It appears to me that there is a certain clarity missing from this blog. My apologies. I have decided to invest some time – escaping the glorious sunshine* – to remind this blog of its purpose, and in turn, all four of you that skim read it when you’ve done checking Facebook on a miserable night in.
Blog literal - place to notate all the crap that surges through one's mind, you know, the stuff that falls on deaf ears in the pub.
To Blog (verb)- sit down on one's own and talk to oneself and then kind of publish it.
Blog (noun) - a unique entity that is not defined by name but rather by contents in turn leading other people to wonder what is wrong with the author.
I have chosen to approach this in the style of an English language GCSE mark sheet. Please note my A* bitches – earned minus the knowledge of how to apply an apostrophe correctly – I learned this in my 21st year. Apparently I still have problems applying oo correctly too. Loose and lose and also, I must admit, choose and chose often catch me out. I think it’s the ownership over oos as an Attwood.
Style – There is no specific style in which I write, nothing that has a stipulated term, and I have never indulged in specific rules regarding style; I do freekin’ love a good semi-colon. I think the main way to approach the style in this blog is to imagine everything is persuading you to indulge in my emotional response. For example, if I’m describing something tedious and rambling, you will note my style is tedious and rambling. I wouldn’t want you to miss out.
Language – Making words up and finding new linguistic applications is the best thing about writing. Fo’ sho’. Anything that can be exclaimed in a silly and unclear way that either takes insane deciphering or is only funny to me – will bring me joy – and hopefully that will infect the style of the copy. Wondering what the fudge I’m talking about? Maybe you’re reading the wrong blog. I don’t ask you to understand me. Just come with me.
Sincerity – Now, I add this into the score chart, as it’s a feature of writing that has got me into endless trouble. Hopefully Contained doesn’t see me in some kind of sticky shiz with the Arab Emirates. As there is a level of insincerity in my jest (there’s not. I hate it there) you see? See also Orange Highlighters for my continued struggle with sincerity. If it’s a review then trust I’m being sincere. Have you still not seen Boy? Idiots.
Text Inference/interpretation – I have posted a poem regarding caravans on my blog this week, in return I have received several emails detailing concern for my well being. I’ll leave – gentle – interpretation for readers in their own time. The text will often infer I’m bonkers; it’s best to take this at face value but I cannot promise to play party to your concerns.
Sentence structure, punctuation and spelling – Apparently to get full marks. You have to avoid ambiguity. That’s me out then.
*There isn’t any glorious sunshine, yes, I’m as confused about that as you all are about the bouts of glimmering snow pummelling down in the UK. Or maybe you’re all used to the snow by now? As used to it as my rambunctious oddities anyway.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Monday, 13 December 2010
Caravan and poem.
If I had a caravan.
I’d be in it all the time,
doing dishes,
drying up, eating shortbread by the clock.
I wouldn’t have a 4 by 4,
to tow my caravan about
I’d rather have a van or some bears,
they could get my caravan up any stairs.
I would tour round all the cities,
people would come in my caravan
for a gentle break from their norm
I’d make them up a cup of tea
with formula milk and Tetley.
It’ll be such a nice place.
Chilled, refined and empty of space.
As what could be better than
sitting in one’s caravan
letting the world meander by
there’s nothing bad in the caravan
free to roam like a free range ram.
I see you think this is not a poem.
Well take this you naysayer you,
do you have a portable loo?
Boiling water on tap
vintage sofas and more too?
Any day you fancy eating your words with
some cheese and biscuits call on me
I won’t be far
with my caravan and ah ha.
I’d be in it all the time,
doing dishes,
drying up, eating shortbread by the clock.
I wouldn’t have a 4 by 4,
to tow my caravan about
I’d rather have a van or some bears,
they could get my caravan up any stairs.
I would tour round all the cities,
people would come in my caravan
for a gentle break from their norm
I’d make them up a cup of tea
with formula milk and Tetley.
It’ll be such a nice place.
Chilled, refined and empty of space.
As what could be better than
sitting in one’s caravan
letting the world meander by
there’s nothing bad in the caravan
free to roam like a free range ram.
I see you think this is not a poem.
Well take this you naysayer you,
do you have a portable loo?
Boiling water on tap
vintage sofas and more too?
