Archive | May, 2010

Animal Kingdom: a rare beast

26 May animal-kingdom-poster

Last night a movie changed my life.
I saw Animal Kingdom at the Sydney premiere (thanks to Time Out Sydney) and I can’t recommend it enough. Go see it! Now! Don’t even read my review…Read my review, then go.

Watching the film felt almost like a physical ordeal, such is the intensity it maintains. It’s a lean, spare, hungry movie that demands and rewards your attention.

From start to finish, there’s a dramatic tension that keeps you engaged, at times appalled, always on the edge of your seat; by the time the credits rolled, there were crescent moons in the palms of my hands.

It’s a rare thing to see a film with such a clear sense of itself, so at home in its milieu. Just as the central character J is entirely the product of his upbringing, this film is completely at ease in its setting. I had fears that an Australian crime thriller would make the overblown mistakes I’ve seen from others in the genre, but there’s a sparseness and honesty about the grinding tedium of crime and suburban life which gives the whole piece its sinewy strength.

When Pearce’s character (Leckie) talks to Josh about his belief that everything belongs somewhere, he could be speaking about the film as a whole; it’s impeccably positioned in its time and environment. Not a hair out of place. There isn’t a moment or a line of dialogue that’s excessive, and you have that pleasing sense of a film producer doing an exquisite job of fitting budget to project. David Michôd’s years as an editor on InsideFilm might have helped; complex elements are combined with ease. The script is pared down with a poetic understanding of the use of silence. The sets were finely observed, the actors delivered taut performances, and there was no sense of a budget blow-out on props, epic chase scenes or stars less interested in the script than the dollar.  Frecheville’s performance as Josh is exceptional, understated but raw – begging, for me, comparisons with Brando’s early work portraying “the taciturn but stoic gloom of those pulverized by circumstances”.

What made it riveting was the sheer mundanity; the absolute lack of glamour; from Josh’s mindless viewing of Deal or no Deal in the opening scene to the limp-looking sausage sandwich in the last, assignations with corrupt cops in malls to the tracksuit-wearing lawyer; all were woven into the shabby tapestry of amoral lives lived without remorse. Jacki Weaver (Smurf) brings a matter of factness to evil deeds that’s genuinely chilling, accepting the casual savagery of her boys as her queenly tribute.

For me, the eye of the duck moment is J’s impassive face in his final encounter with Leckie. “I’ve figured out where you fit,” says Leckie, the realisation bringing despair instead of comfort.

In the animal kingdom, even the most enlightened leopard cannot change its spots.

my blog post brings all the boys to the yard: on self-promotion and vanity

22 May vanity

It’s a rainy Sydney Saturday and my beloved has just left the warmth of our bed to trudge off to TEDx. As I expressed dissatisfaction with this turn of events, he said to me “well, if you had done a better job on your entry form we’d be there together.”*

On the scale of one to douchebag, going on a date to TEDx has to rate pretty highly, but that aside, he was absolutely right. This seemed of significance because it struck the same chord as a conversation I’d had the previous day with my chief co-conspirator at work who pointed out that while I may be excellent (I said may be) at promoting goods, services, the work we do, bluntly, I suck at self-promotion.

While it’s clear to me that one must, at various times put one’s best foot forward and sell oneself, I can’t rid myself of a slight squeamishness. I’m frankly rotten at job interviews, first dates, public speaking, appearing on camera.

It’s not that I lack confidence in my talents.
I have an ego the size of the planet.  There’s just something about pimping oneself I find a tad gauche.

Amongst some of my friends, one of the most damning indictments of a person is to say of him, archly, “of course, he’s an excellent self-publicist.”  Layers of sneering elitism are contained within this, of course – centuries of entitlement and privilege. One need not be good at self-promotion because one is who one is. It’s essentially bullshit, and I acknowledge that, but I’m still struggling to get past it.  We live in a world where ‘maintaining a personal brand’ is a real consideration, and those who fall behind get left behind.

So how do you sell yourself gracefully?

