again living overseas. I was a latecomer to Buffy so was able to buy and watch four seasons over a period of weeks. And over ensuing years I have pulled them out to watch my favourite episodes again and again.


More recently (and quite inexplicably) the movie The Jane Austen Bookclub has become a source of comfort. I haven't watched it for a while, but can. Again and again. I adore Maria Bello's Jocelyn and like to think of myself as being similar. Though significantly less good looking of course. And not as wealthy. Oh, and without the dogs. But other than that.... parallel lives!


And most recently there's North and South. If I'm completely honest it could be the presence of (the subject of my affection) Richard Armitage that makes it so rewatchable - akin to Colin Firth's Mr Darcy, but that aside I can contentedly watch it again and again. (But of course I won't admit that for fear of sounding pathetic!)


I don't quite know what it is about these films and television shows and the comfort they offer: the familiarity of the characters I've grown to love (or lust after); or the happy endings and sense of hope? I'm not really sure, but I know I'm now much less scathing of a toddler's ability to watch Finding Nemo hour after hour, day after day in a looping cycle.

Under the influence

Absolutely Fabulous is on our screens here in Oz at the moment and as soon as I hear the theme song I am cast back to the early - mid 1990s and reminded of how scandalous and ground-breaking it was when first released.  I am also reminded of how much I admired Jennifer Saunders’ Edina, who I believed (had she been a real person) was never as vacuous, vague or unattractive, as Saunders tried to make her.

In fact, I aspired to be her.  I envied her frivolity and loved her look, and as I was in my 20s at the time, I suspect her fashions would have been more forgivable on me.  Had my (then-dyed brown) hair been long enough I would have been sporting a brown spiral perm myself.

Like so many others, I have to admit to a tendency to being easily swayed when it comes to fashion or fads.

My first memory of this affliction is tied to Young Talent Time, a childhood favourite.  In my defence, in the 1970s TV viewing options were limited in regional Australia, so frankly any show catering for kids was a bonus.  At the time my parents wouldn’t let me have long boots, but it wasn’t long before I realised that my YTT faves, Sally Boyden and Karen Knowles, were in fact wearing white sandshoes and long white socks – to look like boots (or perhaps just for comfort).  I realised I could do that.  And often did.

As I was finishing primary school, Grease hit our shores and screens.  After a brief flirtation as ‘nice Sandy’ (blonde bob a la Sandra Dee), I somehow convinced my mother to let me have a perm and suddenly – at 12 or 13 years of age – I was bad Sandy, sans the black lycra ‘You’re The One That I Want’ outfit.  Of course.

[caption id="attachment_463" align="alignright" width="210" caption="Me back in the day - a Princess Di wannabe (had the curling wand working overtime!)"][/caption]

Princess Di was probably my next fashion idol and like many others throughout the world I cloned her hairdo.  For a while anyway.

Olivia Newton John’s Physical debuted the same year and I diligently added a headband to my Diana cut and wore leggings and layers of ill-fitting sweatshirts.

By the time I finished high school in the mid 1980s I was channelling a favourite Dolly magazine model and had a spiral perm to match.  WHAM had asked us to CHOOSE LIFE and although I didn’t have the t-shirt, I had my fair share of fluorescent clothing.

By the 1990s, I’d dyed my hair dark and put on more weight than I’d liked.  I bought my first pair of Doc Marten boots and flounced about in my Docs/baby doll dress combo.  Just like the girls in the original Beverly Hills 90210. (ie. The normal-sized Brenda, Kelly and Donna, not the skeletal lollipop-like ones in the remake!)

[caption id="attachment_464" align="alignleft" width="210" caption="Louise Lombard as Evie in The House of Eliott"][/caption]

Then it was Ab Fab and Edina, as well as BBC’s House of Eliott.  Although desperate to emulate Edina (and in all honesty, who wouldn’t be?) I was entranced by Louise Lombard’s Evie – and frankly in the early 1990s my hair was more suited to an Evie do rather than an Edina do.  So I attempted the clean sleek lines of the 1920s flapper.

Something happened after that and I found myself spurning the likes of Melrose Place and Friends and stoically avoided the Rachel ‘do’.  Or maybe I just grew up. In reality, I went to live in Africa and Asia and came home less inclined to follow the crowd.

Although… I must admit, while I’m now unlikely to be as committed to mimicking the style of others, I am – on occasions – still prone to falling prey to the influence of others.  I have a hair appointment tomorrow, and although I know my hairdresser doesn’t ‘do’ perms I am thinking of taking a picture of Scarlett Johansson’s tousled OSCARS bob to see what they can do – and hope I don’t get laughed out of the salon!