Any day you fancy eating your words with
some cheese and biscuits call on me
I won’t be far
with my caravan and ah ha.
Contained
In the last three weeks I have paid visits to four countries, been in a women’s only taxi, allowed a Frenchman’s dazzling smile to befuddle me into accepting two six euro sandwiches when I ordered un, been offered the plinth in some man’s life as his forth wife, had an Aussie in customs tell me ‘it’s funny, you don’t look like a pom’, oh and besides that, I’d forgotten how odd it is to dare to be called Miriam. But it’s an Arab name? (This only beats being greeted in Morocco with ‘Oh, Miriam? You’re not black?’)
Dubai has always been on my list of places I categorically never want to go. The idea of glass and chrome rising out of desert and sea so Paris Hilton can party on her way round the world (or something) was my basis for not going. That and the awful film with that awful harem of bitchy middle aged women stolen from a previously better land of televisual opportunity... Oh, and the rules. Which were firmly assured by my hotel guide to Dubai that explained what ‘day-to-day’ law breaking could result in the death penalty. But, as much as my interest in returning to Dubai where my luggage was searched and run through with red dye and my heart was burst with uncomfortable everything as the whole place is encased in shiny soullessness, is non existent; it was interesting.
I have often passed the time wondering if odd things happen to me, I invite odd things to happen to me, or I find things more remarkable than everyone else. In Dubai I haplessly found myself ricocheting off the walls of a Landrover (thing) in the desert on a Monday evening, which felt strangely like a large Truman Show style set, (the desert, not the vehicle) with a Russian woman of broad design and wired eyebrows shouting ‘MAMUSKA’ and ‘AYYEEEE’ each time the wheel arches tempted to smash through the tires and we tumbled over the dunes. This may in essence already seem odd, but imagine, if you will, our Moroccan (as he took pains to tell us he was not from the oil risen land of the Arab Emirates) driver mirrors her cries for life with his own ‘WAAAAA AYYEEE, MAMA’ and the Philippines and the Germans and I were torn between knocking Russian out, telling her to put her freaking seatbelt on and laughing mercilessly, and openly, at this crazy woman’s expense.
There is something a little odd in parting with a wadge of hard earned cash to be driven on a motorway out of a city to some sand dunes off another motorway, to then be driven about and ear raped by a crazy Russian, then taken to a tourist camp of ‘Dubai’ stuff, none of which, as our lovely driver told us on the way back to the hotel, was remotely Dubaineese. Some call it tour'ism. To be fair, the baked coffee really was of a very high standard. And the shisha. But I’ve had shisha in Morocco and southern Spain and Tunbridge Wells and no one there was offering to buy me into a life of polygamy. Well, possibly in Kent, but still.
Being a tourist – or a newbie to a different place is always going to present challenges. I get that. And I usually reserve confusion for the way so many people treat ‘foreign’ places. But Dubai and MAMUSKA seem to have captured my attention full throttle with the unashamed random combination of various worlds and cultures and a blatant disregard for what I would consider expected norms in my world.
I could wang on about the Louis Vuitton clad persons headed to Dubai merely to buy stuff for $20 less than in the US or wherever you go to buy nasty overpriced branded celebrity endorsed crap normally and to eat in restaurants where the pizza is genuine as a real Italian was flown in to make it – go to Italy? I don’t want to get started on serving pork even though it’s religiously wrong to offer it... ? I left the place with as many new questions as I had thought up to take in with me – but I now am sure I do not need to return to get answers. I’d rather read a book.
Sometimes I can be more succinct in my ponderings when I compare life’s trivialities to films or some kind of referential creative expression. If my take on the world is Kill Bill – a little to whiny and judgemental but in essence put together for the right reasons, then Dubai is SATC2. One fucking huge contradiction.
NB: For legal reasons I must state there is no referential creative expression involved in SATC2. Or I won’t be allowed back into the Arab Emirates.
Dubai has always been on my list of places I categorically never want to go. The idea of glass and chrome rising out of desert and sea so Paris Hilton can party on her way round the world (or something) was my basis for not going. That and the awful film with that awful harem of bitchy middle aged women stolen from a previously better land of televisual opportunity... Oh, and the rules. Which were firmly assured by my hotel guide to Dubai that explained what ‘day-to-day’ law breaking could result in the death penalty. But, as much as my interest in returning to Dubai where my luggage was searched and run through with red dye and my heart was burst with uncomfortable everything as the whole place is encased in shiny soullessness, is non existent; it was interesting.
