When I was in college (the Canberra version of “college” as the late secondary school years, rather than the American university days), I got together with some friends with the object of becoming the Next Big Thing in comedy. We recorded a radio sketch show, completely written by ourselves, using the archaic (but perfectly usable) Narrabundah College recording facilities, and had a great time doing it. When we argued about something, even when it became a full-blown yelling contest (which was slightly more than occasional), I thought: “This is great. We’re having serious creative tensions, just like all the great comedy teams.” A supportive media teacher saw some potential in us, so he encouraged us, starting a radio production elective that allowed us to get extra credits. We even won an ABC Radio competition, which made us pretty pleased with ourselves.
It soon became clear that we couldn’t sell our work to the ABC (or anyone else), but our flagging enthusiasm was revived when a friend of mine, one of the coolest guys at school, said he wanted to join in. This guy was charismatic, brilliantly funny (obviously), and smart enough to get straight-A report cards while seemingly not doing much work. He once told me that he wanted a PhD, and he also wanted to study at Oxford University just like Monty Python stars Terry Jones and Michael Palin. Far more comedy greats have studied at Cambridge (including most of the other Pythons), but he was a huge fan of Palin and Jones. Just as some Beatles fans like Lennon and others like McCartney, you can divide the most dedicated Python fans between Palin/Jones people and Cleese/Chapman people (“dedicated” meaning those who can actually tell apart each team's writing). My friend would introduce me as his “fellow genius”, and said that he thought we could be the new Palin and Jones.
In our spare time, we would sit down and churn out sketches. As you can probably work out, we thought we were utterly brilliant. Most of all, we wanted to be subversive, just like all our favourites. Along with Python, my own influences were all pretty subversive in their time: the Marx Brothers, the Goons, the Comic Strip and the hilarious writing in my sister’s copies of Smash Hits magazine (which struck me as one of the few truly subversive things left in pop music).
Ah yes, “subversive”. Now that we have witnessed everyone from Steve Coogan to Jim Carrey to The Chaser, the word is thrown around a lot when talking about comedy. Back then, it only seemed to be used for our kind of humour. We decided that, to prove our hipness, we would be subversive. We always thought we could do this by copying Monty Python.
We didn’t plagiarise them, but we took their style, not actually realising that it hadn’t been subversive for nearly twenty years. Soon afterwards, the word “pythonesque” was even added to the Oxford English Dictionary (presumably with the definition “applying to an annoying style of humour that everyone else has been using since Monty Python”). After year 12, some of the group (including my “fellow genius”) moved away from Canberra, but the rest of us kept trying. Though we started to find our own style, and even had a show on Artsound, we eventually lost interest and went our separate ways.
Two of us continued to write television scripts together, but after several years of not selling anything, we ended the partnership. We’re still friends, but he now has a wife, a degree, a real career and recently, a child. Not sure what happened to most of the others in the team, but I recently googled the Palin-Jones fan I mentioned, my “fellow genius”. He indeed earned a PhD (though not at Oxford) and now lives in New York, working as a professor and lecturer. In fact, though I’m possibly the only one who decided to remain a writer, he’s written more books than I have. However, as they are all intellectual, academic tomes, I hope that mine are slightly funnier.
But enough about us. Whatever happened to subversive comedy? In the past year, subversive comedians have been rated down there with drug dealers and corrupt politicians. Back in 1964, Stanley Kubrick and Peter Sellers were getting laughs out of nuclear war (the most miserable and scary subject of the time) in the amazing movie “Dr Strangelove”. Now, in these PC times, even the much-loved Magda Szubanski has been chastised for her “insensitive” humour about such controversial issues as... road cyclists.
Is this the tipping point? Now that most classic comedy is too old-fashioned to be described by that cool word “subversive”, have we finally reached the moment where there is nowhere left to push the envelope? Or have we just become more and more sensitive? At this rate, Monty Python will be deemed “subversive” again within two years.
Maybe I should contact the rest of the gang. It might be time for a reunion.
