I went to a wedding last night: the wedding of Damien and Rhea. I’ve known Damien for about ten years (I guess), and Rhea for about the three years they’ve been together. I guess they’ve been living together for about two, and now, aged in their late 20s have decided it was time to formalise their relationship. Held at a pub in Drummoyne, it was a relaxed, friendly affair, lacking some of the formality and traditionalism of some weddings I’ve been to. A very nice, memorable occasion, and one which I think they’ll be able to look back on many years into the future without embarrassment, because it was clearly “their work”, not something imposed on them.
The wedding was also good fun as I had the opportunity to catch up with a few people I hadn’t seen for a while, and to meet someone in person I’d only ever spoken to on the phone to before. “Didn’t I meet you in Perth?”, I said to an older woman who, like me, was taking photographs. “I’ve met you before”, I said to another, a woman who has known Damien since he was a teenager. And amusingly, I briefly sat next to a woman who I’d had several telephone conversations with, and with whom I share a number of common acquaintances, but had never actually met before.
It was also nice that it was held on Holy Thursday, meaning I was able to sleep in this morning. And that’s a good thing, because I’m hoping this Easter will be as relaxed as possible. I’ve been working fairly hard for the last few months and I need a break. I’ll be catching up with a few people over the next few days and trying to think as little as possible about work. For the time being at least…
I honestly wasn’t entirely sure why the train trip from Amsterdam to Copenhagen had to take fifteen hours. Leaving at 7.00 pm on a Sunday night and pulling into the station at 10.00 am on Monday felt like a painfully slow crawl across the map.
I booked it because, truth be told, it was the easiest and cheapest way for me to make the journey. Sure, I know I could probably have hunted down a budget airline ticket. But sometimes you just reach a point where you want to completely bypass the hassle of baggage limits, security queues, and schlepping to airports located in the middle of nowhere.
Plus, catching the train came with a hidden bonus: I essentially scored a free bed for the night, saving me from booking a hotel room. So yeah, at the age of forty-seven, I can officially say I’ve caught an overnight sleeper for the first time in my life.
The early morning view from my sleeper.
Turns out I’d also totally underestimated the length of the flight. My booking showed I’d be in the air from 1330 until 1500, and I’d naively assumed Iceland and Denmark shared the exact same time zone. Completely forgetting that Iceland stays on GMT year-round and doesn’t bother with daylight saving, the actual flight time blew out to a solid two hours and fifty minutes.
Not that I minded—the time flew by because I was glued to the window. We passed over some striking, rugged rocky islands down below. At first, my mind jumped to the Faroe Islands, but we weren’t far enough into the flight path yet, so I figured they must have been wild little isles just off the coast of Norway.
Not exactly sure where, but possibly some islands off the coast of Norway.
Every now and then, I flicked on the in-flight entertainment screen for a bit of amusement, which happened to be playing Dinosaurs: Dawn of the Ice Age. To top it all off, the on-board food—a simple baguette—was surprisingly good and didn’t cost a fortune.
As we came in to land, I looked down and noticed a striking absence of trees across the entire landscape. Instead, flat rocks stretched everywhere, blanketed in a low, heath-like vegetation. Eager for the best view possible, I grabbed the front seat on the bus for the one-hour journey into Reykjavik. As we rolled along, that flat terrain quickly transformed, giving way to massive, dramatic mountains capped with snow.
The first few hours in Reykjavik were spent settling into my apartment—which is genuinely lovely—and making a pilgrimage to the local “Bónus” supermarket. I stocked up on enough food for the next few days, well aware that since most food in Iceland is imported, it comes with a hefty price tag. Seeing a total of 3,500 ISK flash at the register totally did my head in until I quickly converted it back into Australian dollars for some context. Once I had my head around the exchange rate, it honestly didn’t seem all that bad after all.
5000 ISK Note. At the current conversion rate, I have founded it simplest to drop off the last two digits, and then drop twenty-five percent again to find the equivalent in Australian dollars.
Later that evening, after twenty-four solid hours of travel, I headed down to the local public pool to unwind and experience firsthand why these spots are such a cornerstone of modern Icelandic culture. Reykjavik has seven of these council-run pools for a population of around 120,000, and they are fantastic. They’re all thermally heated, with hot pots ranging from tepid to over 40°C—a bit too scorching for my sensitive skin! Open right up until ten o’clock at night, they draw quite a crowd, though I only spotted a couple of people actually swimming laps. Most folks were just happily soaking in the communal pools, catching up with family and friends.
“I say they’re just not looking hard enough” was the phrase used by Laura in response to the sometimes-held belief that Sydney doesn’t have enough interesting bars.
I’d invited her for an after-work drink earlier in the day, to which she enthusiastically replied “yes”.