I have often passed the time wondering if odd things happen to me, I invite odd things to happen to me, or I find things more remarkable than everyone else. In Dubai I haplessly found myself ricocheting off the walls of a Landrover (thing) in the desert on a Monday evening, which felt strangely like a large Truman Show style set, (the desert, not the vehicle) with a Russian woman of broad design and wired eyebrows shouting ‘MAMUSKA’ and ‘AYYEEEE’ each time the wheel arches tempted to smash through the tires and we tumbled over the dunes. This may in essence already seem odd, but imagine, if you will, our Moroccan (as he took pains to tell us he was not from the oil risen land of the Arab Emirates) driver mirrors her cries for life with his own ‘WAAAAA AYYEEE, MAMA’ and the Philippines and the Germans and I were torn between knocking Russian out, telling her to put her freaking seatbelt on and laughing mercilessly, and openly, at this crazy woman’s expense.
There is something a little odd in parting with a wadge of hard earned cash to be driven on a motorway out of a city to some sand dunes off another motorway, to then be driven about and ear raped by a crazy Russian, then taken to a tourist camp of ‘Dubai’ stuff, none of which, as our lovely driver told us on the way back to the hotel, was remotely Dubaineese. Some call it tour'ism. To be fair, the baked coffee really was of a very high standard. And the shisha. But I’ve had shisha in Morocco and southern Spain and Tunbridge Wells and no one there was offering to buy me into a life of polygamy. Well, possibly in Kent, but still.
Being a tourist – or a newbie to a different place is always going to present challenges. I get that. And I usually reserve confusion for the way so many people treat ‘foreign’ places. But Dubai and MAMUSKA seem to have captured my attention full throttle with the unashamed random combination of various worlds and cultures and a blatant disregard for what I would consider expected norms in my world.
I could wang on about the Louis Vuitton clad persons headed to Dubai merely to buy stuff for $20 less than in the US or wherever you go to buy nasty overpriced branded celebrity endorsed crap normally and to eat in restaurants where the pizza is genuine as a real Italian was flown in to make it – go to Italy? I don’t want to get started on serving pork even though it’s religiously wrong to offer it... ? I left the place with as many new questions as I had thought up to take in with me – but I now am sure I do not need to return to get answers. I’d rather read a book.
Sometimes I can be more succinct in my ponderings when I compare life’s trivialities to films or some kind of referential creative expression. If my take on the world is Kill Bill – a little to whiny and judgemental but in essence put together for the right reasons, then Dubai is SATC2. One fucking huge contradiction.
NB: For legal reasons I must state there is no referential creative expression involved in SATC2. Or I won’t be allowed back into the Arab Emirates.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Honestly?
How much do people genuinely appreciate honesty? I’ve been spending rather a large amount of time being honest with people recently, and the rest of the time lying. Is it best to lay your cards on the table or is it better to respect other people’s traditions and ideals and keep them happy? Intense pondering has led me to some my favourite straight forward opportunities where there is ample opportunity to just be plain honest - all depending on how much one values their sanity.
The compliment request: If someone is fishing for a compliment is it best to give them what they want? It’s tricky as these requests come from many different places – from ‘I totally am amazing’ through to ‘I’m paranoid about everything and I feel rubbish and I think I look rubbish and oh lord is the world about to end and please please grant me this one nice thing or the world will end’ – the latter may just need some vodka by means of response – but it's also the perfect place to chuck in some curve ball honesty, something straight forward like ‘you’re wonderful’.
When responding to compliment fishing people often shoot from the hip with such gems as ‘if you like them’ ‘they’re very in’ OR my personal favourite – through gritted teeth – ‘they’re very you’. I take great issue with the phrase, ‘they’re very you’ ‘it’s very you’ ‘you’re so you, Mim.’ Fuck off. Of course I’m me you idiot (is the willed, but silent response; out loud) Oh really? Yeah, it's cool indeed. Thus being me is tantamount to being really rather cool. But thoroughly, knife twistingly honest, as I’m pretty sure ‘they're very you’ actually means ‘they revolt me as do you’.
