So here we are again. 5AM seems like a reasonable time to head home, eating has stood down to make room for free wine, running between shows and taking calls from increasingly fatigued media types.
I’ve never blogged about festivals before. Too wary of saying anything untoward about a show, a venue, a person, a blog, a newspaper, a broadcasting corporation, one of my colleagues, one of my team, how everyone at fringe towers fancies men, how eating falafel every other day feels very comforting, how one gradually loses their mind and then finds it again deep in a venue specialising in physical theatre and invisible trapeze hidden beneath a secret door in a letter box.
My idea was to try and capture the uniqueness of working arts festivals. The sudden change of pace, the ability to get up for work and be productive after 4 hours sleep and too many glasses of wine on an empty stomach. The idea that everyone suddenly knows someone everywhere and it’s not odd to have several places where one knows there will be company. And good company at that.
The consuming factor of festivals, for me, is the idea that someone super random may make some kind of discovery, see something wonderful they wouldn’t usually – and all through no particular art or design. The simplicity of open arts means that working within a festival makes me no different from a punter; if it did, maybe I wouldn’t have had a muffin thrown at me from the stage to pull my concentration into check in a dozy moment mid show on Thursday night.
In the last week, I have laughed, pondered, seen some amazing dance moves, discovered Dave Callan is the best man in the world, stood in the pouring rain to put the Fringe on the tele box, seen a willy, seen glittered breasts, diluted my hangover into a 30 minute walk to work rather than a full day blackout on more than three occasions, been annoyed at people’s poor wording and sometime objectionable behavior, been cheered by umpteen more people’s great wording and supremely wonderful behavior. I have yet to cry; that day may come. I have yet to make a complete idiot of myself in front of someone off the tele; that day will come.
Friday 25 February 2011
Monday 14 February 2011
Four Stars
I have always had a problem with nail biting. Let’s hope Portman can get it under control before the baby (wee Oscar) comes. Four star Black Swan has been openly referred to as ‘bananas’ and ‘bonkers’ which yes it is, but very quickly, is that because it’s a film about a lady going crazy in a mostly mysterious profession? Mysterious, bar the stories of broken bones, vicious ego and stifling competition.
Portman’s Nina is seething with such exhausted frustration that she manages to keep it together for over half the film is a wonder. That feeling of a tightening all through ones’ world – wanting to just ask questions, accept some soothing love and spill out mind whirls is a reality few people avoid completely. Portman pushes hard on the emotional realities of insecurity about who one is. Her desperately competitive and malicious mother makes the first hour of this film deeply troubling to watch; barely watching a created being, no sense of self exists for poor Nina.
Not unlike our discovered protagonist in Catfish. So unsure and full of longing that the only natural conclusion is one of sprawling deceit. I wouldn’t want to ruin this documentary – debate rages about whether this is a documentary or an elaborate ruse – to me it’s a documentary as that’s how the filmmaker wants it to be received. I see no further reason to tear possible falsities or coincidences apart. Well, maybe a wee bit of tearing. But without spraying spoilers all over this blog like a wet dog – the creation of characters and their obligations to others first and foremost are extraordinary. Film subject Nev Schulman at one point asks why his brother, the filmmaker, insists on continuing to film as he feels more and more uncomfortable with where the story is headed. He, as us, is reminded he has agreed to whatever was going to happen, and therefore has handed over more than expected to his sniggering brother, his mate, and a couple of reasonably shoddy handheld cameras.
Over the last month I have seen several stellar films. Several of these films fall into a great human nature ditch – to what extent to we control our fate. Allow me to illustrate. Exit Through The Gift Shop is one of the oddest laugh out loud films I have seen in a while, besides True Grit, but I get a feeling the Coen Brothers' rider was laughing gas and shrooms. For those of you that know little about what is commonly known as ‘The Bansky’ film – this documentary is the work of Bansky – rather than a film about the pesky stencil wielding Bristolian. The subject becomes Mr Brainwash, or just Terry, a man, who quite astonishingly created a multi-million dollar fortune which, through Bansky’s eyes, was created through absolute sheer gall and one massive misunderstanding.