The lost art of the gumshoe (Part 2)

Once I discovered Robert B Parker I devoured everything he’d written.

Fortunately for me, Parker was a prolific writer and I had 35 years of novels to catch up on.  It’s hard to describe what I found - and continue to find - so addictive about his work. There are no tricks, no fireworks, just witty banter, quirky and complicated multi-dimensional characters and a simple, but full-of-twists plot.

Spenser and his world were so vivid and alluring to me that I couldn’t help but wonder how they would translate onto celluloid: I wanted to see my wise-cracking PI on the screen.  But of course, as is usually the case, someone else had this brain-wave before me.

The TV Series, Spenser for Hire, ran from 1985-88 and was, by all accounts a disappointment.  Especially for Parker fans.  Reviews quote Robert Urich as being woefully miscast as the enigmatic and witty Spenser.  The series came across as a stock standard TV detective show, with none of the wit and banter of Parker’s dialogue being translated onto the screen.  Apparently the only character to come away unscathed was Hawk, who featured in a brief TV spin-off.

Spenser apparently again featured in a series of TV movies in the late 90s and early 2000s, which I am loath to find for fear of the aforementioned disappointment.

In 1997 Parker introduced readers to Jesse Stone, a flawed, alcoholic Californian homicide detective who is reborn as a small town police chief.  Parker’s stable of characters grew again in 1999 through the introduction of a series featuring Sunny Randall, a Boston female PI.

While I am not as devoted to the new series, again, Parker provides us with seemingly simple characters who, beneath their flawed surface, have layers of angst and a strong commitment to justice.  Like Spenser, both bend the rules to ensure that good wins out over evil, or right over wrong in the end.  Interestingly also, a number of support characters feature in all three series and I have to admit to some sense of satisfaction (or closure) when Randall and Stone actually end up meeting…. as if I had a hand in their match-making.

Prior to his rebirth in television’s Blue Bloods, Tom Selleck appeared in a number of “Jesse Stone” TV movies which really didn’t break any new ground, though were sufficiently entertaining for 10pm on a Saturday night.  We are yet to see Sunny Randall on screen, although on his website Parker noted (at the time) that he created the character following a request from actress Helen Hunt for a strong female crime fighter role.  Perhaps the fate of Spenser and Stone in their transition to ‘talkies’ gave Hunt pause for thought.

In 2005 Parker diversified into westerns, launching a new series starting with Appaloosa. Again it appears that someone thought his work would translate onto the screen and a feature film starring Viggo Mortenson, Ed Harris and Renee Zellweger was released in 2008.

If I have one criticism of Parker’s novels, it is his non-lead female characters, namely Spenser’s love-of-his-life, the psychologist with the (much talked-about) Harvard PhD; and the cheating, sleeping-her-way-to-the-top, ex-wife of Jesse Stone. They come across as smug, manipulative and self-satisfied, making the leading men in their lives, too yielding and doting – attributes which don’t gel with their characters.  These women irk me enough to make me wonder about Parker’s perception of the fairer sex, which is interesting because (to the best of my knowledge) the author dedicated most, if not all, of his books to his wife Joan.

Although Parker won a Pulitzer Prize in 1976 for his work, Edith Wharton: A Biography, it is not surprising that his more recent work has not been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.  He does however, fair better than the likes of James Patterson in balancing quality with quantity.  And even Parker’s weakest novels are appealing and very readable.  Although some reviewers believe his Spenser novels aren’t as compelling as they once were, I find his voice unchanged as Spenser remains a loveable smart arse and Parker’s continues to deliver his tongue-in-cheek and occasionally self-deprecating prose.

Her desk was beside a door that led to the office of the department chairperson. I knew that at once, because I am a trained investigator and the sign of the pebbled-glass door said Office of the Department Chairperson”

Painted Ladies (p. 43) 2010 GP Putnam’s & Sons (Penguin Group)

The best thing about becoming a Robert B Parker convert 35 years after he’d released his first book was the dearth of novels available through libraries and second hand bookshops.  I also found myself stalking his website for some time, waiting for my next installment of Spenser (or Jesse or Sunny). Although in existence for 40 human years, Spenser barely aged in literary years.  One could almost be forgiven for thinking he may just go on forever.  Almost.

