conspiracy afoot

last night all of our combined hard work culminated in the third ALGAE RHYTHM going down christening "the corner shop" with karina, kathleen and dermot curating turn me on, dead man flying our punk monk propaganda banner high into the sydney sky & onto adjacent alley walls.

a fascinating fusion of a wizard of oz & the dark side of the moon resulted in dorothy's surrender and a few curious neighbours viewing our spectacular from bedroom windows & the streets beneath. we climbed the walls up onto the roof, watched bemused & then began to dance like 50 foot amazon roswellian meets femme fatale women shadow puppets. charlie's angels begone.

meanwhile the JFK room had limits of its own control as peeps watched multiple synchronised computer installations from the comfort of the grassy knoll in a small dark room. in the main indoor space stanley kubrick's moon landing played and that's where the base reversion really began... jim jarmusch was with us in spirit.

another handhewn zine plus subversive manifesto were distributed throughout the night by shady operatives ensuring that the double agent mythology was kept alive. turn me on and over dead man.

amongst the murder and mayhem there were only a few sangria fuelled tragedies before the peace pipe came out. thank you everyone for braving the cold on a wintry night and participating in another of our social intermedia experiments.

AR 0:04 is slated for july 2009. clare & i will hold the fort as resident curators serving up twisted chick flicks whilst others flee to melbourne international film festival.

sydney film fest finale

after the last piece of red carpet was rolled back up, the barn doors closed on lights as they were "struck" back down & hollywood tape had long since become unstuck, this is where the organisers, the journos, volunteers, and the people who made the sydney film festival happen, congregated to toast the success of the fest & well, get well toasted. some people were so exhausted, sentence formulation was a near impossible task [until the next wave hit]. hello josh.

this is what went down:

winner -- official competition award: bronson

winner -- documentary prize: a good man AND contact

[kudos to foxtel for coming up with the extra 10K to support a joint win and giving "real" documentary a go]

...or at least that's what i gathered in the gatecrashed pub as we all threw our wildly rampant opinions into the film critique pool. it all eventually rose to an unintelligble milieu but whilst our inner film wankers ran amok we all splashed about & had some fatigued fun.

there were some exemplary pieces of cinema to be enjoyed at this fest & some just had to be enjoyed vicariously through the experiences of others [sometimes real life just gets in the way of one's programme wishlist].

anything else was lost in the garble of the incessant exploitation of the drinks tab [nice pouring criterion]. what's not to love about free alcohol in an inner city 24 hour bar? alcohol does enrich the story telling experience just that little bit more.

for the complete wrap on this i'd strongly advise checking out tomorrow's new worse addictions podcast.

a good man

NB. this image has been illegally pilfered off the interwebs [thankfully documentary makers are too poor to sue let alone eat. thanks safini uberoi].

rachel rohrlach's mother doesn't believe in god anymore. holding her married daughter's hand with moist eyes meeting the camera she says "he either finishes the job or he makes them whole again". rachel audibly moans & the two share a visibly touching scene which strains the very core for its grit realism. these are the questions & answers which matter in life.

rachel's husband chris is matter of fact about his devotion to his wife of fourteen years. "the wedding vows were till death do us part." he shrugs with a grin in his voice "and we're both still here, unless she suddenly won't put up with me any longer". it's possible that not everyone would have maintained the commitment that he has demonstrated to his marriage.

chris is the self-titled good man of this film. essentially he's a rural NSW bush farmer who fell in love with the girl in town when they were both pretty fresh out of school. a man of incredible perception, wisdom & wit he jokes "you can't pull a bird in the bush without a holden ute" which is how he attributes to garnering rachel's attention initially at the beginning of their atypical small town courtship. everything was picture perfect until the day after they discovered and announced their pregnancy...

rachel suffered an incredible debilitating stroke overnight which has since rendered her as a quadraplegic without the power of speech. she communicates with the movement of her eyes and indiscernible moaning. there is no real likelihood of a change in her condition and they married with this knowledge late in her preganancy. "she's the one i fight with... the one i make love with..." says chris who loves his wife with a passion acknowledging his continued attraction for her although "things have changed" considerably between them in both a physical and emotional sense.

their's is a love story of epic proportions.

their story, their coping mechanism & how they've managed to produce and raise two children with the invaluable support of their extended family is an incredible standalone story as it is but then chris and his farming mate decided to open a brothel in the small sleepy town of inverell whose insidious underside didn't surface until this project became public & the shadows of the night were forced out into the limelight. you see they needed some extra money for their cash-strapped drought stricken farms & for rachel's ongoing medical expenses...

