A dozen or so years ago my favourite times of the week were Saturday and Sunday mornings (and not just because they involved not-working). I had stopped partying on Friday / Saturday nights so no longer spent the following morning in a darkened room moaning ‘never again’ and gagging on stomach-settling Stemetil. Instead, up bright and early (well, ish) I would sprawl about on my lounge room floor…leftover reheated Chinese to my right; diet coke to my left; newspapers strewn about in front; and music videos playing on the television.
Though progressing way-too-rapidly through my early 30s at the time, I liked to watch the Top 20, or 10 (or something in between) countdowns. I occasionally heard a song I wanted to hear again, and smugly liked the fact that I was ‘down’ with what the youngsters were listening to. (Of course the fact that I was watching ‘Video Hits’ or [old] ‘Rage’, rather than listening to ‘Triple J’ said something about how un-hip I actually was, but still there I was – ‘gettin jiggy wit it’).
Sadly I find I can no longer partake in this frivolous pastime and not just because I have hard timber floors in my lounge room – making it difficult and uncomfortable to sprawl on my 40+year old bones…. The bigger problem is that it is all-but-impossible to find any music ‘countdowns’ on Australian free-to-air television stations anymore.
I tend to gravitate to ABC’s ‘Rage’ which offers a mish-mash of popular, edgy and retro music, rather than Channel 10’s ‘Video Hits’ which seems to feature (generally non-charting obscure) artists from whatever music festival happens to be on at the time. I know my lack of appreciation for these artists and the myriad of outdoor music festivals says something about my age and taste, but frankly I need more. I mean, how on earth am I supposed to know what songs to like if I can’t find out what everyone else likes?
So, I wonder, why is there no interest in countdowns from free-to-air television stations? Why no new-release video clips, no highlighting of new music? Such shows exist on pay television (Foxtel etc) and even our radio stations still offer regular countdowns and feature new-releases. In fact it seems that The Buggles were wrong in 1979 and ‘video did not kill the radio star’ after all. But instead perhaps the video shows – as I knew them – are dead. Killed by the World Wide Web.
We no longer have to wait on tenterhooks for Molly (Meldrum) to unveil this week’s number one song on ‘Countdown’. We can just log on to the internet and we have the world at our fingertips. YouTube, iTunes and the like. We don’t need to wait for Saturday morning to roll around to see what new songs are being released. A few flicks of the fingers across a keyboard or keypad and we can find almost any video clip we want to watch, buy and download. Just like that.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate technology - downloading something from iTunes sure beats holding the cassette player with in-built microphone in front of the TV screen and telling everyone to shush. But, I still miss the anticipation of the countdown; the inane babble of the VJs imparting often-useless tidbits; and being exposed to songs that I wouldn’t normally listen to but, because they happen to fall between No.8 and No.6, enjoy. But most of all I miss those comforting weekend hours spent sprawled in front of a noisy, flickering box!
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
So you think you wanna dance?
I am no aficionado of dance. By a long stretch. Or by any stretch. I don’t really know what krumping is and though (I think) I know what a pirouette looks like, I have no idea what an arabesque is.
I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets. For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it. I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose. Ballet presented me with the same problem. Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point.
Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me. Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety.
The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch). Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers!
SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties. This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!).
There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do.
In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization. I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing. They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique. I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.
I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance. I was delighted. It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television. And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong).
As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives. Some of the issues we promoted (family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs. I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster? I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance.
In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women. And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’. They just wanted to join in.
Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags). I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside. I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action. Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit? Something in between I suspect. But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me. Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.
*Note. The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point. We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!
I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets. For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it. I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose. Ballet presented me with the same problem. Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point.
Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me. Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety.
The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch). Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers!
SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties. This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!).
There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do.
In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization. I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing. They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique. I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.
I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance. I was delighted. It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television. And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong). 
As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives. Some of the issues we promoted (family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs. I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster? I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance.
In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women. And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’. They just wanted to join in.
Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags). I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside. I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action. Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit? Something in between I suspect. But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me. Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.
*Note. The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point. We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Borrowed time
I originally posted this on 10 December 2009, but deleted it when I changed the theme of this blog. However, in retrospect, this entry means a lot to me, so I am reposting it.
Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.
My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.
He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.
So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.
Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.
His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.
Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.
After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.
I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.
We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.
We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.
He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.
Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…
The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.
Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.
My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.
He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.
So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.
Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.
His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.
Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.
After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.
We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.
We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.
He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.
Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…
The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.
Friday, January 22, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
(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.
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?
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?
Friday, November 20, 2009
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.
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.
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