A Good Woman is a good movie and one that I’d heartily recommend. Based on the play by Oscar Wilde, “Lady Windermere’s Fan”, the movie is set in the 1930s at Amalfi on the Italian coast, focussing on the lives and scadals of a group of very rich people. Visually it’s gorgeous and it makes you want to go and be there NOW.
Although the film is based on the Oscar Wilde play, and contains many classic Wilde lines, it’s been modernised somewhat. The result is that sometimes the classic lines appear contrived and perhaps lose some of their impact. Lines like, “We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking up at the stars”. I think the charm of Wilde, evident in “The Importance Of Being Earnest”, is the poetry of his writing. Perhaps this is why for the first half of the film I was a little disappointed.
As I wondered whether or not this film would be anything more than delightful scenery and witty conversation, I was suddenly shown.
As I’d never read “Lady Windermere’s Fan” I was unaware of the plot twist which occurs through the movie. A plot twist which takes this movie to a new level.
A level which allows actors like Helen Hunt to come into their own. Hunt plays Mrs Erlynne, a woman who ostensibly, arrives in Amalfi to leave behind her checkered past. At first she appears opportunistic and in the eyes of the local glitterati may in fact be a prostitute. Helen Hunt is the star of this film as her character is totally believable with one scene, in particular, causing my eyes to well up and then for a few drops of tears to go rolling down my face.
On the other hand, I though the young American couple of Meg (played by Scarlett Johansson) and Robert (played by Mark Umbers) were a little dissapointing and one dimensional. Although we see Meg very upset, I didn’t really believe her performance. I also though Robert was a little wooden. This was disappointing because I thought there was a lot more to their characters that could have been explored.
Despite this, I thought “A Good Woman” was a wonderful film, one that I’d recommend, and one that I’m sure I could watch several times over.
Have just been to see a preview of Destination Arnold, a soon to be shown on ABC-TV documentary, produced by my friend, Michaela Perske. I never thought I’d be interested in the world of female bodybuilding, but it was absolutely brilliant. I cared about the women involved, and loved the honesty of the emotions and experiences they shared.
What are the chances of an aircraft having not one, but two flat tyres? Not ours. The one hemming us in at Sydney Airport this morning.
When our captain (who had a very sexy voice, by the way) first told us about a flat tyre on the Pacific Blue flight (which had hemmed us in), he sounded reasonably philosophical about it all. But when he informed us of a further delay because the flight had TWO flat tyres, you could hear the sense of frustration in his voice. The problem, he told us, was that we couldn’t move until the Pacific Blue flight had their tyres repaired.
And so we sat and waited. And I read the paper, tweeted about the inconvenience, and sent some emails.
The delay also gave me some time to reflect on some of the interesting things I noticed at the airport. First, the automated flight information announcements with the American accent. Second, that although the urinals now are “eco friendly” by using recycled water, the taps in the hand-basin are those press button ones which deliver a torrent of water that you can’t turn off. One seems to defeat the purpose of the other eh?
And then came the good news: the sexy-voiced captain told us they were able to maneouvre the other aircraft in such a manner that we could “squeeze” through and take our place in the queue for take-off. There was a massive, collective sigh of relief when word came that we would soon be on our way.
Being possibly the world’s best plane sleeper, I then managed to sneak a brief “power nap” in the minutes before take off. Deep in sleep, I snored loudly and woke myself up, as we took to the air only 60 minutes after originally planned. A slight delay only adds to the drama of it all, though, doesn’t it?
And I love the sense of “occasion” associated with overseas travel. You’re in the queue, you have all your documentation ready (well, I do, though some people in the queue in front of me struggled to locate theirs). You’ve filled in the departure card. You’ve gone through Customs and Security, and then you just have to sit and wait.
It ain’t gonna change soon, although recently Richard Branson did mention he thought two or three hour flights between Sydney and London were in the realm of possibility within our lifetimes.
So what did I think of Air China? The first thing you notice in economy (at least) is the fairly “dated” inflight entertainment system. The screen had seen better days. In addition, there were just a few movies to watch. As none of them particularly interested me – a combination of Chinese soap operas and B-grade Hollywood, I mostly watched the flight map. Having read a review which mentioned how crap it all was, I had also loaded my computer with some of my own inflight entertainment.