There is a sense in which all the pondering and insecurity the world stirs maybe should be kept to the cunning and relaxed approach of Bansky on screen, or even the gentle and honest approach of Catfish, a film which sees lives thrown about like a cat in a washing machine, (emerging soggy, shuddering but eventually proud and unperturbed after the ordeal.) Black Swan is a tough watch, and the music of Swan Lake, though spectacular, is not wholly soothing. I wonder how many broken people, determined to make their graceful mark on something (swan analogy) and longed to reach the top of something since wished that Bansky’s cynicism post Terry had hit them... ‘I used to encourage everyone to make art, not so much now.’
Portman’s Nina is seething with such exhausted frustration that she manages to keep it together for over half the film is a wonder. That feeling of a tightening all through ones’ world – wanting to just ask questions, accept some soothing love and spill out mind whirls is a reality few people avoid completely. Portman pushes hard on the emotional realities of insecurity about who one is. Her desperately competitive and malicious mother makes the first hour of this film deeply troubling to watch; barely watching a created being, no sense of self exists for poor Nina.
Not unlike our discovered protagonist in Catfish. So unsure and full of longing that the only natural conclusion is one of sprawling deceit. I wouldn’t want to ruin this documentary – debate rages about whether this is a documentary or an elaborate ruse – to me it’s a documentary as that’s how the filmmaker wants it to be received. I see no further reason to tear possible falsities or coincidences apart. Well, maybe a wee bit of tearing. But without spraying spoilers all over this blog like a wet dog – the creation of characters and their obligations to others first and foremost are extraordinary. Film subject Nev Schulman at one point asks why his brother, the filmmaker, insists on continuing to film as he feels more and more uncomfortable with where the story is headed. He, as us, is reminded he has agreed to whatever was going to happen, and therefore has handed over more than expected to his sniggering brother, his mate, and a couple of reasonably shoddy handheld cameras.
Over the last month I have seen several stellar films. Several of these films fall into a great human nature ditch – to what extent to we control our fate. Allow me to illustrate. Exit Through The Gift Shop is one of the oddest laugh out loud films I have seen in a while, besides True Grit, but I get a feeling the Coen Brothers' rider was laughing gas and shrooms. For those of you that know little about what is commonly known as ‘The Bansky’ film – this documentary is the work of Bansky – rather than a film about the pesky stencil wielding Bristolian. The subject becomes Mr Brainwash, or just Terry, a man, who quite astonishingly created a multi-million dollar fortune which, through Bansky’s eyes, was created through absolute sheer gall and one massive misunderstanding.
There is a sense in which all the pondering and insecurity the world stirs maybe should be kept to the cunning and relaxed approach of Bansky on screen, or even the gentle and honest approach of Catfish, a film which sees lives thrown about like a cat in a washing machine, (emerging soggy, shuddering but eventually proud and unperturbed after the ordeal.) Black Swan is a tough watch, and the music of Swan Lake, though spectacular, is not wholly soothing. I wonder how many broken people, determined to make their graceful mark on something (swan analogy) and longed to reach the top of something since wished that Bansky’s cynicism post Terry had hit them... ‘I used to encourage everyone to make art, not so much now.’
Tuesday 1 February 2011
Hot Hot Heat
My next blog was going to be about films. I finally succumbed to checking my blog hits (smash) and the blogs about films seemed to be most popular. So I was going to just write them, then, in the style of a flash flood, tsunami or hurricane, weather (otherwise known as 'things that happen in Queensland') got in the way. This is some chat about 40 degrees, and some.
The Sunday just past – the one that ran over the end of January like a ‘hey, get over it, it is freekin’ twenty eleven and you were scared of the millinium bug. Pah, try adulthood.’ Was forty degrees in Adelaide, South Australia. I was not aware it was over 40 degrees until I had walked over 2kms in it. I was sweaty. And not the sexy Slave 4 U Britney kind - the normal kind - where hair sticks to your face in a comb over and one has to walk like a duck-cum-penguin to prevent a childless future because ones upper thighs have sought each other’s company in a simultaneous battle against sweat and becoming sandpaper. Here are my observations of plus 40 degree days and Australia.