It’s personal: The most tangible kinds of honesty are the worst, staving off mental break downs, guarding friendships, supporting decision making. Honesty and instinct is often the most sensible and genuine way to go but it’s not always so easy. ‘No I completely think you’ve done the right thing,’ is a great opener, but only if it definitely isn’t going to end with ‘but you’re still crying loads and let’s be honest, this is all over a cheese and tuna melt from upper crust.’
New acquaintances and exit greetings: ‘It was lovely to meet you, you cantankerous old racist you, lovely, just lovely.’ Best not to be too candid.
Weddings: Ah ha, always a dangerous one as there’s all that free wine; honesty and fantasy come together so well after a nice bottle or two of Rioja. ‘You really got married? Well, it’s not for me, but congrats all the same,’ followed with the final, assertive, ‘and I mean that, I think you’re very brave.’
Interviews: 'Describe myself in three words? Wee. Bit. Drunk.'
All in all there are six million, four hundred and thirteen different awkward social traditions and situations in which there’s an honesty conundrum*. And if like me, you find it hard to keep your larynx from indulging in a spot of hilarious honesty tourettes, you can always worry about it for at least 3 days after, (with celebrities it can be months,) in turn killing some possible outburst time with hardcore brow furrowing and a general sense of guilt and regret.
*I’m off to start work on my first coffee table book, with illustrations. Look out for it November 2011 ‘Honesty Conundrums: Six Million, Four Hundred and Thirteen Different Awkward Social Traditions and Situations.’ Fully Abridged.
The compliment request: If someone is fishing for a compliment is it best to give them what they want? It’s tricky as these requests come from many different places – from ‘I totally am amazing’ through to ‘I’m paranoid about everything and I feel rubbish and I think I look rubbish and oh lord is the world about to end and please please grant me this one nice thing or the world will end’ – the latter may just need some vodka by means of response – but it's also the perfect place to chuck in some curve ball honesty, something straight forward like ‘you’re wonderful’.
When responding to compliment fishing people often shoot from the hip with such gems as ‘if you like them’ ‘they’re very in’ OR my personal favourite – through gritted teeth – ‘they’re very you’. I take great issue with the phrase, ‘they’re very you’ ‘it’s very you’ ‘you’re so you, Mim.’ Fuck off. Of course I’m me you idiot (is the willed, but silent response; out loud) Oh really? Yeah, it's cool indeed. Thus being me is tantamount to being really rather cool. But thoroughly, knife twistingly honest, as I’m pretty sure ‘they're very you’ actually means ‘they revolt me as do you’.
It’s personal: The most tangible kinds of honesty are the worst, staving off mental break downs, guarding friendships, supporting decision making. Honesty and instinct is often the most sensible and genuine way to go but it’s not always so easy. ‘No I completely think you’ve done the right thing,’ is a great opener, but only if it definitely isn’t going to end with ‘but you’re still crying loads and let’s be honest, this is all over a cheese and tuna melt from upper crust.’
New acquaintances and exit greetings: ‘It was lovely to meet you, you cantankerous old racist you, lovely, just lovely.’ Best not to be too candid.
Weddings: Ah ha, always a dangerous one as there’s all that free wine; honesty and fantasy come together so well after a nice bottle or two of Rioja. ‘You really got married? Well, it’s not for me, but congrats all the same,’ followed with the final, assertive, ‘and I mean that, I think you’re very brave.’
Interviews: 'Describe myself in three words? Wee. Bit. Drunk.'
All in all there are six million, four hundred and thirteen different awkward social traditions and situations in which there’s an honesty conundrum*. And if like me, you find it hard to keep your larynx from indulging in a spot of hilarious honesty tourettes, you can always worry about it for at least 3 days after, (with celebrities it can be months,) in turn killing some possible outburst time with hardcore brow furrowing and a general sense of guilt and regret.
*I’m off to start work on my first coffee table book, with illustrations. Look out for it November 2011 ‘Honesty Conundrums: Six Million, Four Hundred and Thirteen Different Awkward Social Traditions and Situations.’ Fully Abridged.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Radio 4
I have just transferred butter from a paper packet into a butter dish. Usually there is only real butter (still in the packet) anywhere near my person if it is linked so some extraordinary scenario. Like an afternoon tea party, at night. And six million scones. The inflection of this blog may even be off kilter as I am currently listening to Radio 4. It’s so calm and well pronounced. There’s a woman talking about cats. Last night I had a bath (first of 2010) and listened to Just a Minute, watched some of a god awful documentary about Aphrodite in which the presenter (I never want to know his name) pronounced Aphrodite incorrectly the whole way through and got far, far, far too excited at the idea that she was created by an explosion of sperm in the Cypriot sea.