24 November 2009
18 November 2009
Celebrity Envy
When pondering the Seven Deadly Sins for last week’s column (writing about them, not committing them), it occurred to me that the most dangerous people in the world are celebrities. Celebrities tempt us to commit the deadly sins (which, for the wholesome among you, are lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride). They allow us to sit back slothfully and lust over them, and they fill us with pride because, completely different though they are, we think we have something in common with them. I’ve spoken proudly when a celebrity happens to share my birthday, starsign, generation, nationality, interests, diet, or other traits (like left-handedness). Drew Barrymore, for example, is a Gen-X, left-handed Piscean, a former vegetarian, and has a passing interest in the movies, so she’s a particular source of pride to me. Remarkably, nobody ever comments on how similar we are.
Other deadly sins are caused by particular celebrities, rather than celebrities en masse. Ronald McDonald was created especially to make us gluttons, presumably because Nigella Lawson was still too young. The inspirational attitude of super-wealthy celebs like Oprah and Cher, suggesting that we can have it all (just like them), fills us with appalling greed. Then we have celebrity doofuses like Kyle “Chubby” Sandilands and Sam Newman to give us our dose of wrath.
Finally, and most obviously, there is envy. One of the silliest assumptions in the media is the idea that, if someone is wealthy, famous and good-looking, we’re supposed to envy them, even if they live the kind of miserable, public-domain life that any sane person would try to avoid. Hence, it’s considered a given that we’re all insanely jealous of that highly visible couple known as Brangelina.
What a dumb name. The great movie star couples of the past were spared the indignity of having their names merged (unless you count the royal couple of the silent era, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, who were silly enough to call their mansion “Pickfair”). Besides, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie (their real names, for those who had forgotten) are best when they’re apart, whether in The Changeling or Burn After Reading or anything else.
I might be swimming against the tide here, but I don’t feel jealous of these people. Not a bit. For a start, Jolie (despite her charitable nature) always seems slightly mad. This is a woman whose own father said publicly that she was mentally ill. So no, I don’t feel jealous of Pitt because he has her. In fact, I’m one of those rare people who thought he was crazy for leaving a cutie like Jennifer Aniston in favour of this oddball. Then again, I’m strange like that. When I was a kid, watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island, I knew that Ginger was supposedly the sexy one. Yet I thought Marianne was much hotter. Doctor Who? Give me Jo Grant over Leela any day. Buffy? You can have Buffy (and even Cordelia); I always liked Willow. Absolutely Fabulous? OK, enough about me.
A friend of mine named Jim, however, is a big Angelina Jolie fan. Jim has a surname, but as he’s a friend of mine, I won’t mention it.
Let me explain. The Canberra Times asks that I follow their house rules over a few things, as I noticed that when I dedicated much of a column to swimmer Elka Graham. As Ms Graham was much-loved (like so many in our swimming team), yet didn’t have a cool nickname like “Thorpedo” or “Superfish”, I called her “Elka” throughout the column. The sub-editor dutifully changed this to “Graham”. Even in a column, I wasn’t allowed to be on first-name basis with anyone.
OK... but it seemed a bit strange to repeatedly call a woman “Graham”. I’d have a similar problem with several other women I’d occasionally like to mention, including swimmer Jodie Henry, rock legend Deborah Harry, comedy actor Hollie Andrew, actor Miranda Otto and my favourite, comedian Cal Wilson. OK, that last one’s a stretch, but it’s hard to deny that Wilson Pickett and Wilson Tuckey are both packed with masculinity. Meanwhile, action star Thomas Jane would lose some of his tough-guy credentials if I wrote about him in this column.
But most of all, I don’t want to refer to my friends by their surname. It sounds too much like I know them from a private boys’ school. (Come to think of it, Lyneham High School in the 1980s was a bit like that. “Hi, Juddery, how’s it going?” “Not bad, Stinson. What you up to?”)
But back tot the topic. My friend Jim is not jealous of Angelina. He admires her work, but realises that people are jealous of what she is: a movie star, a millionaire, a fashion icon and of course, Brad Pitt’s wife. This is all well and good, but Jim never wanted to be any of those things. (OK, millions of dollars would be fun, but it’s never been a major ambition of his.) Is she wonderful? Sure. Is he jealous? Not even remotely.