ever open-minded, decent & pragmatic chris says, "i don't want to be a house of ill repute -- i want to have a house of good repute [for service]." suddenly chris the farmer is embedded in the world of sexual politics in a ruralscape whose hypocritical conservatism is mind-numbing. and rachel is a madam...

this is a powerful tear-jerking feel-good lark of a flick whose raw delivery does not in any way detract but actually complements the DIY no frills essence which comprises the base foundations of humanity.

my pick for documentary prize for the sydney film festival. the impact of this beautiful awe-inspiring story has lingered on for days.

at the bay

a cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. in that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a dark dream. all was still.

this isn't quite what katherine mansfield had in mind when she wrote her reknowned semi-autobiographical short story. but if she'd existed in the 21st century in sydney's idyllic rose bay she would have been as captivated as me by the hypnotic bobbing of boats on sun-kissed slow rippled waves and eerie stillness despite being juxtaposed only metres away from the mayhem of the eastern suburbs arterial route which is new south head road.

this is the magic of pier, the restaurant. like a long linear beacon beckoning out into the marina it offers instant respite from road rage with it's cool calm aesthetic. picturesque indeed.

with a reputation of the finest produce from the sea, the restaurant implements specific treatment for their catch. "ike-jime" is a method employed by supplying fishermen which achieves optimum freshness. to do this fish are spiked till brain-dead... with my RSPCA affiliation on ice for the day, a quick reference with wiki at the table tells me it's OK so i breathe easier & peruse the menu.

as course upon course including complimentary canapes rolls out, the exquisite workmanship & deity-like skill involved in the kitchen is hugely evident. rather than wax lyrical rhetoric please find below the lunch consumption list & enjoy the photos above. everything is faultless beyond a "t" which is why pier brandishes with understated piquantness its 3 coveted chef hats as awarded by the sydney morning herald's good food guide.

* salmon & caper canapé cones

*carpaccio of murray cod - soft herb leaves - tomato & lime water vinaigrette

* king salmon sashimi - organic soy

*cauliflower tofu & lobster 'agedashi' - poached foie gras - seared scallops

*kingfish 'sous vide' - textures of seasonal mushrooms

*heirloom tomato, aged balsamic & basil salad

*rosemary pannacotta - green apple puree - eucalyptus yoghurt - warm caramelised apple crumble - chicory icecream

*to die for souffle - sauce poured into the copper pot at table. details FAIL [my fault] but feel free to lick the image instead

*handmade twin-towerlike rose-water marshmallows - tea & coffee

all washed down with clean serviceable bloody mary's & caiprioskas but lacking the twisted edge we love closer to the urban smog infused mist.

the wine list is excellent with a capital "e". in honour of my new zealand heritage & overwhelming sense of homesick nostalgia we don't go past the huia savignon blanc... sometimes simple is best especially when the path to achieve this is wickedly complex. my homeland's structurally fragmented literature icon would be proud.

no more than a pretty face

avant garde darling tsai ming-liang is a man of deep reflection. he is also confused. as is some of his audience, that which still remains in the state theatre at sydney film festival [about 50%] after the australian premiere of his theta wave video art ensemble which is “visage” or in english, face. during the Q&A after his highly anticipated film has screened, tsai cites his confusion stems from why so many people do not stay till the end of his films. my confusion is why so many stayed…

art for art's sake and the question of imitation of life and art are old constructs. this film was commissioned by none less than du louvre & consequentially tsai holds a unique position seated amongst the masters who occupy this venerable honour. with great power comes great responsibility and although tsai acknowledges the enormous pressure which this represents as a brief, the end product as a whole fails to deliver. the sum is not greater than the parts.

this film within a film is a retelling of the lurid salome story which i know intimately having researched & built on it for what are two inconsequential experimental short films of my own.

whilst enjoying tsai’s trademark exploration of the unconscious conceptually & the utilisation of mysterious spaces within the deep sanctum of the louvre itself my huge expectations were of a orgasmic visual and aural feast. although there were drop dead gorgeous moments which slid down deliciously, i’m left hungry [but not for more] as if promised tetsuya’s, got to dish two of the fourteen stage degustation menu but was ultimately container shipped to the RSL buffet bar for mains and dessert. what the?

