Regularly added bite-sized reviews about Literature, Art, Music & Film.
Voltaire said the secret of being boring is to say everything.
We do not wish to say everything or see everything; life, though long is too short for that.
We hope you take these little syntheses in the spirit of shared enthusiasm.
Poor Ridley doesn’t know what kind of director he is – sci-fi (Alien, Blade Runner), historicist (Gladiator, Robin Hood) or God-Love-America (Thelma and Louise, Black Hawk Down)? He’s as confused as we are by his house-of-fashion-meets-financial-shenanigans offering, The House of Gucci. Gold-digger Patrizia Reggiani (Lady Gaga) meets Maurizio Gucci (Adam Driver) at a Milan party. She wants him, at least the Gucci part. He’s not interested, indeed he doesn’t seem to be interested in anything at all throughout the two and a half hour story, but Patrizia won’t leave him alone. She throws all of Gaga’s famous 5 foot 2 inches at him and he marries her in a lethargic sort of way, despite the disapproval of his father Rodolfo. Rodolfo seems to have been shoehorned into the script so that we can see Jeremy Irons do his louche, disaffected rich man bit (See Reversal of Fortune). Maurizio is exiled from the firm and works at his father-in-law’s trucking firm, but still manages to drive an expensively lace-clad Patrizia around in luxurious cars of the red sort. Maurizio’s uncle Aldo (Al Pacino – bring on some scenery, there’s chewing to do!) owns the business jointly with Rodolfo and likes the young couple. He gives them a couple of Concorde tickets for a wedding present before sneaking Maurizio back into the business. From then on it’s lots of financial shenanigans as everyone denounces everyone else for tax fraud, there’s a takeover, and eventually someone gets shot.
Scott might defend the lack of much-at-all about fashion in his film by saying that it is about financial shenanigans, denunciations, a takeover and a shooting, but it is called The House of Gucci and that does entitle the viewer to expect to see quite a bit of, oh I don’t know, Gucci? (Despite Gucci’s general ugliness: see main picture). We are told very little about the Gucci line, its origins, its reach. We’re supposed to know, it seems. Whereas we can be sure that if the film were The House of Ferrari, we’d know lots about cars by the end of it. It is reported that the film-maker had trouble sourcing original Gucci outfits from that period and it shows. Patrizia’s featured black and pink dress is in fact YSL. Tom Ford is a throwaway headline [The real Ford said of the film, “I’m still not quite sure what it is exactly.”]. There is one mingy atelier scene. There is one mingy Gucci shop scene. In the one mingy Gucci shop scene, we are asked to believe that Mrs. Maurizio Gucci would need to be told that she can have anything she wants as a special gift?
Lady Gaga has been praised for her performance and indeed, it is difficult to look at anyone else when she is on screen. Reminiscent of Marisa Tomei in her My Cousin Vinny days, the Lady’s performance is not subtle, but then again, the viewer gets the strong feeling that neither was Patrizia’s. Her evolving – and devolving – wardrobe shows that, indeed, clothes maketh the woman.
Like its director, the film just isn’t sure what it is. It looks nice, the Gucci homes are spectacular, either long and low and grey, tall and pink and frilly or Villa Balbiano on Lake Como (above, ’nuff said). But it wanders off from the internecine ruckus of a high-money family feud into confused and slightly silly takeover machinations. Good people throw up their hands and evil Arabs, including a very scary and formidable Nemir Kirdar (Youssef Kerkour) ruin everything. Maurizio still doesn’t care. He suddenly ditches Patrizia for a stick insect aristocrat. Aldo’s buffoonish son Paolo (Jared Leto) cares, but we are not sure about what, given that he has been dressed by a demented clown with a thing for neon corduroy, given a poor script and acting lessons by Mickey Mouse. Rodolfo is jogged out of his ennui long enough to tell Paolo (in a very pale and aesthetic way) that he is a design moron because he put pastels with brown; whereas Rodolfo the genius put tulips on a scarf. So Paolo pisses on the scarf. It’s like that.
Despite its many flaws, the House of Gucci is watchable, but wait for Netflix and try not to ask why Italian natives, supposedly speaking Italian, are doing so with bad and intermittent Italian accents.