Perhaps that was why I was so stricken when I logged onto his website early last year only to discover that Robert B Parker had in fact passed away some months earlier. When he died on 18 January 2010 he was 77 years of age and had written over 60 books.

Parallel lives

Season 3 of Fringe started on television here in Oz last week and I must admit to gleefully anticipating its return.

Although I missed Season 1 when it first screened, I discovered the show via DVD just before Season 2 commenced and have been a convert ever since.

In fact, I wrote about the show here, contemplating the concept of an alternate universe and the ‘sliding doors’ theory of a twin ‘me’ living a parallel life in a parallel universe out there… somewhere.

I for one, wonder about paths not taken as I get older and (unsurprisingly) suffer regrets – as I am sure most of us do.

But as a new Season dawns and Fringe starts to unravel, I find myself perplexed with the shift in storyline.

As I indicated in my earlier blog, the premise of the show is that there is (in fact) a parallel world; an alternate reality populated by our identical selves going about their business.

Tantalising isn’t it?  I mean, who would we be?  Or more importantly, who COULD we be?  Again, I have to admit that the idea is somewhat comforting as I can only hope that the other me is living a very fulfilling life; taking more risks; following her heart; being happy (etc etc).

So, with so many possibilities I find myself slightly disenfranchised now that we have finally come across the alternate universe in Fringe.  It turns out that our key protagonists are actually doing the same bloody thing they are doing in our world; AND with the same people.  WTF?  So far the only difference between the characters in the alternate world is that their values are slightly screwy.  Oh, and plus a couple of them are dead.

It is a risky move for the writers and producers.  I for one am struggling to ‘care’ about Anna Torv’s fake Olivia who has infiltrated our world while the real one remains stuck in the alternate world.  Although it may be a refreshing change for the actors, it’s a bit like Barbara Eden playing her twin sister in I Dream of Jeannie and Elizabeth Montgomery playing her scheming cousin in Bewitched.  You know they are the same actor, but you just don’t care. I guess that’s the point of the two quite-different personalities.  But I don’t even want to watch the alternate Olivia.  I just want her to die!

Meanwhile (rant over), back to my point…. In contemplating the turn of events in Fringe I am reminded of Sliding Doors, also referenced in my earlier blog.  In the movie, Gwyneth Paltrow’s Helen basically ends up in the same place in both versions of her life.  Only her experiences in getting there vary.  (Oh… and the haircut.)

While this concept of a parallel universe is not new to film, television or literature, it is quite frankly a bit beyond the realm of my expertise.  I could not get my head around the theories postulated in What The Bleep Do We Know, so I figure it’s best left to those into quantum mechanics, neurobiology and human consciousness - and stuff like that.  Instead I am finding myself more intrigued by this concept of fate. I mean, is our destiny pre-determined?  Perhaps the journey in each world varies, but our destinations are the same, no matter what decisions we make or roads we take.

Fate: I can’t work out if I am disappointed (that we have no control over our own destiny) or relieved (that it doesn’t matter if we make wrong choices) at the concept.  But while the notion of an alternate reality remains the stuff of imaginative authors and screenwriters, I must admit to taking some solace in the hypotheses of these works of fiction. As a natural worrier I like the idea of fate and of responsibility being taken out of my hands.  I mean, Phew.

The X Factor

A few weeks ago, I was about to pull the plug on my anti-climactic Saturday night TV viewing when I came across a TV documentary about East Timorese leader, and current Prime Minister, Xanana Gusmão.

Xanana Gusmao 

I was in East Timor between 1999 and 2001 and met Xanana a few times.  I saw him speak, often in Tetum the local language, but although my comprehension was minimal I didn’t need to understand the words to know that he could certainly command a room. 


At that time, he had the respect and admiration of a whole generation of East Timorese.  His oratory skills and impassioned performances were amazing and he had the ability to quell angry masses frustrated with everything from the world’s inaction to the United Nation’s plodding progress in his country. 


He had something that many others do not.  Charisma. Presence… a certain something. 


It got me thinking about the X Factor.  That ‘something’ which separates Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke, from John Howard or Kevin Rudd; and US President Bill Clinton from others who came before and after.


I remember when I was at school watching a young Sigrid Thornton in the TV mini-series All the Rivers Run and movie Man from Snowy River.  In the late 1970s and early 1980s she was Australia’s sweetheart, eventually departing for the US where she scored the lead in a (fairly-ordinary) TV western which ran for a couple of years.  I recall reading a quote about her in a magazine at that time in which someone described her allure, saying that the camera loved her; that it ‘ate her up’.  And it did.  We saw it years later when she again graced Australian small screens in the late 1990s in Sea Change.  She had a ‘certain something’ that she continues to bring to our screens, even today. 