It’s a worry, though, isn’t it when you start thinking about an after-work drink straight after breakfast on Friday? “Yes, I know it’s the weekend and all that, and you need to make plans, but there’s something a bit odd about it too”, I explained to another colleague in the coffee shop downstairs.
I’d also asked Graeme, but he remains as sick as a dog and is resting up ahead of his trip to Europe.
So Laura and I had a drink at The Lounge, a funky little bar just off Crown Street, Surry Hills.
The Lounge, Surry Hills
In some ways, it’s like being in someone’s backyard, as there are fairy lights, concrete and old furniture all over the place.
And the crowd is definitely young and slightly groovy, mostly 20s and early to mid-30s. I recognised someone I knew on the other side of the bar. But the remaining faces ranged from the hip and groovy, out for a pre-night-on-the-town-drink, to the more likely after-work-crowd which had probably been there since five o’clock.
It was quite a social Friday actually, as I had also been out for lunch with a group of people from work to The Central (near the entrance to the Devonshire Street Tunnell) which does a delightful pizza for about $10-$15.
I went to the Opening Night of the Sydney Film Festival where the film, “Ten Canoes” was shown.
The film’s significance is three-fold: it relies on a non-linerar story telling model; it’s the first feature film almost entirely spoken (with subtitles) in an indigenous language; and there are no white people in this movie. As a result, the film escapes one of the usual conventions (and weaknesses) of films about Indigenous Australians. In having no need to examine issues associated with black and white Australians coming together (or being in conflict), the film makes a bold statement about the occupancy of Australia over thousands of years. Unlike films like “Rabbit Proof Fence”, this is not a film for white Australians to feel guilty about, as they just don’t figure within the film’s framework.
At it’s basic plotline level, this is a love story dealing with the story of a young man in love with the youngest of his brother’s three wives. As he struggles with his place as a younger man in his community, he is told a parable of sorts of another young man in the same situation to give him an insight into why he must wait, and why he must gain patience.
Both the “modern” and the ancient stories are told with the same actors. But because the story is sometimes told in a non-linear way, and because the film is shot in both black and white, it took me a little while to understand how the story was being told. It wasn’t until maybe one-third of the way through the film that I was able to understand it on the different layers upon which it was being told. I wonder if, with repeated viewings, the story might take on new layers, as is the case with Aboriginal stories, or am I, perhaps, reading too much into it?
One of the most beautiful aspects of this film is the narration provided by David Gulpilil. Combining humour, warmth, and intelligence, Gulpilil makes this story both compelling and accessible.
The landscape of Arnhem Land is also beautifully filmed. From the crocodile infested swamps, to the stone country, to the vast scrub flatness, I was literally taken there by the film. Although I have never been to Arnhem Land, I’ve come close, having been to the top end of the Northern Territory a couple of times. It was nice to be taken back there by the film, and to recognise the meaning of phrases like “stone country” and to understand the significance of crocodiles and wetlands.
It would have been easy, though, just to let the landscape overtake the film, and that’s perhaps why much of it is in black and white, re-emphasising the importance of the story.
After the movie, we went to the Opening Night Party which was terrific. Lots of champagne, more prawns than I thought existed, and a chance to catch up with some people I haven’t seen for a while including one who is seeing thirty-eight films at the SFF.
“I think I’ve found the spot for my fiftieth birthday”, I told Sue as we sat and enjoyed some late afternoon refreshments at the top floor cafe of Stockholm’s Fotografiska Museet (Photographic museum). Even though I’ve been to the museum on a few occasions before this, I’d never actually made it to the top floor cafe before. I’ve enjoyed a summertime drink at the downstairs outdoors bar, but until today I never knew they had a top floor cafe also. A top floor cafe with great service, great food, and stunning views of Stockholm.
Fotografiska Museet Cafe
During peak tourist season, I can imagine the competition for window seats must be reasonably tough. Even on a Tuesday afternoon in early Spring there were quite a few people there. Nonetheless, we obtained a couple of great seats, with spectacular full-length window views of the centre of Stockholm. The only thing which spoiled the view was a couple of hand smudges from a child on the window, and so I got up with a napkin and wiped them clean. The older woman sitting opposite me was impressed with my ingenuity, and thanked me.
He’s a Dutch photographer who takes hundreds and hundreds of photographs to “construct” brand new images. There’s an accompanying video which shows how he takes lots of different elements from his many photographs and puts them together as a whole new image.
At the moment there are three fantastic exhibition as the museum, all of them quite different.”It’s like Bill Henson, except the kids have their clothes on”, I joked as we looked at the work by Ruud van Empel.
In the same way as there’s controversy surrounding Henson’s work of teenage nudes, there’s also controversy surrounding Rudd van Empel’s work also. Some of the accompanying notes tackle the underlying discomfort many people feel about the idea of a middle-aged white man featuring the images of so many young black children in his photography. The video also features a couple of critics evaluating the value of his work at art. One says they’re nothing more than beautiful images; another says there’s a lot more too them, and the longer you look at them, the more depth you begin to see. I’m inclined towards the latter opinion of his work, which I thought was very interesting.