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(Written and directed by Mike White) (HBO 2021)
“Eating the lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
… To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap’d over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass.” (Tennyson, Song of the Lotos-Eaters)
We don’t know if Alfred’s weird poem informed the consciousness of Mike White’s weird satire but we like to think so. This 6 part series, a sort of ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ meets ‘Fantasy Island,’ filmed at a swish resort in Hawaii, confirms that it’s not where you go but how you go that matters in life. Here we have an ensemble of well-to-do ne’r-do-wells descending on ‘The White Lotus’ for a week of sun, surf, fun and romance – guaranteed. Guaranteed by a staff that sets its bar high but doesn’t quite clear it – we’re not talking about Stevens in Remains of the Day, after all, but remains do feature – prominently.
There’s lashings of sex but very little romance. Newlyweds Shane and Rachel frolic but don’t really connect – since he’s an overprivileged and self-entitled mummy’s boor and she clings to her vocation as a struggling journalist even though she writes puff pieces and not very well at that. The Mossbacher family are diverging into their own private worlds, Mum as the default alpha patriarch, over-analyzing Dad bonding with son Quinn, both with arrested development; meantime spoilt daughter Olivia and her tag-along girlfriend Paula scoff at the world from behind their phones and their books on Nietzsche and Freud, managing to be woke and privileged simultaneously. There’s heaps of sun but not a lot of fun. Tanya is a bundle of haute psychosis symptoms who self-medicates and attaches herself to spa manager Belinda, in an opportunistic and parasitic fashion that damages and belittles them both. The various personas are beautifully done, and hence you never want to kill off anyone (okay, maybe Shane).
Bringing us to Shane’s bête noire, the undoubted star of the show, Armond. A manager whose every interaction with guests is a performance, Armond can barely manage himself, and once he falls off the wagon and into a pit of drugs and debauchery, not at all. Murray Bartlett gives us a complete embodiment of what Solzhenitsyn had in mind when he said, in The Gulag Archipelago, that “the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” Twenty years in the States seems to have altered Bartlett’s accent somewhat – he seems more Kiwi than Aussie as Armond – but it doesn’t matter. He is well nigh perfect as he descends à la Dante, in manner both comic and tragic. And unrepentant over his carnality, wrath and sullenness, as in The Inferno, he recalls the happy hour of his lost bliss in pain. A second series has been announced but unless they can work Armond into it, we don’t see how it can succeed.Continue Reading →
How Coronavirus Hysteria Took Over Our Government, Rights, and Lives (by Alex Berenson) (2021)
This splendid book is both a comprehensive review of how the world got everything wrong about Covid-19 (or, if you have a conspiratorial bent, how the plague was weaponized by authoritarian forces to cow and terrify us into submission), and a story of how one man kept yelling from the back of the truck that this emperor had a spiked crown but no clothes. Or in his words, “how media hysteria, political partisanship, overreliance on unproven technology, and scientific illiteracy brought the United States and the world to the brink of breakdown.”
The author is a former staff writer for the New York Times, a fact that we think, somehow, the Times wants to forget, who became (by his own admission) obsessed by the virus and the noise circling its spiky little wreath. As will become clear, the monopolies that control our information have no time for him – here’s an extract of his Wikipedia entry: “During the coronavirus pandemic, Berenson appeared frequently in American right-wing media, spreading false claims about COVID-19 and its vaccines. He spent much of the pandemic arguing that its seriousness was overblown; once COVID-19 vaccines were rolled out, he made false claims about the safety and effectiveness of vaccines.”
As will also become clear, his false claims tended to be outrageously true.
We will summarize the various points he makes, but our earnest and urgent exhortation is: read this book.
Of the virus itself, Berenson points out that:
Of the reportage, the author notes:
On the response by the various authorities:
Big Tech & Big Pharma:
Put your head over the crenellated parapet of Covid and you’re going to take hits. The NY Times, Berenson’s former paper, disowned him; some family and many friends & colleagues shied away; he was subject to death threats and vitriol on social media (including Twitter, natch, from which he was ejected); the legacy media vilified him for giving interviews to the fascist media (i.e. Fox), the only TV station to show interest; and he became catnip for hit-pieces such as in The Atlantic, which called him, in an 1 April 2021 article, “The Pandemic’s Wrongest [sic] Man” (their cover photo below).