I was reminded of this notion of charisma as I breezed through BBC’s Robin Hood recently. I have already confessed my lust for Richard Armitage’s Sir Guy of Gisbourne, but what surprised me was how engaging I found Robin himself.  Slim and (I suspect) not-universally-attractive, Jonas Armstrong brought something to the screen which surprised me.  In trying to describe him (in the role) to someone, I said he ‘twinkled’.  An unlikely candidate for the X Factor, Armstrong gave us a cheeky loveable larrikin who drew us in and before long (for me, anyway) he embodied Robin Hood. 


I’m not always as enamoured with TV characters and wonder if it is all about the X Factor.  I watch the TV show Castle for example, because I am a Nathan Fillion fan (from way back).  But I cannot - I repeat - I CANNOT, stand Stana Katic’s smug Kate Beckett.  She is certainly pretty and Hollywood-skinny so I find it hard to articulate why I haven’t ‘taken’ to her character, other than (perhaps) a certain coldness or lack of depth?  I suspect it is an issue of charisma.  And when a character is uninspiring, unsurprisingly I can’t engage with them or the show.  It is the reason that I used to love Law & Order – Criminal Intent, but never watched the original Law & Order; and perhaps the same reason I skip Law & Order – SVU if Mariska Hargitay isn’t featuring. 

Aussie actress Claudia Karvan
(Source: The Age)

It isn’t just about the quality of the acting, although it does help.  I will watch almost anything with Aussie TV actor, Claudia Karvan in it because she just brings ‘something’ to the screen every time.  Similarly I am enjoying our new television offering, Offspring, starring Asher Keddie who is remarkably engaging as the self-deprecating Nina. 


It’s why we want the good guys to win.  Or the bad guys to prosper.  It’s why we forgive Bill Clinton’s indiscretions or ignore Bob Hawke’s oafishness. It’s why certain actors or shows appeal to us and others don’t.  It’s how some people can command a room or a show, and others can’t… the X Factor which has nothing to do with singing and dancing.

Bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

Let me start by prefacing this post with the statement that I do not, in real life, have a thing for ‘bad boys’.  As a natural cynic I have never aspired to find someone I can save, or change, or mould in any way.  This is because the man of my dreams will (of course) be a perfect specimen, not requiring any tweaking or shaping.  Hmmm… on further consideration this may well be why I am single! 

On screen however, it seems that my taste is far more seditious. 

I have just commenced a long holiday and after two laps of my local video store, I settled on the TV show Robin Hood (2006-2009).  I hadn’t ever watched it but recalled it being moderately popular and decided I was desperate enough to check it out for myself.  Given that there were only three Seasons made and all available, I also figured it would give me enough to do for a few days while not requiring me to wait (im)patiently for a new season to be released.

As I am not a fan of the ‘action’ genre, I expected that I might watch a few episodes before returning Season 1 mostly-unwatched.  However, to my surprise I literally inhaled two Seasons in less than three days and would have watched the final Season if some other pesky customer hadn’t kept it from me. 

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Richard Armitage as Sir Guy"][/caption]

Although Jonas Armstrong is surprisingly bewitching as Robin Hood, hero of the masses, it is the enigmatic and (frankly) bloody sexy Richard Armitage, who played Sir Guy of Gisborne who captured my heart.  Delivering on the Sheriff of Nottingham’s carnage does nothing to stymie my bad-boy adoration and (well, let’s face it)… lust.  Dark, brooding, sexy and sardonic, he is night to Robin’s day. He is my Mr Darcy, leaving Mr Bingham in his scathing wake.

It has made me wonder how much of the on-screen bad boy thing is expert casting rather than girl’s natural instinct to ‘turn-around’ a man who surely wants to be saved even though they may not actually know it.   In Robin Hood, Armstrong as its namesake is young and lanky and portrayed as a bit of a larrikin, whereas (be-still-my-beating-heart) Armitage is buff, stubbled and clad in black leather.  And in the first two Seasons (at least) we are privy to glimpses of humanity, leading us to believe he is not completely beyond redemption (and therefore worthy of our lust). 

Although it dates me, I recall similarly finding Luke Perry’s Dylan far more attractive than Jason Priestley’s Brandon on (the original) Beverly Hills 90210.  I preferred Chris Noth’s Big to John Corbett’s Aidan in Sex and the City.  And for a more timely pop culture reference I have to admit to a slight lustful interest in Glee’s Puck as opposed to, well…whatever the other guy’s name is… you know, the tall lanky blander-than-white-bread guy. 