Jim always was a smart guy.
Other deadly sins are caused by particular celebrities, rather than celebrities en masse. Ronald McDonald was created especially to make us gluttons, presumably because Nigella Lawson was still too young. The inspirational attitude of super-wealthy celebs like Oprah and Cher, suggesting that we can have it all (just like them), fills us with appalling greed. Then we have celebrity doofuses like Kyle “Chubby” Sandilands and Sam Newman to give us our dose of wrath.
Finally, and most obviously, there is envy. One of the silliest assumptions in the media is the idea that, if someone is wealthy, famous and good-looking, we’re supposed to envy them, even if they live the kind of miserable, public-domain life that any sane person would try to avoid. Hence, it’s considered a given that we’re all insanely jealous of that highly visible couple known as Brangelina.
What a dumb name. The great movie star couples of the past were spared the indignity of having their names merged (unless you count the royal couple of the silent era, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, who were silly enough to call their mansion “Pickfair”). Besides, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie (their real names, for those who had forgotten) are best when they’re apart, whether in The Changeling or Burn After Reading or anything else.
I might be swimming against the tide here, but I don’t feel jealous of these people. Not a bit. For a start, Jolie (despite her charitable nature) always seems slightly mad. This is a woman whose own father said publicly that she was mentally ill. So no, I don’t feel jealous of Pitt because he has her. In fact, I’m one of those rare people who thought he was crazy for leaving a cutie like Jennifer Aniston in favour of this oddball. Then again, I’m strange like that. When I was a kid, watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island, I knew that Ginger was supposedly the sexy one. Yet I thought Marianne was much hotter. Doctor Who? Give me Jo Grant over Leela any day. Buffy? You can have Buffy (and even Cordelia); I always liked Willow. Absolutely Fabulous? OK, enough about me.
A friend of mine named Jim, however, is a big Angelina Jolie fan. Jim has a surname, but as he’s a friend of mine, I won’t mention it.
Let me explain. The Canberra Times asks that I follow their house rules over a few things, as I noticed that when I dedicated much of a column to swimmer Elka Graham. As Ms Graham was much-loved (like so many in our swimming team), yet didn’t have a cool nickname like “Thorpedo” or “Superfish”, I called her “Elka” throughout the column. The sub-editor dutifully changed this to “Graham”. Even in a column, I wasn’t allowed to be on first-name basis with anyone.
OK... but it seemed a bit strange to repeatedly call a woman “Graham”. I’d have a similar problem with several other women I’d occasionally like to mention, including swimmer Jodie Henry, rock legend Deborah Harry, comedy actor Hollie Andrew, actor Miranda Otto and my favourite, comedian Cal Wilson. OK, that last one’s a stretch, but it’s hard to deny that Wilson Pickett and Wilson Tuckey are both packed with masculinity. Meanwhile, action star Thomas Jane would lose some of his tough-guy credentials if I wrote about him in this column.
But most of all, I don’t want to refer to my friends by their surname. It sounds too much like I know them from a private boys’ school. (Come to think of it, Lyneham High School in the 1980s was a bit like that. “Hi, Juddery, how’s it going?” “Not bad, Stinson. What you up to?”)
But back tot the topic. My friend Jim is not jealous of Angelina. He admires her work, but realises that people are jealous of what she is: a movie star, a millionaire, a fashion icon and of course, Brad Pitt’s wife. This is all well and good, but Jim never wanted to be any of those things. (OK, millions of dollars would be fun, but it’s never been a major ambition of his.) Is she wonderful? Sure. Is he jealous? Not even remotely.
Jim always was a smart guy.
10 November 2009
Seven Virtues
As you might be aware, the Catholic Church last year expanded its list of Deadly Sins to 14, including such misdemeanours as drug-dealing and environmental destruction, which weren’t really on the radar when they did the original list. In fact, the Church has focused so much on our naughtiness that, if we wait long enough, it will no doubt add another seven sins, including “singing eighties techno-pop songs in public” and “putting a lower-case ‘i’ in front of product names in a lame attempt to be cool”.