The people whose self-selling skills I admire are all bound by a common thread. They  communicate their intense passion and love for what they do in a way that leaves ego at the door; creating a separation that suggests it’s almost incidental that it happens to be “me” that did this – the accomplishment itself transcends the personal. Of course, go too far down this path and you’re in all kinds of Messianic trouble; next thing you know god’s writing your next album and whispering secrets in your ear about who might most enjoy a lovely glass of Kool-Aid…

My family instilled in me the notion that boasting is vulgar, and I’ve largely chosen to hang on to this belief. Even the brashest of my friends retain the saving grace of self-doubt and criticism.  But there are situations where that’s simply not appropriate or relevant; your potential employer or new client doesn’t want to hear of your battles with the Muse; dark moments of soul-deep self-loathing; waking in the night wondering if it’s all worth it: successful navigation of these inner crises is what makes us good at what we do.

Silence those inner demons and your talent would suffer, become smug and lumpen, but amplify that turmoil and you begin to sound nuts.

There’s nothing inherently graceless about holding deep-seated self-belief. It’s not necessarily horribly vain to be proud of one’s achievements, but it’s certainly a hard act to balance.  I think it makes a huge difference what those achievements are – bragging about your recent discovery of a cure for cancer is excusable, gloating about your yacht is not.

What do you think? Where do you draw the line? Does it depend who you’re talking to? Is it ever good form to be triumphant about material wealth? Should your achievements speak for themselves?

postscript: I’m off to Cockatoo Island to see the Biennale with one of my dearest friends and her delightful daughter. Art and puddle jumping, gumboots and good times. And the sun’s coming out! I’m pretty pleased about it. Forgive my showing off.

*It amuses me to make him sound like a sod. He’s actually a complete darling.

There’s no place like home: on being a Sydneysider

12 May

If you know me even a little, you may know I am obsessed with the idea of place and belonging. Home. Is it what we do, rather than where we are? Is it where the heart is, or just a decision to put down some roots? A peripatetic existence can become exhausting.

I’m still waiting for a clever person to come up with a composite word to describe the feeling of homesickness for a place or time that never truly existed. Nostoneiralgos? It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? I never really loved the place I was born, and other places I’ve lived had a temporary, functional sort of feel. There for uni, for work, for doomed romantic interludes; a sense of home has always eluded me. Until now.

I’ve been around a wee bit of the world but Sydney’s the first place that’s fulfilled almost all of my very long and detailed wishlist (breathtakingly beautiful, contains people I love, sunny but not tropically humid, not too polluted, little likelihood of being stabbed in the kidneys, can swim in the sea without risk of hypothermia or
being choked with plastic bags and condoms, can speak the language to a level that allows me to work in my chosen field…) so I obviously planted my flag here, set up camp and proceeded to marry your women, colonial style.I try to be grateful for all of the many fucking cool things and people in my life as a rule, but I am doubtless remiss at times. So when the lovely Nathalie asked me to write a piece for her (regular readers will know this is actually the third fine mess she’s gotten me into) I thought it might be a way to share my gratitude.
I’m lucky to be here. And so are you.

So many moments in Sydney have been so extraordinary it’s a tough call to pick just one. Partying on Shark Island, naked at dawn on the Opera House steps in the Spencer Tunick installation, moshing at Laneway Festival, watching the sunset over beautiful Bondi from the sun-warmed cliffs… but a recent favourite that encapsulates much of what I love so much about Sydney was just an impromptu decision to go out and enjoy the autumn sunshine. A day of no particular significance, when armed only with a hazy sense of direction and a hastily assembled picnic, my beloved and I battled through the Saturday shopping frenzy and caught the ferry to Mosman.
From the moment we board the ferry and leave behind the madding crowds at Circular Quay, calm descends…

You can read the rest of my Sydney story here
Thanks @Halans for the photos.

Notes I made on my iPhone whilst drunk or discombobulated

3 May

Thanks entirely to Matt Granfield for the inspiration… (All art is theft).

This is the stuff and nonsense I’ve recorded of late:

  • Old timey radio
  • Bootlace  – Elliot
  • Peter Watts – blindside – hardcore scifi
  • being in heaven – wtf?
  • the internet as domestic battleground – poor code of conduct, divulgence, boundaries. How can privacy, the right to own virtual space be re-imagined?
  • 11299912&11
  • Contagious
  • Karma chameleon: on integrity and consistency in brands

My, but my brain just whizzes and pops like a cerebral wee firecracker, doesn’t it?
I am already so forgetful now I fear by the time I’m legitimately senile, there will be nothing left but hand clapping and keyboard cat.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.