Ever since James Dean graced the screens in the 1950s and studio bosses recognized our lust for the bad boy, casting directors have given us a choice.  Squeaky clean and cute, or sexy and broody. 

And in the parallel universe of film and television, I know which I am buying….

The test of time

A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of spending some time with my niece, EMC.  She was working on an English assignment – a school play (Children of the Black Skirt) in which her character becomes lost in the woods, only to be found (presumably) dead, 5 days later.  Underlying themes aside, I found myself wondering what happened during those 5 days.  It reminded me, I told my niece, of the novel and (1975) film Picnic at Hanging Rock, which I saw before I read.  As I described the plot to her, I was reminded of how frustrated I was as the film and book ended; leaving us wondering what happened to the missing schoolgirls.  Even the release of an additional chapter after the author’s death did little to elucidate the mystery for me.

Somehow our conversation then drifted to another Australian movie of my youth, Gallipoli – coincidentally also directed by Peter Weir.  The story of two young men and featuring a young Mel Gibson (before Mad Max really took off and shot him to stardom; and before his life went awry).   A tragic tale on so many levels and I have to admit to teariness even as I relayed the story (and its ending) to EMC.

I recall seeing these movies on sale a few years ago and contemplated buying them for EMC, thinking they would go someway to educating her in the history of Australian film and popular culture.  But, I had learnt my lesson a few years before when, instead of buying Disney movies on her Christmas list, I took her Captain Jack Sparrow fetish one step further and bought Edward Scissorhands, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Benny and Joon.  All three remain in their plastic wrapping, though I suspect one day she will pull them out and watch them as – though only 13 – she is a smart little chickie and has sophisticated but quirky tastes.

The other thing that prevented me forking out my hard-earned cash was that I had discovered (the hard way) that some things do not stand the test of time.

One of my favourite bloggers is The Scrivener’s Fancy’s Avril Rolfe. We have surprisingly similar taste (she used to love Thirtysomething) and must be of a similar age as I find myself nodding at her pop culture references.  Her latest blog references the 1982 Australian film, Starstruck (http://www.thescrivenersfancy.com/imagined-slights/2010/04/21/struck-off.aspx). Like many other teenagers across the country I loved the film.  I also had the soundtrack (on cassette of course) which I came across about 10 years ago.  Surprisingly it still worked and listening to my old favourites (Body and Soul and Monkey in Me) motivated me to track down the movie, which I found at a nearby video rental store.  What I saw shocked and horrified me.  It was terrible.  Beyond terrible.  A cliché.  Surely even at 14 years of age I recognised that?  Surely I looked past the quirkiness and cringed at the unlikelihood of the plot and uncomfortable acting?  Obviously not.

Similarly, about 5 years ago, before we remembered its name and Fame became famous to a whole new generation, I was flipping through a catalogue and discovered that the TV series was being released on DVD.  I possibly squealed with excitement.  Possibly.  I loved that show.  Though the (original) movie shocked my 12yr old sensibilities, I was in my mid-teens by the time the TV series graced our Australian screens and I was mesmerised by the lives of the high school students which were far-removed from my own existence in a small regional Queensland town.

The sale-bins were bare by the time I reached the department store so my always-devoted mother (who still lives in that small regional town) tracked down the TV series for me and I wrenched it from her to insert into my DVD player.  I don’t think I got through one episode.  Actress Lori Singer - who I liked on the show, but hated cos she ‘got’ Kevin Bacon in Footloose - and her cohorts were unwatchable to my 40ish year old eyes.  I don’t think I made it to episode two, so perhaps it improved because after all, it did air for five years….

But, I learned my lesson.  Technology changes.  Tastes change.  Evolve.  Our expectations change.  Some movies and television shows can stand the test of time.  They may be ‘dated’ but the quality seeps through.  The Godfather movies, Grease, Taxi Driver, Platoon and even When Harry Met Sally, are examples.

So – I haven’t sent my niece in search of Gallipoli or Picnic at Hanging Rock and I haven’t revisited them myself.  Although… it is almost Anzac day here in Australia, so perhaps Gallipoli deserves another visit.

Coincidentally...

I finally saw the much-lauded Avatar last weekend.  I was blown-away by how far technology has come since I suffered through queasiness and blue and red tinted lens’ for Jaws 3D in 1983.