As someone brought up as a Roman Catholic (and in my childhood, a strangely obedient one), I realise that I’m a sinner. Yes, tell me something I don’t know. I had my first confession when I was seven. As our class of second-graders waited excitedly (when you go to a Catholic school, it’s one of those milestones you look forward to, like graduation and First Holy Communion), the ever-considerate priest promised that, if we couldn’t think of anything to confess, he would happily tell us our sins. At the time, I assumed that, as a man with a direct line to God, he really knew everything. This faith was rewarded when I entered the confession box and he told me, “You disobeyed your Mum and Dad.” There was no fooling this guy.
When he said the same thing the next three times, it occurred to me that he wasn’t really so intuitive, and had merely figured out that seven-year-olds don’t often cheat on their spouses or plot ruthless business take-overs. As our parents were telling us everything from “Don’t play with rough boys” to “Remember to brush your teeth,” parental disobedience was a given. I assume the priest said the same thing to my friends (though it was supposed to be private, so I never asked them).
Much as I appreciate that we should be aware of the Fourteen Deadly Sins, I wish that we could be reminded more of the Seven Virtues. Quickly: can you name the seven virtues? (No, “being really cool” is not one of them. Nor is “listening to Classic FM”.) Did you even know that we had Seven Virtues, which are supposed to complement the Seven Deadly Sins? Sadly, we spend so much time thinking about our vices, without looking at our positive qualities.
One of the virtues is “humility”. I hear that this recently topped an ABC Radio poll of the best unfashionable virtues, ahead of such things as “constancy” and “meekness”. To be honest, I don’t think that the voters were inspired by their love of people who possess humility, so much as their utter disgust at people who don’t.
Whatever the case, I think that humility is underrated. You might think that it suggests low self-esteem or a willingness to be downtrodden. Upon further investigation, however, it’s all about being respectful and knowing your place. This doesn’t mean that you should see yourself as an unworthy, insignificant wretch. It just gives you some bearing on reality, which is an incredibly useful thing to have.
A friend of mine (let’s call him Colin) used to suffer from low humility. When a celebrity chef demonstrated a recipe on TV, Colin would sit there saying, “What would he know? What’s the ‘eat immediately’ rubbish? Olive oil can last for hours.” When he heard a lawyer discussing the law, he’d say, “No way. He’s got it all wrong.” Colin was neither a lawyer nor a chef, but he knew better than any “expert”, be they a lawyer, a political pundit or a plumber.
Happily, he’s since had a few healthy doses of humility. Incidents where he broke a pipe (by “fixing” a plumber’s work), lost money (what sort of twit bets on election results?), whipped up awful chocolate mousse (which tasted remarkably like congealed olive oil) and was heavily fined (when he unwittingly broke the law) have gradually given him this prized quality. When you see a celebrity chef, you don’t need to worship the guy. Just accept that he’s been a trained, professional chef for years, and maybe he knows more about cooking than some self-professed genius who dabbles occasionally.
Without humility, we’d never learn anything. Fortunately, we’re born with it. It just disappears as we get older. Adults, even more than teenagers, are convinced that they know everything. If kids behaved more like adults, they’d refuse to listen to their schoolteacher, believing that her years of education do not mean that she knows her times tables any better than they do. So you see, few virtues can be more useful than humility.
For the record, the other six virtues are chastity (which is, admittedly, perennially uncool), temperance (this is getting less enticing the more you read, isn’t it?), charity, patience and kindness (which is defined as, among other things, “charity”). Seriously, these aren’t so difficult. I practice all of these regularly.
If only I practised them by choice, I’d be fast-tracked to heaven.
(Column originally published in The Canberra Times, 5 October 2009)
As someone brought up as a Roman Catholic (and in my childhood, a strangely obedient one), I realise that I’m a sinner. Yes, tell me something I don’t know. I had my first confession when I was seven. As our class of second-graders waited excitedly (when you go to a Catholic school, it’s one of those milestones you look forward to, like graduation and First Holy Communion), the ever-considerate priest promised that, if we couldn’t think of anything to confess, he would happily tell us our sins. At the time, I assumed that, as a man with a direct line to God, he really knew everything. This faith was rewarded when I entered the confession box and he told me, “You disobeyed your Mum and Dad.” There was no fooling this guy.