Berenson concludes with a cris de cœur for truth, free debate, and calm. He cites Donald Henderson, a man who helped to eradicate smallpox, one of the few viruses we have seen off:
“Experience has shown that communities faced with epidemics or other adverse events respond best and with the least anxiety when the normal social functioning of the community is least disrupted.” We add an earlier cited quote from the book, by a famous disrupter: “Don’t be afraid of Covid. Don’t let it dominate your life.”
And The Varnished Culture will add that life henceforth must be better than that summed-up by Albert Camus in The Plague: “Thus, in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of aimless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress.”Continue Reading →
(Directed by Adam McKay) (2021, Netflix)
It’s a mongoloid meld of Melancholia with some David Attenborough tableaux and the arrayed stupidity of Burn After Reading. Kate Dibiasky (Jennifer Lawrence) discovers a comet. Her enthusiasm, and that of her colleague, Dr. Randall Mindy (Leonardo Di Caprio), wane when they figure out it will collide with the Earth in about six months. These boffins are babes in the wood, and when a NASA man (Rob Morgan) arranges for them to brief the White House, their deep concerns are brushed off by a distracted and chaotic administration. So the scientists do the next worst thing: they go on ‘Morning Joe’ – sorry, it’s called “The Daily Rip” – they get an even more blithe reception from the hosts (Cate Blanchett and Tyler Perry), the type guests get on ‘Morning Joe’ – sorry, ‘The Daily Rip’; namely condescension and incomprehension. But President Orlean (Meryl Streep) and her idiot son/Chief of Staff (Jonah Hill) have a Wag-the-Dog moment, and decide to take decisive action to destroy or divert the comet, and the attention of the nation.
However, the President aborts the strike mid launch when she is persuaded to instead fragment the comet and mine its tonnes of rare minerals. The man now in charge is Sir Peter Isherwell (Mark Rylance), a beatifically smiling sociopath. The nation predictably divides into comet believers and comet deniers (with the President leading rallies chanting ‘Don’t Look Up’), but for the eventual victors, there are no spoils, when the comet falls and Sir Peter’s strategy falls apart. Dibiasky and Mindy cosy-up with their significant others and sit down to their last supper, with a singular lack of laughs. The global village burns and the only survivors set off on Isherwell’s spacecraft, to get a nasty surprise 22,740 years later. The amusing coda is enough to keep you watching to the end, but barely.
What a pity! A nice idea, a great cast, some real patches of humour, are all downed by an annoying, clumsy, contrived and simply ridiculous script, that swings wildly from farce to tragedy, sometimes seemingly unintentionally. The Director wants us, of course, to see the whole melange as a trope for Donald Trump and indifference to Climate Change, but for satire you need a scalpel and sugar tongs, not a sledgehammer and axe. Imagine if they’d persuaded Streep to do a turn as President Kamala Harris! (Now, that would be funny). She still manages to get some lame laughs but for our money, we found Jonah Hill (impersonating Jared Kushner we believe) much funnier – his clashes with Lawrence are a treat. Di Caprio is good as the smart but politically ineffectual professor, but his performance sinks under the weight of a film that insists on lecturing us whilst not making us laugh. We liked the hopeless but opportunistic military man (Paul Guilfoyle) who charges the visiting scientists for the (free) snacks they get while waiting for hours for the President. We loved Rylance’s turn as a weird and spaced-out amalgam of all weird tech billionaires. The vacuous TV show hosts are nicely played, with that ‘Morning Joe’ tendency to refer to their guest (sitting next to them) in the third person, as if they are not there. But in the final analysis, there’s not enough wit on display here, and too much trumpeting about that basket of deplorables.
In 2018, reviewing Vice, we predicted that the director would announce his next opus as a tirade against the Trump administration, entitled Evil Nazis’ Bad Hair Day. We were wrong. But not by much. Don’t Look Up contains all of director McKay’s strengths and weaknesses: there is some nice humour from the man who made Anchorman and Talladega Nights, but when he tries political satire, he’s a lead balloon. Worse, he is way out of his depth, a Great Valley High School, Pennsylvania university drop-out with a film script and a democratic socialist weltanschauung. McKay believes in catastrophic climate change, and is on the record as regarding skeptics as sub-human, or at least sub-mental. Look at his tweet responding to criticism of Don’t Look Up: “Loving all the heated debate about our movie. But if you don’t have at least a small ember of anxiety about the climate collapsing (or the US teetering) I’m not sure Don’t Look Up makes any sense. It’s like a robot viewing a love story. “WHy ArE thEir FacEs so cLoSe ToGether?””