I have been entertained by the media reports comparing Avatar’s plot to that of Pocahontas as well as the web postings which do a ‘Find / Replace’ from an excerpt of Pocahontas - replacing John Smith with Jake Sully.  Though patting him on the back for his ingenuity, bloggers everywhere are describing Avatar as Pocahontas in Space and wondering if James Cameron merely ‘lifted’ the plot (based on real events anyway!) and added some colour and special effects. 

I recently touched on this idea of ‘everything old is new again’ in a blog I wrote about sampling or remixing old songs into new ones, which gave me a chance to revisit with old faves.

But this is different.  We see our share of remakes.  Some good – Ocean’s Eleven and The Ring come to mind.  And some not-so-good – think Psycho and Planet of the Apes.  But what I wonder, in a world of remakes and trashy reality television about the world’s worst car-crashes is, are we lazy and purposely stealing ideas or have we just run out of new ones? 

I am currently watching two separate television shows, both of which initially had me indignant about the fact that they had seemingly pilfered their storyline from feature films.  I couldn’t believe the audacity and wondered why I hadn’t read about copyright breaches.  But it appears that all is not as it seems….

My first exhibit is the TV show, The Sopranos, which I am watching half-a-dozen years after the rest of the world.  The show has never really appealed to me, but I was in need of something to keep me entertained during the summer off-season here – other than tennis or cricket – so figured 6 seasons of approximately 13 episodes a season would give me 70 hours (give or take) of TV viewing to stave off the boredom. 

I vaguely knew what the show was about (mobsters), but it wasn’t until I watched the first season that I realized how closely it resembled the movie, Analyze This.  Both centre around a mob boss seeking assistance from a psychiatrist and the consequences (good and bad) of this action.  (Of course latter seasons of The Sopranos focus less on this angle, but it plays a pivotal role in the first season.)

I was shocked at the blatant ‘rip-off’ unless of course the show was meant to be a spin off of the movie.  It wasn’t.  Meant to be a spin off that is. And, more interestingly, it was not a rip-off.  Though the series appeared on TV screens in 1999 – the same year the movie was realized - the TV show pilot was actually filmed in 1997.  So, just coincidence apparently.  Two separate individuals had the same idea.  At around the same time.

Then there is a current summer season offering on our TV screens, which I find myself watching though it is a tad trite and obvious.  Accidentally on Purpose sees an older career woman become (accidentally – as if that can happen in this day and age?!) pregnant to a 20-something guy who lives with his always-stoned buddy.  Sound familiar?  If you saw the movie Knocked Up in which Katherine Heigl found herself in a similar state thanks to a drunken one night stand with Seth Rogen, then the plot is WAY too familiar.  And yet, wait for it...  Apparently the TV show has not pilfered the idea from the movie.  Bizarrely the TV show is actually based on a memoir (of the same name).   

Thanks to Jenna Elfman and the dry accented wit of Ugly Betty’s Ashley Jensen the show is watchable. Even if full of clichés. 

And, speaking of Ugly Betty, though seemingly a product of the success of the feature film, The Devil Wears Prada, the concept was in fact developed in Colombia as Yo soy Betty, la fea (I am Betty, the ugly) in 1999.  Again – apparently just a similar idea manifesting itself in the written word and celluloid in different countries.  Perhaps that explains the spate of vampire movies, TV shows and novels raining down upon us?

So, it seems, we are not stealing ideas from others.  Nor are we lazy.  But, have we run out of new ideas? Are there, I wonder, a finite number of ideas floating about in the ether, and have we plucked them all out?

Hopefully not.  Occasionally, amid the sea of formulaic offerings about cops, lawyers and doctors, there are glimpses of creative brilliance.  Current fodder such as the serial-killing Dexter, raunchy 30 Rock and Entourage and polygamist world of Big Love offer a  glimmer of originality amidst the Battlestar Gallactica and Stargate remakes and lazy low-cost reality television shows.

I am (admittedly) a fan of the quirky, such as Joss Whedon and Bryan Fuller and their shows: Firefly, Buffy, Pushing Daisies and Dead Like  Me to name a few.  However, many of these shows which have piqued my interest did not garner sufficient interest to fend off axe-weilding TV Execs, which makes me all-the-more passionate about supporting new and unusual offerings. 

So, as I settle down to Season 4 of The Sopranos and await new seasons of Dexter and  Entourage I will continue to hold out some hope for what the year ahead may have to offer.

(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.

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?

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.

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.