When he said the same thing the next three times, it occurred to me that he wasn’t really so intuitive, and had merely figured out that seven-year-olds don’t often cheat on their spouses or plot ruthless business take-overs. As our parents were telling us everything from “Don’t play with rough boys” to “Remember to brush your teeth,” parental disobedience was a given. I assume the priest said the same thing to my friends (though it was supposed to be private, so I never asked them).
Much as I appreciate that we should be aware of the Fourteen Deadly Sins, I wish that we could be reminded more of the Seven Virtues. Quickly: can you name the seven virtues? (No, “being really cool” is not one of them. Nor is “listening to Classic FM”.) Did you even know that we had Seven Virtues, which are supposed to complement the Seven Deadly Sins? Sadly, we spend so much time thinking about our vices, without looking at our positive qualities.
One of the virtues is “humility”. I hear that this recently topped an ABC Radio poll of the best unfashionable virtues, ahead of such things as “constancy” and “meekness”. To be honest, I don’t think that the voters were inspired by their love of people who possess humility, so much as their utter disgust at people who don’t.
Whatever the case, I think that humility is underrated. You might think that it suggests low self-esteem or a willingness to be downtrodden. Upon further investigation, however, it’s all about being respectful and knowing your place. This doesn’t mean that you should see yourself as an unworthy, insignificant wretch. It just gives you some bearing on reality, which is an incredibly useful thing to have.
A friend of mine (let’s call him Colin) used to suffer from low humility. When a celebrity chef demonstrated a recipe on TV, Colin would sit there saying, “What would he know? What’s the ‘eat immediately’ rubbish? Olive oil can last for hours.” When he heard a lawyer discussing the law, he’d say, “No way. He’s got it all wrong.” Colin was neither a lawyer nor a chef, but he knew better than any “expert”, be they a lawyer, a political pundit or a plumber.
Happily, he’s since had a few healthy doses of humility. Incidents where he broke a pipe (by “fixing” a plumber’s work), lost money (what sort of twit bets on election results?), whipped up awful chocolate mousse (which tasted remarkably like congealed olive oil) and was heavily fined (when he unwittingly broke the law) have gradually given him this prized quality. When you see a celebrity chef, you don’t need to worship the guy. Just accept that he’s been a trained, professional chef for years, and maybe he knows more about cooking than some self-professed genius who dabbles occasionally.
Without humility, we’d never learn anything. Fortunately, we’re born with it. It just disappears as we get older. Adults, even more than teenagers, are convinced that they know everything. If kids behaved more like adults, they’d refuse to listen to their schoolteacher, believing that her years of education do not mean that she knows her times tables any better than they do. So you see, few virtues can be more useful than humility.
For the record, the other six virtues are chastity (which is, admittedly, perennially uncool), temperance (this is getting less enticing the more you read, isn’t it?), charity, patience and kindness (which is defined as, among other things, “charity”). Seriously, these aren’t so difficult. I practice all of these regularly.
If only I practised them by choice, I’d be fast-tracked to heaven.
(Column originally published in The Canberra Times, 5 October 2009)
02 November 2009
Sans Children
Some time ago, I read an interview with Shannon Lush, the “queen of clean”, in which she hotly berated the selfishness of people who don’t have children, suggesting that it’s their God-given duty. Lush knows everything about getting stains out of the carpet or preventing old toilet rolls from going to waste, if you consider that a problem. I bow to her expertise on such matters, and even bought her first three books. One of these days, I might actually use one of her hints, though I should prepare by stocking up on glycerine, creosote and all those other things she uses for cleaning.