whilst i searched for fibonacci sequences demonstrating golden ratios on a per frame basis in the beautifully shot footage which is reminiscent of a wong kar wai directed chris doyle [visage’s cinematographer is actually award winning pen-jung liao [hei yan quan, bang bang wo ai shen] who demonstrates a similar apparently meditative partnership with tsai as the kar wai/doyle coupling] eventually realising that the pseudo intellectualism and the tangible derivation from the chinese proverb speaking of the flower’s reflection in water was just not going to cut it as a non-narrative stream rerouted by a giant hydro plant. the machine threatens to destroy the sanctity of the quiet waters denying the luminescent lily space to shine.

with a nod to yayoi kusama’s infinite space reflections & tsai’s continued obsession with francois truffaut the stag running wild in the mirrored tuilerie gardens is divine capped with the juxtaposition of the sublimely gorgeous salome [laetitia casta] decked in christian lacroix hewn narnia meets moscow mafia-esque ice princess garb singing chinese [i think] karaoke love songs is to die for gorgeous. archetypes are played out as the dreamlike drama leads us to highpoints which include the eroticism of salome waist-deep in sewers swathed in blood red drapes amongst the filthy water rising above it, singing, caressing the walls and that seductive dance sequence where sheathed in plastic & gauzed opacity she takes john the baptist's head.

sadly for me visage reminded me of this taoist proverb:

"we cannot see our reflection in running water. it is only in still water that we can see."

but not for tsai’s arguable intention which i propose is the illogical connections and shifting paradigms of the dream state set in a template of stillness where we can immerse ourselves in the vibrance. for me that burst tap washer never stopped running which disallows time to see…

perhaps as tsai suggests i need to see it a second time and that i actually understand and appreciate his work more than i consciously realise but with an illogical fear of shrimp cocktail with thousand island dressing will wait for the marinated crystal bay prawns with soy caramel which will most certainly come with his next course.

a surprisingly low 3 stars from me.

cat on a hot tin roof

this is my daughter's favourite photo of me. it has sat in her room for years amongst tot to tween to teen junk in a photo frame gathering dust until recently when i surreptitiously 'borrowed' the frame for a film shoot & reacquainted myself with this lost visage.

i must have scanned the image at the time knowing my terrible record for losing precious items because it's turned up in my photopile media archive as i was trawling through looking for something else.

my GF sonja took this pic on a day when i really did not want to be filmed. only an hour prior i had been gripped in angst & immobilized by tears, the slave of depression & agoraphobia not wanting to leave the safety nest of my little inner city warehouse up high beyond the reach of the fray, to face the pressure, plasticity & responsibilities of the world below.

eventually i'd faced my need to disappear & used all my strength to pick up the phone desperately trying to stall & reschedule a photography project with her. she flagrantly disobeyed, turned up on cue, banged down the door & pulled me from my turtle-like invisibility & despair. as do the best of friends.

taken from the kitchen window ledge between cigarettes & tissues looking out onto the patchwork of urban alley roofs, this is an accurate reflection of the day i acknowledged that i live with mental illness. an artist/thinker's lot. there are worse days.

wanda-lust

robert bresson could have directed this film. it's so beautiful in so many ways. but he didn't. barbara loden did. in addition she wrote and starred in this film which makes this piece of enigmatic cinéma vérité even more outstanding on even more levels than it already is. sadly it's the only feature film she ever made. she died before she was able to make another. the world may well have been a different place if she'd continued with her skilful yet harshly poetic socio-political commentary.

not only is loden her own imperfect "model" portraying her protagonist, wanda, in a pseudo stream of consciousness documentative stylisation: wanda is the all knowing victim. wanda as a pre-feminist construct with shades of wim wender's jane henderson [nastassja kinski] who abandons her family to reshape her life & identity in a peep show in paris texas 15 years later.

wanda as willing vessel. wanda casually prostituting herself for a bed to sleep in, trading the only commodity she has, herself, in order to keep on moving, feeling, no matter how fuzzily. it's her own life to feel whatever whilst ironically falling into replicated relationship patterns she seeks to escape john cassavetes style... wanda as realistic anti-hero.

wanda is self-described as "being no good, the children are better off with him [her deserted husband]." her market value is limited for the era because she is arguably a bad wife and mother, the pre-feminist defining roles of womanhood. her husband in court complains that she drinks. smokes and lounges about all day without tending to dirty diapers & domestic duties. she turns up to court. late. smoking. nonchalant.