The food and wine? The food was good, though not great. I had some chicken with vegetables for lunch. It was “enough”, though I would have liked a little more. I would have also liked a second glass of wine with lunch, but that wasn’t to be. Dinner was beef with rice, and finally a Chinese bun with a meat-like filling. After the wine came out for lunch, it was never to be seen again. In fact, I swear there were only two bottles of wine on board the entire aircraft, and they were both consumed at lunch-time.
The service was good, though not great. Everyone spoke some English, and all they smiled when I responded in Chinese with “please” and “thankyou”. Best of all? No babies. It wasn’t until we were somewhere over the Molucca Sea that I noticed there wasn’t a single child on the aircraft. Almost everyone travelling was from an Asian (assuming Chinese) background, with just a few Caucasian faces on board (including a group of “grey nomads” who are members of the Australian Tai Chi Fitness Group, according to their name tags).
I shared a seat with, at first, a middle-aged Asian woman from Sydney, and then later a younger woman, though I have no idea of her story. She just looked young and surly. My favourite neighbour on the flight from Shanghai to Beijing was a bloke with three mobile phones: an i-phone, a blackberry and a nokia. I assumed was a communications businessman of some form until I noticed he was just using the i-phone to play games.
Despite the late start to our flight in Sydney, the turn around in Shanghai was seamless: we were in and out of customs in a couple of minutes. I even had time to sit down and give Kate an update call.
A few hours later and I was safely ensconced in Kate’s place, as we sat and chatted until late in the morning.
“You know about the P’s and B’s of journalism?”, I remember my friend and colleague Tony once asking. He and I were sharing a house at Bourke in Western NSW, where we both worked at the radio station, 2WEB. I was a young pup, and I learned much from him due to his age, seniority, and having previously worked as a journalist and professor in the United Kingdom.
“For the tabloids, journalism is about bingo, booze and broads”, I remember him telling me with a laugh. And, in order of reader/listener interest, the priority was “princes, prices, people, places and politics”, he added.
I asked him about “princes” and he told me, they weren’t only royals, but anyone famous, and sometimes, politicians could be princes.
I remember this conversation to this day, and it’s been wonderful guidance throughout my career in journalism.
In some ways, Diana was two of the p’s. She was both a princess and a person we all had an interest in, and all thought we “knew”. I’m guessing we’ve all had theories about what “happened”, ranging from “saint-like mother” to “troubled person” to “misadventure” to “they had her killed”.
The new film “Spencer” takes in a bit of all that, though the film doesn’t touch on what happened in Paris, focussing instead on a period of two or three days around Christmas some time in the 1990s, when Diana and Charles were separated, but not yet divorced.
Over the course of those days, you see Diana estranged from the Royal Family, always running late, not wanting to wear the right clothes or “play the game” any longer. There are some wonderful playful moments with her children, but also some disturbing moments that seek to portray the concern of William and Harry about their mother’s disturbed state. She seems deeply troubled, imagining a relationship with Anne Boleyn, is self-harming, and wanting to return to a simpler life. The film also imagines a close relationship with a female servant. Much of the film is imagined and relies on allegories.
This is not the kind of film you would find on “The History Channel”, “The Biography Channel” or midday movies. This is not “happy families”.
A few hours later, after watching it, I’m still not sure if I like the film.
As I left the cinema today my fellow patrons also seemed somewhat bewildered. You know how you normally hear people chatting, saying “oh that was good” or things like that? Today, there was just silence from my fellow viewers. Nothing.
And yet I know some people will love this film, and others will loathe this film, depending on their version of the Diana story. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good film with good acting and direction. I’m just not sure, at this stage, where it fits into the biographical story of Diana.
You’ll recall, of course, I’ve been learning Swedish on a Tuesday night for the last few months? It’s been great fun and has become a regular and much-anticipated part of my week. Well anyway, we had the week off, due to some other previous commitments by our lecturer. And so when my friend Kate called today to ask if I’d like to attend the opening of a new exhibition at the Damien Minton Gallery, I said yes straight away.
It was an exhibition I’d really wanted to see, featuring a range of artists (both indigenous and non-indigenous) largely around the theme of Aboriginal diggers (it’s Anzac Day on Friday), and in support of planned memorial at Redfern. The exhibition features well-known artists including Clinton Nairn, Euan McLeod, Reg Mombassa and many others, as well as emerging artists. If you can attend, I’d recommend the exhibition to you, as the works are both meaningful and well-executed.
The opening was also really great, with a smoking ceremony, dancing, and a couple of heart-felt speeches.