Fair enough we suppose. But Adam, respectfully, before your next film, perhaps you might read Unsettled and The Righteous Mind, and spend the evening re-visiting – or discovering – the films of Frank Capra?Continue Reading →
Chaps and More Chaps, and a Little Anthrax on the Side
How Jane Campion’s Dude Ranch Film Slides Away into the Montana Night
By Janelle McCulloch
“The Power of the Dog” directed by Jane Campion (2021)
What can be said about The Power of the Dog? It’s a strange way to begin a film review of this Western drama, but I am well and truly mute. And much of this now-widely-talked-about film is, too. It’s a beautifully shot piece, low on dialogue but big on wide Montana skies (which are actually wide New Zealand skies), and there are some very impressive pecs in between the suggestive scenes of rolling hills at dusk. But take away the twilights and the semi-naked ranch hands in shiny leather and the script seems short of a page or two, as though some revengeful gofer on set had ripped out a few crucial scenes and thrown them to the wind.
I know this sounds a tad mean, and I’m not usually so tightly wound about Jane Campion’s film, but bear with me. I’m still confused. The great Jane Campion’s her first feature for more than a decade, Dog is a Western drama, but not as you know them. There’s less yee-ha and more oh-no-no-no. There are lots of themes — inner and outer landscapes; clothes that don’t fit properly; why drinking too much is sometimes a good thing… (I probably needed a drink during the movie, and I don’t even drink). But the overarching lesson is not to take your pants off in a dude ranch. Actually, that’s a bit harsh. There’s no sex to speak off, unless you count an awkward wedding night, but there is the suggestion of what happens when there are too many men squeezed together in a rough Montana valley and not enough women to say: “Perhaps you need to have a wash?”
Rose (Kirsten Dunst) is a down-on-her-luck restauranteur who meets and marries roly-poly, pasty-faced George (Jesse Plemmons from Breaking Bad, the most un-rancher-looking rancher you’ve ever seen) and moves her shy son Peter (Australian actor Kodi Smit-McPhee) and their small belongings into the grand life of her rich new husband and his brutish, menacing rancher brother Phil (Benedict Cumberbatch), who stomps around in spurs and leather chaps that are bigger than the Grand Teton. Their ranch is, quite frankly, the most f*cked up place I’ve ever seen. I’m saying that because I feel compelled to warn you. This film is not a romance. There are shades of Deliverance, of Brokeback Mountain, and of Dude Monthly magazine (the porn version), so if you’re uncomfortable with any of that, go and watch some Christmas Carols. That said, the lead, Benedict Cumberbatch is being spoken about in Oscar terms. Yes, really.
Rose’s husband George (the pasty-faced one), is kind but rarely around (and certainly rarely seen on a horse!), so she’s left to deal with his intense brother Phil (the one with the chaps). On a side note, can we talk about these names? This is Montana 1925; were there men called ‘Phil’ cracking whips on the Great Plains? I could be wrong. Anyway, back to Rose. She’s not feeling Phil’s whip so she begins drinking while chubby-faced hubby is out of town. Her gangly, awkward son Peter, whose pants keep falling down, returns from college and because his pants are falling down Leather Phil takes him under his chaps and shows him the ways of the land. Cue banjo-ing. Sorry, that’s cynical. Cue the whistling. And the eye-balling. And the horse buttocks as they head off into the sunset on yet another “ride”. (Sorry, cynicism again. But there ARE a lot of visual metaphors. Just sayin’.)
The landscape is beautiful and grand but also suffocating in many ways. There are no Zara or Zimmerman stores here, no bookshops, no IGA Liquor places to pick up a quick rosé. Just chaps, wearing chaps. And lots of them. Now I like Benedict Cumberbatch, although he does pick some curious roles, and this one doesn’t quite show his range, although it does show his new pecs, which he seems to rub a lot? (He’s obviously proud of them.) The New Yorker called it ‘Gothic horror”, but I don’t see Gothic; I see darkness of character and a lot of grey clouds, but it doesn’t have the elements of a Southern (or in this case Northern) Gothic? It’s poetic in parts, but strained in others, and quite frankly some things don’t make sense. Phil (there’s that name again) supposedly has a Yale degree in Classics, but I’m not seeing that education in his manner or his language, which barely covers “Yup” and “Come here, son”. The shift from foes to friends between Phil and Peter also happens so suddenly that it doesn’t feel real; a rancher would not change tack like that in real life. Their movements are slower, more measured; behaviour that is learned from being around animals all day. And the leather-plait-weaving thing is confusing too. Is that a metaphor for something? Or just a pretty rope? I don’t know. But it goes on far too long. By the end of the film, that braided rope could go around Montana. (I thought it might have been used for deadlier purposes, but no: Peter has something darker in mind.)