wanda is the precursor to ridley scott's thelma as she drifts embracing with reluctance submission a road trip to her compounded undoing but continues on because she's committed for the overshadowed ride. her constant is surrendered motion. her own peculiar brand of freedom. her choices are few. the bronte sisters commiserated these same issues without the benefit of 16mm film centuries earlier [wanda was shot on 16mm but later blow up to 35mm for art house showings... the imagery is very pretty as well as being an experimental faux-documentative masterpiece]. an unmarried woman with no means or dowry has little future to look forward to.

ironically loden's much overlooked masterpiece was released in 1970, the same year that germaine greer's female eunuch was first published. polarized stylistically they both still address the defining effect of social values which determine the culture which shapes womanhood and sexual roles & values in society. unconscious ideas of gender are stamped by passages of time.

wanda has a much earlier feel in terms of cultural values but as i watched completely captivated by the beautiful imagery and ideological satirical commentary there was such a disturbing familiarity which increasingly grew... although the world superficially appeared to be abstract and distant it was like entertaining view of god and watching my mother [b. 1951] act under the abusive values that housewives were indoctrinated with as a post war hangover.

the trickledown effect took a little while to distribute free love especially in wanda's pennsylvania and my mother's lyttleton, new zealand. the distance became uncomfortably less. fact transcended fiction. the mothers' daughters' inheritance lives on.

by virtue of the handheld long shots and intimacy with the camera where wanda's opening trek across the open cut coal mine mounds to procure cash from one of many random men who she sees as providers the scene embodies something as intimate as holly golightly going to the powder room but this time the prostitution is matter-of-fact unglamorous and there's no need to see a close-up physical coupling to understand wanda's subservience and abject slavery to the men throughout her journey by her own volition. neither of the players, wanda or the man who gives her money is close. in fact he encourages her to go get more money off someone else. the knowledge of her identity as collective chattel is implicit. the story of O, with less visible XXX's.

on a constant cycle of abandonment as she drinks and smokes her way through men/rides she finally lands one with some stickability, mr dennis. man as protector/provider no matter how unsuitable or undesirable. or unwilling. once warmed to the role and understanding the benefits of the odd coupling he exploits mercilessly the sexual political power which is beautifully portrayed by such gems as his unnegotiable directions to wanda: "i thought i told you to get a dress.... get in the back of the car and put it on... no slacks when you're with me, no questions, when you're with me no questions, and no hair curlers -- it makes you look cheap." and so she does, without hesitation or question...

wanda will not be burning her bra but her slacks are donated to the goodwill charity bin [by mr dennis]. he doesn't even refer to her by her name nor share his "i don't like nosy people, i don't like friendly people, don't tell me your name.." yet he steals her wallet, sucks up her identity and uses it when he acknowledges his dependency & needs to coax her to cooperate in the doomed bank heist which wanda will always assume culpability for despite the fact she is not responsible for the failure of anyone else. his much sought approval which she receives post bank manager hijack: "you did good. you're really something." is the only time he allows her to trangress from her sub-humanity.

her worthlessness will always be compounded by his and the other men's need to constantly step on her and maintain her surrender with the ongoing perception of her own inferiority. thus her role and theirs is secured. mr dennis says to her: you don't have anything, you don't want anything, you're not even worthy of being a citizen of the united states..." just like roman times with the sub class system. a woman's lot it would seem didn't alter much from early referential literature until germaine greer, adrienne rich and a bunch of middle class urban women of the haight park generation set their underwear on fire...

this film has been practically dead and buried for the last 40 years. thank you to my perceptive friend josh who convinced me that i needed to see it, the subject of his thesis in film theory, at sydney film festival. so far it's the only film i felt compelled to give five stars to and there have been some incredible films. i can't wait to read his dissertation once it's done because there's so much to say about the wonder of this wandering wanda and he will undoubtedly do it so much more succinctly yet expansively than i can here and now.

haiku: emporer's bird flown

emperor's bird flown
empty gilded cage echoes
her sorrowful song

death of an icon

even institutions aren't forever... gowings, the iconic sydney CBD landmark was dissolved by creditors in 2006 after a strong tradition which was maintained since the city store's birth in 1868 as a purveyor of men's wear & knick-knacks & containing one of the most popular inner city barbers.

it was one of the most prominent mid range retail establishments in sydney yet offered a comfortable lack-lustre homeliness which lured men in to buy, who were otherwise intimidated by the luminous shine of the other glossier department store in town. there weren't so many metrosexuals in town 50 years or so back...

a reliable one stop store for lovers of bonds, flanelette PJs, multiple rib patterned rubber hot water bottles, camping equipent & other random [yet essential] manly bric-a-brac. it always clung to its upstanding air of yesteryear. i miss it's humble yet solid old school eclecticity badly. it was pure 1950s homme: a place where treasure could be found...

the tinny two-dimensionality of supre which is now housed in the original HQ building just doesn't quite fill the gap.

beauti...