Yet her opinion on my role in life, however strongly worded, I will happily ignore. Lush might have won fame as an expert, but not in everything. I should go and have children? No thanks. Unlike many of my old friends, I don’t have children, but if you want to feel sorry for me, please reserve your pity for my musical taste or lack of fashion sense. Don’t worry about my lack of parenthood, because it’s actually a personal choice. In fact, when people tell me I should have children, I almost think that they find parenthood sheer torture and don’t think it’s fair that I don’t have to suffer like them. But I’m sure that’s not their motive (except for Shannon Lush).
Of course, Lush has never directly asked me about this, though many others have done so. As I explain, I decided some time ago that I didn’t want to start a family. For those who know the joy of having children, this doesn’t make sense. “Surely you might change your mind some day?” True, that is a worry. Strong atheists have become religious devotees in the second half of their lives, and vice versa. But for now, I have no wish to have kids.
As Rupert Murdoch has proved, I have a few decades left to change my mind. Of course, unless he’s immortal like his mother, Murdoch might not live to see his youngest children graduate from college. If I don’t have children in the next few decades (I’m considerably younger than Murdoch, and will probably stay that way), the same problem will await me. Does that bother me? No, because (in case I haven’t mentioned it) I have no intention of having children. My mother knows this, thank you, and despite her initial disappointment, she is happy that my sister has provided her with two fine grandchildren.
“If everyone thought like you,” someone once told me, “the human race would die out.” True enough, but believe it or not, a lot of people DON’T think like me. That’s why there’s an overpopulation problem in parts of the world. I’m not blaming parents and aspiring parents for that, but if they wish to make points, they should at least provide logical ones.
I have no doubt that having children is a wonderful experience in the long term, but I’m happy not to do it. In fact, while many people must feel an irresistible urge to start families, it wouldn’t surprise me if some people felt compelled to do it out of peer pressure. Not only do friends and family constantly tell them “When are you having children? When Martha was born, I suddenly became complete,” but they also read in the media about everyone from Cate Blanchett to Jamie Lynn Spears talking about how wonderful life is now that they have a baby, even though they insisted on giving their progeny a silly celebrity name. “Ozymandias is so beautiful, and nobody will make fun of his name at school because they won’t be able to pronounce it.”
My only problem with being childless is the same problem that would face any childless person writing a light, non-political newspaper column. Quite simply, I can’t fill the column with funny anecdotes about the cute-but-silly things that my kids do, calling them by names like Space Cadet or Doofus or Annoying Little Brat. Of course, that’s another good thing. Enough humorous columns about them, published by the Canberra Times, would taint them for years. (Believe me. I’ve been there.) In fact, I’d suggest that people with kids should refrain from writing newspaper columns, for the good of the progeny.
So to Shannon Lush and anyone who wants to know: sorry, I don’t want kids. And while we’re at it, when will I settle down and get married? Sorry, I have no plan to do that either. If it gives you a headache trying to understand such an attitude from someone in Gen-X who should really find someone before all the good non-divorcees are taken, then my medical advice is: stop thinking about it. There are many people in my age group who are also contentedly unmarried. Society might be crumbling from beneath us, but probably not because of that. I might never pass my genes down to the next generation, but I’ll pass down my worldly wisdom.
And when do I plan to do that? Well, not in this column, obviously.
(Column first appeared in The Canberra Times 28 September 2009)
Yet her opinion on my role in life, however strongly worded, I will happily ignore. Lush might have won fame as an expert, but not in everything. I should go and have children? No thanks. Unlike many of my old friends, I don’t have children, but if you want to feel sorry for me, please reserve your pity for my musical taste or lack of fashion sense. Don’t worry about my lack of parenthood, because it’s actually a personal choice. In fact, when people tell me I should have children, I almost think that they find parenthood sheer torture and don’t think it’s fair that I don’t have to suffer like them. But I’m sure that’s not their motive (except for Shannon Lush).
Of course, Lush has never directly asked me about this, though many others have done so. As I explain, I decided some time ago that I didn’t want to start a family. For those who know the joy of having children, this doesn’t make sense. “Surely you might change your mind some day?” True, that is a worry. Strong atheists have become religious devotees in the second half of their lives, and vice versa. But for now, I have no wish to have kids.