It’s a long, slow build-up of tension, so you KNOW “something terrible is gonna happen”, as they say in dodgy Westerns, but when it does come it’s so quick that if you are looking away, say, to text your sister-in-law to say what a strange and turgid movie this is and could she please explain why people from Adelaide do such strange and turgid movie roles, the action has suddenly happened and the final credits are rolling. The twist in the end comes so fast you’d better be watching and not scrolling through Instagram. Or you’re gonna have to watch it again to understand it. And quite frankly, I’d rather poke my eye out with a spur.
Basically, it’s a revenge film. Dressed in a lot of leather. A story of a bloke who comes undone by his friendship with a younger fellow; a fellow who doesn’t like leather, doesn’t like chaps, doesn’t like spurs, doesn’t like cowboy boots and probably doesn’t like having tobacco being spat at him. And I don’t blame him. A fellow who likes his white running shoes and high-top jeans and book-reading ways. In fact, the lesson of the story could be: Never dismiss a book-reading nerd.
I give it one star. I want to give it two, I really do. But Leather Phil just doesn’t do it for me. After these crazy, stressful two years, I just want some love. Bring on the Christmas Carols.[Dear Janelle, thanks so much for this incisive review – and for seeing this so we don’t have to. It sounds like an addle-brained homage to the ‘art’ of George Quaintance. – Ed.]
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By Greg Lukianoff & Jonathan Haidt (2018)
The Guardian hated this book, so it must be good, right? Not necessarily. it is a bit like Mr. Haidt’s The Righteous Mind – an excellent book – transferred onto campus, where, the authors argue, i-Gen or Gen Z students are being programmed by social media and their professors into fragile, hysterical, blind little snowflakes. This resolves into the ludicrous examples seen in recent years of safe spaces (current example: Arizona State socialist students seeking to bar Kyle Rittenhouse from attending an online course!), cancel-culture and witch-hunts, all vivified by helicopter parents, university bureaucrats, anti-depressants and psychiatric diagnostic blundering, sedentary lifestyles, justice as a narcissistic impulse, and Donald Trump.
This discussion is enlivened by colourful anecdotal and recorded evidence, but leavened by logical (as opposed to actual) and optimistic (not realistic) argument, that ultimately sees one clutching for some tome on cognitive behavioural therapy. For the remedy, it seems, lies in some heroic (albeit largely benign) strategies to wise-up kids (harden them up, give ’em CBT, see the other point of view, be better parents, and so on. Don’t make them a candle sheltered from the winds, but a fire rejoicing in the buffeting). And if they survive to post-graduate age, have the universities get some lively debates going. In recent years, however, we have seen the impact of one of Hitler’s misdemeanours (not to be confused with his many crimes): he unleashed Herbert Marcuse onto American campuses, thereby ensuring the closing of debate, the hijacking of truth and the demonising of the Rational.
The book reads well, and for many pages, is wise, but our ultimate impression is that the authors’ faith in their mission is misplaced. The situation is not serious, but hopeless. In fact, it is spent. Yes, we know Macauley said this in 1830:
We cannot absolutely prove that those are in error who tell us that society has reached a turning point, that we have seen our best days. But so said all who came before us, and with just as much apparent reason. ‘A million a year will beggar us,’ said the patriots of 1640. ‘Two millions a year will grind the country to powder,’ was the cry in 1660. ‘Six millions a year, and a debt of fifty millions!’ exclaimed Swift; ‘the high allies have been the ruin of us.’ ‘A hundred and forty millions of debt!’ said Junius; ‘well may we say that we owe Lord Chatham more than we shall ever pay, if we owe him such a load as this.’ ‘Two hundred and forty millions of debt!’ cried all the statesmen of 1783 in chorus; ‘what abilities, or what economy on the part of a minister, can save a country so burdened?’ We know that if, since 1783, no fresh debt had been incurred, the increased resources of the country would have enabled us to defray that debt at which Pitt, Fox, and Burke stood aghast, nay, to defray it over and over again, and that with much lighter taxation than what we have actually borne. On what principle is it that, when we see nothing but improvement behind us, we are to expect nothing but deterioration before us?