...is undoubtedly in the eye of the beholder, ultimately subjective & one of the hottest philosophical topics up for debate since before plato contradicted his teacher socrates by declaring that beauty was an integral property in all entities. relative beauty can only be determined thereby through comparison with others. this causes countless problems.

non materialists like the selp-appointed high priest of aesthetics oscar wilde & also kant concede it is so, whilst most philosophers including myself agree that beauty is truth is beauty. is you.

there's no need to desire anna karina's form or any others, yours is more than perfectly adequate to enable this theoretical construct manifest itself through the physical divide. no need for me to sing joe cocker's "you are so beautiful" or you'll blush an even deeper shade of pink whilst we both hastily reach for ear plugs.

your beauty on every level from the outside edge of your skin to the metaphysical intangible, deep within your alive complex mind is immeasurable yet immense. there is no need to be anyone but you.

let our eyes be your mirrors. to both your skin & your soul.

i wished i was a panda...

today i cried in the middle of one of my favourite sydney restaurants. for at least ten minutes my blurred eyes bled tears as they burnt very visible whiter shade of pale trails through my already off white foundation [not everyone in sydney is the proud owner of a bondi beach tan]. for another ten minutes i was incapable of speech [some people would argue that this is a good thing] as i managed to wildy gesticulate with flapping arms my urgent need for milk & cucumber.

call it post childhood traumatic separation anxiety [i'm just not that big on cookies] or the divinity of the malaya's master chef mustapar jaffar's signature dish: szechuan egglant... yes, i flirted with danger & ate the dried chillies. victoria 0: chillies: 1.

in fairness to the malaya i knew what i was getting myself into, you're not actually supposed to eat them per se. famously the stoic locals from the szechuan province in china can casually chew on these concentrated torpedos of edible flame like athenians would kalamata olives which meant in journalistic enquiry mode, i had to also...

like the local pandas of the region, i suddenly wondered whether the bamboo shoots were a more viable decision. those bears are onto something i think whilst guzzling almost a litre of milk making strange appreciative sucking noises on my second bowl of chopped cucumber. but then i dip back into that heaven meets hell plate for more...

i must assign this lesson to the concept of nature's systematic appointing of short term pain memory to women re: childbirth. if we remembered that clearly the horror involved it's possible we wouldn't go there again no matter how much fun the first step in the process might be.

last time i did this with the same dish several years ago i managed to weep at a table for a full half hour whilst the table played one of those group bravado things where we all outdid each other's chilli consumption. i lost that round too, whilst kleenex shares went through the roof just from what was going down at our table. any intestinal cobwebs have long since been laid to rest. but dear god, the eggpant is so good it just has to be done.

so does everything... i am addicted to the "must have" otak otak and often dream about it. if there was crack in that wonderful mash of minced fish fillet fused with chilli & spices before being wrapped in a banana leaf and barbecued i wouldn't be surprised. mystery spices eh?

on inital entrance after consuming the obligatory warm-up caipiroska in true athletic form, it is closely followed by an ice maiden, a deliciously subtle combination of pear vodka loaded with fresh lime & frangelica [i'm thirsty]. then it's time to face the menu which means mandatory starter of steamed scallops in the shell with fresh ginger, chilli, soy and shallots. there can be no other, or at least shouldn't be.

for the longest time whilst supply was short they were only available on the set menu but due to popular demand owners lance & givie wong have ensured this entree is now available for the unfenced grazers like myself. because i harassed staff for so long it is my moral responsibility to eat scallops as much as possible in order to fill the demand bubble. a tough job indeed.

after chasing everything down with a bottle of duval leroy fleur de champagne [we're celebrating rio tinto's just announced BHP billiton joint endeavor, watch those stocks rise] it's time to hit up the salt and pepper prawns. these chillies are much easier on the palette. this time consumption is painfree and so deliciously salt-good tantalising i want to lick my plate clean, but do not.

our enlightened waiter savio with the name of an italian saint & the body of a hong kong chinese expat steers us towards the new dessert which is black rice pudding.

if you're only going to have one dessert on the menu in an asian inspired restaurant the odds are coconut is going to have to make an appearance. so it does and in the best possible way. light, creamy with the resonance one expects from sticky rice this small glass houses a unique blend with an incredible mixture of fruit so finely chopped that the flavour maintains such vital intensity but is not lost amongst the others: bananas, lychees and berries dance together in a perfect waltz which heads straight to my hips but i don't mind.