We were also impressed with the work of Anna Clarén, a Swedish photographer whose work documents the lives and experiences of those closest to her.
There’s an image of a “very pregnant” woman standing on the shores of a lake in Sweden, completely naked except for her gumboots. There’s a naked man floating, almost as if dead, just under the water. There’s a baby who is perhaps an hour or so old. My favourite, though, was the image of the top of a young child’s head. At first, the subject wasn’t instantly apparent to me. It seemed like just a few swirls. But when when you look closely, you can see the hair on the top of the child’s head in a swirl, looking almost like a cyclone or a hurricane as it appears on a television weather map. Many of the images are almost over-exposed, which I guess is a good analogy for the exhibition’s theme.
The final exhibition we enjoyed this afternoon was a retrospective of the work of Henri Cartier-Bresson
Although he was one of the twentieth century’s greatest photographers, I wasn’t instantly aware of his name. I knew, however, many of the photographs, including one I’ve known and loved for many years, the photograph he took of Truman Capote as a young man. Compared with many of the later photographs of Capote which have tended towards the Studio 54 caricature, this particular photograph captures him as a young man, and with a dangerous look in his eyes.
The retrospective of Cartier-Bresson’s work features photographs from pre-1949 China, the early days of The Berlin Wall, works from India, Iran, and many other places. He was almost literally “everywhere” throughout his career. That it’s all in black and white brings all of these photographs, taken in many locations and over many decades, together into one cohesive body of work which is truly impressive.
So as you might imagine, the combination of great photography, great views, and Stockholm, would make for a wonderful place to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. If I win Lotto, it’s on!
I don’t remember exactly when I first saw the movie “Cabaret”, but it must have been when I was in my early teens (late 1970s). As a young “soon-to-be” gay boy living in a country town, it was life-changing.
I’ll never forget the scene when it was revealed Brian Roberts “liked men”. It was such an affirming scene for me at such a young age. I then went on to develop a huge crush on the actor playing the role, Michael York.
And of course, there was Liza Minelli in the role of Sally Bowles. I’d already known about Liza through her mother, Judy Garland who I absolutely adored. How could I be anything but gay with such an instinctive cultural pedigree?
And then there was the storyline, set in the Weimar republic years in Germany, as the NAZIs were coming to power. I studied German all the way through to the HSC, along with Modern History, and so my interest in that storyline was heightened.
I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen the movie since. However, I don’t think I’ve ever seen “Cabaret” on the big screen before, and that’s part of why tonight’s screening was so special.
Tonight, I went to a 50-year screening of the film, at Newtown’s Dendy Theatre.
As I listened to the response of my fellow cinema-goers, it was pretty obvious they were all fans of the movie too. Everyone knew the famous lines and often laughed out loud before the sentence was finished.
And of course, the thing about seeing these cinema classics now is that the digital “print” is so good. You see none of the imperfections you might have seen when it screened at cinemas back in the 1970s.
The memorable moment when the member of the Hitler Youth led the beer garden crowd in a rendition of “Tomorrow belongs to me” moved me tonight, as much as it did when I first saw it. In fact, a tear rolled down my cheek, as I thought about life then and now.
Over the last few years I’ve become increasingly worried we’re in similar times to that of the 1920s/1930s. The rise of fascism. The scapegoating of groups within society.
The personal issues, too. In 1920s Germany, there was a lot of open-mindedness around sexuality. Though things are probably a little more advanced in many parts of the world these days, there’s still a feeling that we could easily revert back to less tolerant times.
And of course, the music by Kander and Ebb and the performances by Joel Gray and Liza Minelli are awesome.
The story of “Cabaret” is based on the largely biographical works of Christopher Isherwood. The story was then turned into a play, and then into a musical.
Though I can’t remember the exact details, I was in an amateur theatrical play during my time in Renmark that might have been the original play. I remember dressing up in gorilla masks for the scene for the song, “If you could see her through my eyes, she wouldn’t look Jewish at all”.
And there’s the signature song. Who could not agree with the sentiment?
I used to have this girlfriend known as Elsie With whom I shared four sordid rooms in Chelsea She wasn’t what you’d call a blushing flower As a matter of fact she rented by the hour The day she died the neighbors came to snick her Well, that is what comes from too much pills and liquor But when I saw her laid out like a queen She was the happiest corpse I’d ever seen I think of Elsie to this very day I remember how she’d turned to me and say “What good is sitting” “All alone in your room?” “Come hear the music play” “Life is a cabaret, old chum” “Come to the cabaret”
Songwriters: John Kander / Fred Ebb
After tonight’s cinema screening, I think I’ll watch it again sometime soon.