The authors quote a portion of that statement, which grounds their essential optimism in the future. And we do suppose that humankind is fundamentally resilient, that the current social media is but a medium, and will pass (e.g. from ‘Facebook‘ to ‘Death’, as ‘Meta’ is in Hebrew). Nevertheless, if one considers anew the complete quote of Macauley, which concentrates on economy and the public debt, one can say there has been improvement in many things from 1830 to the present, yet there has also been a significant deterioration (and not only in public debt). A free, and just, society is a garden: neglect it and it returns to jungle. The Age of Enlightenment was a newly revised emanation of the sunnier aspects of classical antiquity, but it is passing. The Decline of Western Civilisation is giving way to a new dark age, where medieval thinking (the Irrational, the Religious Fervour, the Triumph of Ill Will, the Witch Hunt, the Rise of Tribalism, the digital bijou holocausts) is taking root and the free-thinking intelligences (‘Carpe Datum’!) such as the authors, ‘slowly wend on their designated tumbrils, all wending slowly on into Eternity.’Continue Reading →
A film about Anthony Bourdain
(Directed by Morgan Neville) (2021)
Famously rockstar-level restaurateur, best-selling author (Kitchen Confidential), martial arts expert and prolific television host, the subject of Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain was no doubt a wildly successful man. As we have come to expect from biographical documentaries, this level of achievement means that he must also have been deeply unhappy. And often unkind. One of his friends is reduced to tears recalling Bourdain telling him, “You’ll never be a good dad”. Bourdain’s two marriages, to a childhood sweetheart and a restaurant executive, failed, in part because he was away from home for the greater part of the year and in part because he simply couldn’t be ‘normal’, which he claimed to want to be.
(By Tucker Carlson) (2021)
An anthology of magazine pieces by Carlson, author of the fairly recent Ship of Fools, serves not so much as exhibits for an argument against the decline of journalism; rather, as the author points out in an introduction, they are historical markers from times when political differences were perhaps more nuanced, less toxic and bellicose than our present discontent. Or, to put it another way, it is “a collection of nostalgic writings that underscore America’s long slide from innocence to orthodoxy.” (We’re not so sure about innocence, but still).
From abortion issues to cancel culture, from the hubris of Washington activist lawyer John Banzhaf and short grabs about James Carville, Ron Paul, John McCain, George W. Bush and lesser mortals such as Mike Forbes and Bob Smith, to trips to Liberia with Al Sharpton or to Iraq with U.S. contractors, Carlson is always witty, folksy and very often on target. His piece on Trump in January 2016 correctly identified his electoral appeal, and came to the heterodox conclusion that he could win (something this column also concluded a few months later).
Off politics, he also has some reflections on the amusingly perverse (Hall of Lame, telemarketers, the aesthetic of British Colonialism), the quirky (The Self-Revealers, Potato-cannons (and other dangerous toys), the maître d’ of “The Palm” in D.C., the elusive ‘Derek Richardson, working a summer job at a baked bean factory), or the moving things in life (the sad decline of Hunter S. Thompson, One Man’s Treasure). Whilst there are no deep insights here (it is magazine journalism after all), the collection is easy to read and a good general snapshot of thirty years in society, well worth a look.
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Dave Chapelle’s last (?) Netflix Special, 2021
Chapelle is almost always controversial, and worth watching (except for his Block Party Special, which was an ocean-liner-sized yawn) but in his valedictory show for Netflix, he seems to be intent – or resigned – to cancel himself. He has been criticized for being ‘transphobic,’ and has obviously spent a good deal of time reflecting on (and deflecting) this. It has affected his naughty boy comedy: the naughty boy is still there, twinkling at us through his not-so-innocent eyes, but the deconstruction of his often sensible stance is slightly chilling, and the effort to build a bridge to the LGBTQ+etc ‘Community’ is surely doomed, hence wasting what could have been a better time for all. We liked his serious ‘closer,’ his account of the troubled trans amateur comedian, Daphne Dorman, but even that smacked of special pleading. Just do your stuff, Dave, and let the people decide whether to be entertained, informed, offended, or all of the above. Keeping it real can’t go wrong all of the time.Continue Reading →
Remake series 1 – 3 (Foxtel)
It is not Covid-19, but FLU-68 that is destroying Australian television. Fervid Ludicrous Upscaling first infected Australian drama series writers (and directors) in 1968, causing them to throw Charlie Cousens off a silo in the eponymous town of Bellbird (ABC 1967-1977). Each generation of writers catches it from the last and is less able to resist its degenerative depredations, no matter how many doses of Edge of Darkness (BBC 1985) or Better Call Saul (Sony etc., 2015-2019) vaccine they have had. Perhaps there’s been a switch a la The Young Doctors (1976-1983) and the syringes are filled with Erinsborough tap water.