today i am a panda with such short term memory loss that those hips could well be child-bearing for all i care. i just can't wait to do it all over again.

spectoracular spectoracular!

the agony and the ecstasy of phil spector is how i chose to begin my sydney film festival journey this year & there couldn've been a more perfect metaphor for what became an opening night of masochistic pleasure & pain [no i didn't go see ken loach's looking for eric, but then unlike my friend gracie, i don't particularly like football, or upstanding british comedic cinema no matter how allegedly gritty it is].

no, the rollercoaster ride was all self-induced, fuelled by the fabulous imagery of phil spector's hair [sometimes in pieces], aeon traversing pop culture anthems [to know, know know him, is to love, love, love him] and dapper suits, the turmoil of genius, catherine breillat's seductive shepherdlike but somewhat schlocky reimagining of a fairytale [la barbe bleue/bluebeard] and all that complimentary champagne at the after party, dancing to prince with kate whilst dermot planned murder in the cloakroom, oh and boys. so call me venus in furs, sit back and listen.

the evening cinematic highlight for me was undeniably hijacked by the spectre which is the phenomena of phil spector.

vikram jayanti's portrayal was simplistic but an outstanding piece of filmwork utilising the soundtracks [all produced by spector] that multiple generations have grown up & lived to. if you can go in to a film with a polarized perspective & come out with another or a massive question mark dangling, that is a powerful execution of the artform of documentary in my book. it doesn't matter what the question is. the answer according to spector is him [and i'm inclined to agree].

in a relaxed interview style a very self-aware spector pokes tongue-in-cheek fun at his peers [tony bennet's cocaine addiction, woody allen's relationship with soon-yi, brian wilson's inability to ever crack the be my baby hit formula] and candidly illustrates the impact he single-handedly has made on popular culture referencing his resistant wave-through [at john lennon's encouragement] of the unauthorised use of be my baby in mean streets [martin scorcese's breakout feature] would have been kill-switched at the 13th hour & with that potentially a whole bunch of spotlit careers including scorsese and de niro.

this is the kind of russian roulette mentality which has haunted & uplifted spector to hedonistic heights and lows throughout his blissfully tortured life. his surgically enhanced cabbage patch baby face reveals toupé framed eyes which proclaim arcane knowledge of the double-edged sword of methodic madness akin to the genius of da vinci, michaelangelo and galileo. these are his alluded to peers. he dared to be different and succeeded, wearing his school graduation motto like a nazi-enforced star of david armband, with tremendous pride.

this brilliance is what pushes edges and boundaries, which traverse the fine line between madness and sanity, death and life, a self alchemized gun in the hand... or mouth.

there can be no balance, for it represents mediocrity and with that there would be no songs: no let it be, no imagine, no rockin roll high school, no you've lost that lovin feeling, no da doo ron ron, no he's a rebel, no be my baby, no then he kissed me, no to know him is to love him, no rose of spanish harlem, and maybe the last forty years woud have been completely different. lennon attributes him as being the man who kept rock n roll alive while elvis was at war. spector unashamedly thinks so. pain, turmoil and jagged edges are a vital constant with the artistic condition of genius: yes phil spector is guilty. i wouldn't want him to be innocent.

and then...

my punk monkish peers who i also think of as running amok genii led me onto the back of a bus in their infinite adventurous wisdom and we hightailed it to dendy opera quays to meet more friends and soak up the tapestried french femme telling of a fable which allegedly demonstrates the fallen eve condition. of women and apples falling from paradise, of others with doors and dead bloodied wives...la barbe bleue. i'm obsessed with fairy tales & have been since childhood but then the early days of university political science where i picked up a few feminist studies papers and deconstructed like a woman possessed... andrea dworkin was my book bed buddy for a time.

there was too much set up involved with this french provacateur led production. whenever i'm that excited about a film it's destined for a fall. oh and how it fell for me despite the divine production design in parts which was horribly flattened by the decision to shoot digitally which just could not always do justice to the costuming and sets, excellent casting and the skilful painting of the sexual power relations are bodice-ripping material on and off screen in their implied erotic suspense. delicious...