I think the defining factor of my situation is that I come here, to my parents house – like a disposed writer in Tamara Drew or a useless, lonely work colleague in Another Year – to relax and ponder. But relaxing and pondering - without wifi – is dull. And may I just point out that neither of my parents are Tamsin Greig or Jim Broadbent (above films’ best bits respectively,) as much as I love them. It’s not that it’s dull, I managed to get worked up about George Osborne and Strictly last night to the point where my head and hands combined forces and I pronounced “I’m not a habitually violent person – well, since my last temper tantrum in 2001 – but I would really like to” (mum completed sentence) “wipe the smug look from his face” in reference to Osborne and the self-satisfied idiosyncrasy that he wallows in – unawares. Isn’t it worse that he really doesn’t realise how smug he looks? And that other people can see how convinced at his own abilities he is. You know he gets in every night and proffers a glass of Bristol Cream at the family portrait and announces ‘I done well, Mummay’.
When I stay with my parents I’m not sure what they really think; I think they think ‘I done well’ but there’s always a but. And I’m not quite sure where the Bristol Cream is kept. But then again, relaxing and pondering aside I’d much rather come home and be poked and prodded, hummed and hawed at but be able to have a natter about shiz openly, (yes and defend Strictly), than have parents that gave me enough false confidence to convince me I’m good enough to chuck together a budget for the UK in the midst of its meanest economic crisis for donkeys with little more than an abacus’ worth of number skills.
I think the defining factor of my situation is that I come here, to my parents house – like a disposed writer in Tamara Drew or a useless, lonely work colleague in Another Year – to relax and ponder. But relaxing and pondering - without wifi – is dull. And may I just point out that neither of my parents are Tamsin Greig or Jim Broadbent (above films’ best bits respectively,) as much as I love them. It’s not that it’s dull, I managed to get worked up about George Osborne and Strictly last night to the point where my head and hands combined forces and I pronounced “I’m not a habitually violent person – well, since my last temper tantrum in 2001 – but I would really like to” (mum completed sentence) “wipe the smug look from his face” in reference to Osborne and the self-satisfied idiosyncrasy that he wallows in – unawares. Isn’t it worse that he really doesn’t realise how smug he looks? And that other people can see how convinced at his own abilities he is. You know he gets in every night and proffers a glass of Bristol Cream at the family portrait and announces ‘I done well, Mummay’.
When I stay with my parents I’m not sure what they really think; I think they think ‘I done well’ but there’s always a but. And I’m not quite sure where the Bristol Cream is kept. But then again, relaxing and pondering aside I’d much rather come home and be poked and prodded, hummed and hawed at but be able to have a natter about shiz openly, (yes and defend Strictly), than have parents that gave me enough false confidence to convince me I’m good enough to chuck together a budget for the UK in the midst of its meanest economic crisis for donkeys with little more than an abacus’ worth of number skills.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
100% Pure Pop
This was going to be about how frustrating I’m finding POP at the moment. Katy Perry and her Fire-not-at-all-a-metaphor-for-shiz-with-the-lothario-husband-Work, Cheryl and her I’m-not-talking-about-my-private-life album all about broken trust and relationship failure. The Saturdays. It’s exhausting. Don’t even get me started on Will.I.AINT. Just doing research is rather draining. All the bright noises and loud colours, music TV is terrifying. Willow Smith is whipping her hair back and forth and I’m wondering if she’s even old enough to go out and purchase a cone from an ice cream van on her own?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
About The Boy
It’s been a fairly bonkers few months. I’ve found it’s always best to define things by happenings in the real world – rather than one’s own self indulgent musings. I could natter about anything all the way from the odd indignity of One Dimension’s charges flashing their boxers on national tele through to the coalition’s pathetic disinterest in doing anything useful. But, much more wonderful are some of the films I’ve been watching. Yes, I’m just going to go for some of my own self indulgent musings.
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
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