Australian tv drama scripts invariably start out enthusiastically with fresh ideas (fresh at least to Antipodean scripts) – five friends buy a big share house, foster parents set up in a caravan park, twins separated at birth fall in love. The writing is never brilliant, but in the early episodes it is considered and serious. After a short time, however (and there must be an equation for this), the characters morph into labile escapees from The Bold & The Beautiful, the scenes deliquesce into lazy melodrama and the plot becomes predictable and convoluted.
The writers of Wentworth resist FLU-68 until the end of series 3. Then, like Toadie driving off a cliff, the nuanced stories of inmates’ and officers’ crime and punishment plunge into the slough of mad staring, tired cliffhangers, child-napping and arson. Whether the following 6 series are worth watching depends on whether the writers can be purged of the FLU. History and Chances (1991) suggest that they cannot.
Wentworth is of course a new Prisoner (Network Ten, 1979-1986); a womens prison story, set earlier than the original series (in events, if not chronological time). Some character names and biographical details are retained, but the characters themselves are different. Wentworth’s Lizzie Birdsworth (Celia Ireland) is not a younger version of the wizened, cackling Lizzie Birdsworth (Sheila Mary Florence) we all know. Vera ‘Vinegar Tits’ Bennett (Kate Atkinson) is not Fiona Spence’s Vinegar Tits (although we learn where the name rather imaginatively originated). The Prisoner theme song On the Inside is used cleverly at the end of the first episode to remind us where it all began, and then mercifully dropped.
The plots are, even from the beginning, to be taken with a bucket of salt. Women who have their hands neatly ironed in the famous steam-press (an over-used trope this time around) suffer nothing worse long term than a little light scarring. Characters recuperate from multiple kicks to the stomach and teeth-shattering punches with an afternoon lie-down. The governor takes a personal interest in prisoners’ personal lives. Male prisoners work with the women in a prison garden. The governor puts out a prisoner’s eye with a pencil.
Performances are uneven. Pamela Rabe is magnificent as the handsome, steely and clearly insane governor Joan ‘The Freak’ Ferguson. Sally-Anne Upton plays the predatory Lucy ‘Juice’ Gambaro with verve. The aforementioned Celia Ireland is real and solid as the empathetic Lizzie Birdsworth. Kathryn Beck is a standout as the all-too-briefly-seen swivel-eyed junkie Skye Pierson. Old-style Kris McQuade‘s villainous Jacqueline ‘Jacs’ Holt is also gone all too soon. Nicole da Silva captivates as the sexy, grinning, hardened Franky Doyle (although we wish she had been allowed to be tougher yet). Katrina Milosevic shines in the comic role of Sue Jenkins (known as ‘Boomer’ because she always comes back). Unfortunately some main characters are miscast. Danielle Cormack, although engaging, cannot sink to the nasty depths required of top dog Bea Smith. Shareena Clanton portrays indigenous, soft-hearted Doreen as the rolling-eyed idiot in a school play. There are corresponding examples of clever (or lucky) casting. The fingernails-down-a-blackboard qualities with which Tammy MacIntosh and Libby Tanner are blessed come in handy in their roles as an annoying activist and an irritating psychologist.
The few male actors (Aaron Jeffery, Robbie Magasava, Martin Sacks) are clearly chosen for their charms, which makes a nice change (even if they fall short of the mark in TVC’s opinion).
We hope that the writers of series Wentworth 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 are not yet too far gone with FLU-68 because Wentworth is an addictive entertainment, up to the shark-jump in late series 3. It may yet be rehabilitated. We fear, however, that FLU-68 is as inescapable as a maximum security life-sentence without parole.
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