BUT i resent being treated like a sheep and continually forced between intercut narrative commentary which initally served as an excellent device illustrating the dichotomous attraction and repulsion of a young girl to bluebeard but by the end i lost interest as i did with the overall narrative. yes, the girls are charming, but their overuse becomes increasingly annoying despite the fact we are invited to see the folk tale through their eyes. must we keep going back there? with a shotgun against our heads?

i do like the depiction of the girlish carnal sexual knowledge & the manifestation of greed and betterment of the younger sister's acute awareness of the sibling rivalry "i have to show my sister anne this dress, it was made just for me". she's a proverbial ladder-climber with her eyes firmly focussed on the ivory tower from the outset of the story.

the role reversion, oedipal manipulation and overtly subtle seduction of the gluttenous baron where the metaphor is poignantly illustrated that both girl and man are guilty of the same seventh sin. who is the monster?

the gorging feast scenes are sublime but feel stylistically forced. yes, there is ironic emptiness whilst surrounded by food but it feels unnecessarily two dimensional. whilst understanding where breillat was going with this, the overlayed edits & reused tower shots [of which spector would never approve] were alienating not so much because of the artistic decision but because it didn't go far enough and wishwashed between realism & fantasy to excess.

in a nod to renaissance art, breillat ends the film metaphorizing her reversed approach through the decapitated head of this grisly overlord of whom history tells us was a 15th century french serial killer on a plate at the hands of the cunning & resourceful virgin bride.

she escapes the same end as her predecessors but the cautionary tale fails in the sense of it's fable form in that her mapped qualities she shares with her deceased husband go unnoticed and unpunished. curiosity in this case did not kill the cat. nor should it, but her greed and gluttony wouldn't escape david fincher's john doe so easily.

and it's just as well the antagonist of se7en wasn't at the sydney film festival after party because with complimentary champagne flowing for the night um, i guess we all could have justifiably ended up with our heads in that gentileschi-esque painting. not least the eighty year old woman who pointedly told dermot that she'd "worked a cloakroom for forty years young man" whilst providing some hot etiquette tips. that's always got to be a showstopper of a party comment. god only knows what mine were.

luckily kate and i were distracted by the funky tunes and took over the dance floor at the establishment and lured the suits out to play [all whilst ky was locked out, 'forced' to drink more trademark whiskey with two boys on a date]... after ambushing various celebrity types and ruining their photos.

special thanks and mentions with standing ovation to my friend josh for his seamless implementation of OVSS. many thanks to carmel as well; all your hard work and missed engagements were worth it. the film festival opening was a huge success. you should really take the day off. i have and am still too afraid to look at the sydney morning herald today [or my NOKIA SMS sent box].

and no, you really shouldn't try any of this at home. none of it.

the 56th sydney film festival is running jun 03 - jun 14. the program is immense and jumping with incredible films. life suddenly got even more full and techno-colorful.

haiku: fuji no kaze ya

富士の風や扇にのせて江戸土産

fuji no kaze ya

oogi ni nosete

edo miyage

the wind from mt. fuji

i brought it on my fan

a souvenir from edo

and another classic [possibly the most famous haiku ever]:

furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

old pond...
a frog leaps in
water's sound.

- matsuo basho [master poet - acknowledged first great poet of haikai & haiku tradition + original punk monk] 1644-1694

these days it's hard to capture the same sanctity from fuji yama as such existed in basho's time & beyond until industrialisation seized nihon.

but even stolen glances from the speeding shinkansen between pylons & built up areas afford a sense of the sacred impression that it must have bestowed on the travelers to its far reaches since time incarnate.

in reverence to the haiku form, it seems important to pay humble homage to the original zen master <-- a source of tremendous inspiration. legend has it that basho inspired more disciples than any other poet whilst alive ever. he was a true living icon & posthumously his inheritance goes on.

burlesque betty spares rib

dita von teese is the undisputed queen of burlesque but she is a late yet very worthy commercially accessible heir to the throne of a tradition which has its roots steeped in athenian history, courtesan/stuntwoman flavoured intrigue AND massive misconception swathed in lashings of luxurious colour, texture & bauble...

burlesque was commonly appropriated by blue collar workers in the european but more recently founding american tradition & turned into something bawdier than arguably originially intended. almost synonymous with striptease until the recent public re-education it is an artform under constant reinterpretation & reinvention. but still it's often reduced to: "when do ya get your gear off..."

unattainable objects of desire are so much more fun when slowly unwrapped or not even at all... playing hard to get is one of the oldest yet most pleasurable torturous games of all. *adopts mental note*

true burlesque is about the art of tease but in many ways it embraces less is more which doesn't necessarily equate to fewer layers or none. it's all about seductive mystery with a dash of vaudeville thrown in for good measure. burlesque is an art form. period. her executors are superbly talented performers which obviously like anything is modified by degrees.