Air Conditioning. People who don’t have air conditioning are very hot, and people who do say they love the heat.
People in Australia drive their cars everywhere. Pedestrianism is tantamount those London dawn scenes in 28 Days Later. You're in your own world on the pavement. When it’s hot, drivers look at walkers with even more concerted confusion.
British people get their asses in the sun. Yay! Skin cancer!
Hollering "This is the wrong country for that" at Australian dog owners seems perfectly reasonable.
Hollering "stop asking me how I'm coping with the heat" at Australians seems perfectly reasonable. (This is because it is reasonable - stop asking me how I'm coping with the heat. Ask your fudging dog.)
I said this about Madrid and I’ll say it about Adelaide. Walking through an alley and through an extractor fan is rubbish, and smelly, but you pass through it and avoid that alley in future. Being in a hot wind that is produced by genuine weather is tough. Because the wind is hot. It’s like being stuck in a toaster, but no one is sticking a knife in to get you as even if they lifted you out the toaster it’s emitting such heat it’s inescapable, (and no one likes getting stabbed really.)
I’ve been doing weird things with fans since the heat subsided trying to move cool air into my hot house. Generally I’m pretty lazy, so this effort must be the 40 degreeness.
Silly band names' accidental reference in general conversation gets annoying. Oh lord, I can't be arsed with this hot hot heat. Warning: Dogs die in hot cars Sheila. Wham I can't cool down. Oh lord, to fall by accident into an oasis in this desert of unforgivable warmth. Ah mate? It's all a blur... you get the idea. Yes this is a crowded house – molecularly.
Tea cools you down? Lies.
The Sunday just past – the one that ran over the end of January like a ‘hey, get over it, it is freekin’ twenty eleven and you were scared of the millinium bug. Pah, try adulthood.’ Was forty degrees in Adelaide, South Australia. I was not aware it was over 40 degrees until I had walked over 2kms in it. I was sweaty. And not the sexy Slave 4 U Britney kind - the normal kind - where hair sticks to your face in a comb over and one has to walk like a duck-cum-penguin to prevent a childless future because ones upper thighs have sought each other’s company in a simultaneous battle against sweat and becoming sandpaper. Here are my observations of plus 40 degree days and Australia.
Air Conditioning. People who don’t have air conditioning are very hot, and people who do say they love the heat.
People in Australia drive their cars everywhere. Pedestrianism is tantamount those London dawn scenes in 28 Days Later. You're in your own world on the pavement. When it’s hot, drivers look at walkers with even more concerted confusion.
British people get their asses in the sun. Yay! Skin cancer!
Hollering "This is the wrong country for that" at Australian dog owners seems perfectly reasonable.
Hollering "stop asking me how I'm coping with the heat" at Australians seems perfectly reasonable. (This is because it is reasonable - stop asking me how I'm coping with the heat. Ask your fudging dog.)
I said this about Madrid and I’ll say it about Adelaide. Walking through an alley and through an extractor fan is rubbish, and smelly, but you pass through it and avoid that alley in future. Being in a hot wind that is produced by genuine weather is tough. Because the wind is hot. It’s like being stuck in a toaster, but no one is sticking a knife in to get you as even if they lifted you out the toaster it’s emitting such heat it’s inescapable, (and no one likes getting stabbed really.)
I’ve been doing weird things with fans since the heat subsided trying to move cool air into my hot house. Generally I’m pretty lazy, so this effort must be the 40 degreeness.
Silly band names' accidental reference in general conversation gets annoying. Oh lord, I can't be arsed with this hot hot heat. Warning: Dogs die in hot cars Sheila. Wham I can't cool down. Oh lord, to fall by accident into an oasis in this desert of unforgivable warmth. Ah mate? It's all a blur... you get the idea. Yes this is a crowded house – molecularly.
Tea cools you down? Lies.
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