Anyway, it just so happens one of the guys I’m learning Swedish with, Mark Hetherington, is featured in the exhibition. We had a great chat about art and Swedish. And then I saw a woman I used to work with, and a number of people who regularly visit my workplace. And then Damien Minton told me a close colleague of mine had opened his last exhibition there.
So all of a sudden, my life was flashing before my eyes with a number of different elements all combining in a series of conversations An interesting coincidence, I thought. Or maybe as Tom says, it’s just because I’m “inner-city meedja person“?
In other news, I went to the opening last night of the new Australian film, Cactus. It’s okay, I thought. Having spent a lot of my adult life living west of the Great Dividing Range, I found myself sometimes a little more interested in the scenery than in the storyline. Not that it’s one of those films where the scenery is more important than the plot, but it’s just that I love the great flat areas of inland NSW.
As for the plot? It’s about a bloke who kidnaps another in exchange for $20,000 to support his wife’s medical condition, and how he and the bloke bond over the course of a seemingly endless road trip to Broken Hill.
I agree with the comment made by Andrew Mercado on 702 ABC Sydney today that, like many Australian films lately, the script was a little underdone and could have been done with a few more years in the script-development stage. Still, good on ’em for having the guts and the enthusiasm to make a feature film in Australia.
Afterwards, we moved on for the after-party at one of my favourite places in Sydney, Opera Bar.
I went to one of (maybe the first public screening) of the new film by Warwick Thornton, previously known for such brilliant works as Samson and Delilah (director) and The Sapphires (director of photography).
In contrast to the clear, strong narrative of those two films, you need to work out your own “narrative” for The Darkside, as the film is based on a series of social history interviews with people about “ghost stories”.
But rather than feature the original interviews, well-known actors (both Indigenous and non-Indigenous) are brought in to relay the stories in a fairly stylised manner.
Although there were a few stories which I didn’t understand (as the narrative wasn’t that clear), a few which I thought would have been better simply as audio (it’s the radio guy in me thinking the story didn’t need pictures), there were a few stories which really resonated with me. There’s a story, for example, of a “sighting” of the spirit of a young child near Coober Pedy which is beautifully illustrated as the artist Ben Quilty paints the scene. There’s also a lovely story presented by Deborah Mailman (featuring Marcia Langton in the background) which is fantastic, simply because it’s Deborah. Aaron Pederson brings great humor and authenticity to his story.
Frank Yamma
The final scene, where a young woman describes the slow painful death of an infant (and where she felt guided and supported by her granny), was the one where the film made sense for me. There’s a moment in earlier The Darkside, where one of the actors explains he believes that when you die, your body goes into the ground, your soul goes to your creator, and your spirit remains living amongst us.
The film will have a cinematic release at some point soon (I understand) and will also be a series of half-hour programs which will run on ABC-TV next year.
After the movie, we popped downstairs to the Corroboree Festival bar, enjoyed a chat, a drink, and the wonderful tunes of Frank Yamma.
“Obviously it’s been reviewed by Margaret and David”, I said to my friend as we looked around at the crowd who attended this afternoon’s screening of Boy at The Verona. The crowd was older and looked very “Eastern Suburbs” and “North Shore”. In our 40s, we were probably the youngest attending the screening.
I’d caught up with my friend for a late breakfast. Although we’d planned to meet at 485, a newish cafe on Crown Street, there was a “Surry Hills queue” and we ended up eating at the nearby Book Kitchen instead. It’s bizarre how many things people in Surry Hills will queue for.
After brunch we window shopped for a while and continued to chat about this, that and the other. Along the way we noticed a “pop up shop” in what was previously a gallery. “Pop up shops” are all the rage, apparently, at the moment.
On a wet day in Sydney, the cinema was, as you might expect quite busy. We got in early, bought the tickets, and had a lovely peppermint tea as we waited for the film to start.
All I knew about the film was that it was set in New Zealand, had a Maori cast, and had been receiving good reviews. The film is seen through the eyes of a young boy being raised (along with several other family members) by his grandmother. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father had been in prison. For a week or so the children are left to raise themselves while their grandmother went to another town for a funeral. During that week, the father turns up unexpectedly, and a kind of havoc ensues. As a result the boy comes to know his father in many unexpected ways.
It’s such a great film. The story is simple and well-told, but also profound. The actors are all very good and play their roles with great authenticity. It’s beautifully shot. And most importantly, it’s about the right length. Most films, these days, are about twenty minutes too long in my opinion, but I never lost interest in the film and never thought it dragged.