sometimes a carefully revealed [and well turned] ankle is enough to induce the required hysteria & longing. those greek soldiers were mere putty in their scheming wives hands post peloponnesian war days. couple that coquettish ankle several hundred years later with sheer stockings, rigorous dance routines & bite-sized pieces of thigh flashing & the sublime decadence of moulin rouge is born.

fast track to mid 20th century to betty page & marilyn monroe who were modern female heroines who embraced the dichotomous tradition of exaggerated subtlety with measurable cult effect.

there are mathematical equations which formulate masculine desire to the proportions of womanhood & with the aid of a corset, the achieved hourglass figure becomes tangible. swooning becomes de rigeur [through lack of breath]. actually this is really a fallacy: a correctly fitted corset should do nothing of the sort.

this past weekend i strapped myself in courtesy of the excuse of my wonderful friend karina's burlesque birthday party & was almost diasppointingly able to achieve raptuous breath when presented with ample opportunity without so much as busting a rib. i have jo at sydney's house of fetish to thank for always looking after me so very well & being the professional corset lacer with inimitable but up close personal pizazz.

...and for the most part at that party [from recollection] we all retained our clothes. our dignity on the other hand is an entirely different topic.

[thanks to marianne whose photos i have slightly pilfered as my camera maintained a low profile for the night. the only in focus shot was at the hands of AB.]

acqua de vitae

acqua de vitae = the water of life. one memory that has stuck after all those years of latin classes [mr ferguson would be proud]... he is also the last person i'd like to share the food of the gods with in this superlative setting which is sydney's not so hidden but possibly undervalued gem [on the other side of the bridge].

in roman culture acqua de vitae often referred to classical fermented alchemic drinks such as whiskey which my beloved friend ky arguably does drink like water...

anyway the wine list at contemporary food darling aqua is fantastic as are the apertifs but on a day like this it's hard to go past the french champagne.

this is a place where artemis really needs her apollo as consort: not so close to zeus AKA jupiter in the clouds but close enough to touch the sky & the divine 1930s art deco sydney olympic pool overlooking sydney harbour below.

like an arbitrary mountain-top setting the view is spectacular alone but so much better when shared. besides noone wants to look like a perv without some buffering whilst staring down at the enviable physiques perfecting their breaststroke. the almost invisible 270 degree glass cocoon blurs barriers between here & there. still it's too late to jump, ive already started drinking. my mother would never approve.

although the restaurant environment has a restraint offered by the starched white linen tablecloths which i usually avoid, i've loved this place forever. the surrounding vista in a rich palette of blue hues provides so much visual stimulus that the neutral interior clean lines cleverly offset the scene. when my father came on an infrequent trip into the country this is where i led him & his wife out for lunch to showcase my adopted home town.

because i'm addicted to exhibiting dominance over bottom feeders i make an immediate menu beeline for the pan-fried yamba prawns only because the scallops which are virtually impossible to resist are wrapped in pancetta & although the chef is super accommodating it's no drama to "settle".

the salsa verde & persian feta with goat's cheese pastry which dress these shelled beasties are so good that by the time my crisp parcels of spinach, braised baby leeks and horseradish arrive i've been quaffing back on a good percentage of the bottle of veuve clicquot that um, my tummy is already feeling somewhat challenged. the only way to remedy this is to obviously order another bottle. it is my birthday after all... almost on cue, jupier & inc in the heavens paint a rainbow. everything is going according to plan.

by now i'm far too full in conspicuous consumption mode to even bother with the proffered fork of my lovely lunch date's roast fillet of blue eye trevalla but its firm yet silken flesh beckons me harder than uma thurman's virgin would john malkovich. this is a dangerous liasion of sorts, somewhere in this lunch i am in danger of reliving that infamous monty python wafer thin scene & heading up to olympus much earlier than originally deigned...

somehow i decline the next course [the tablecloths lead, i follow] & just order a fishbowl full of baileys chased by green tea instead of dessert but it comes anyway fully personalised, because the staff are charming as hell & actually go beyond the wooden robotic mould despite the fact i have well-loved artisan shoes which flap smiling faces when i walk uphill. we leave as friends after sharing dreams, south american travel stories & facebook addies to be pursued another day.

i immediately explode on exit & die happy [ridentem dicere verum quid vetat]? thanks horace.