As Rupert Murdoch has proved, I have a few decades left to change my mind. Of course, unless he’s immortal like his mother, Murdoch might not live to see his youngest children graduate from college. If I don’t have children in the next few decades (I’m considerably younger than Murdoch, and will probably stay that way), the same problem will await me. Does that bother me? No, because (in case I haven’t mentioned it) I have no intention of having children. My mother knows this, thank you, and despite her initial disappointment, she is happy that my sister has provided her with two fine grandchildren.
“If everyone thought like you,” someone once told me, “the human race would die out.” True enough, but believe it or not, a lot of people DON’T think like me. That’s why there’s an overpopulation problem in parts of the world. I’m not blaming parents and aspiring parents for that, but if they wish to make points, they should at least provide logical ones.
I have no doubt that having children is a wonderful experience in the long term, but I’m happy not to do it. In fact, while many people must feel an irresistible urge to start families, it wouldn’t surprise me if some people felt compelled to do it out of peer pressure. Not only do friends and family constantly tell them “When are you having children? When Martha was born, I suddenly became complete,” but they also read in the media about everyone from Cate Blanchett to Jamie Lynn Spears talking about how wonderful life is now that they have a baby, even though they insisted on giving their progeny a silly celebrity name. “Ozymandias is so beautiful, and nobody will make fun of his name at school because they won’t be able to pronounce it.”
My only problem with being childless is the same problem that would face any childless person writing a light, non-political newspaper column. Quite simply, I can’t fill the column with funny anecdotes about the cute-but-silly things that my kids do, calling them by names like Space Cadet or Doofus or Annoying Little Brat. Of course, that’s another good thing. Enough humorous columns about them, published by the Canberra Times, would taint them for years. (Believe me. I’ve been there.) In fact, I’d suggest that people with kids should refrain from writing newspaper columns, for the good of the progeny.
So to Shannon Lush and anyone who wants to know: sorry, I don’t want kids. And while we’re at it, when will I settle down and get married? Sorry, I have no plan to do that either. If it gives you a headache trying to understand such an attitude from someone in Gen-X who should really find someone before all the good non-divorcees are taken, then my medical advice is: stop thinking about it. There are many people in my age group who are also contentedly unmarried. Society might be crumbling from beneath us, but probably not because of that. I might never pass my genes down to the next generation, but I’ll pass down my worldly wisdom.
And when do I plan to do that? Well, not in this column, obviously.
(Column first appeared in The Canberra Times 28 September 2009)
24 October 2009
Movie-Going on the Flying Kangaroo
On my latest trip to New York, I flew Qantas, happily avoiding the US airlines I have usually flown. Americans devise their airlines the same way they devised McDonald’s: do the job (whether feeding or transporting), with no frills and scant nutritional value. That’s how America took over the world. A Ford or a GM motorcar isn’t nearly as nice as a Lamborghini or a Rolls Royce, but they’ll do the job at a cheaper price. If you ever had a complaint about Greyhound coaches in Australia, try the tortuous experience of travelling Greyhound in their native land. (I’ve done it. Please don’t remind me.)
The flights are the same: cheap and charmless. It’s possible to get a pleasant flight on Delta or United Airlines, if you’re lucky enough to get exceptional staff, but most of the service is pretty basic. The Americans invented no-frills airlines, which was hardly necessary. Recently, most of their airlines (no-frills or otherwise) stopped serving meals on domestic flights. A few months ago, one airline removed all the entertainment systems from their domestic flights because (get this) they were too heavy, apparently increasing the fuel use. What must be happening now, of course, is that each passenger is buying a hefty airport novel so they have some way to amuse themselves of the long flight from, say, New York to San Francisco. (Surely the main reason Stephen King is so rich is because US airlines don’t have decent in-flight entertainment.) These novels probably weigh considerably more than an entertainment system.
The Irish airline RyanAir now aims to outdo the American airlines in cheapness, planning to remove half the seats (and justify several centuries of insulting Irish jokes). No movies, no food, no seats. It’s only a matter of time before the travel aspect of a flight also becomes an optional extra, as budget travellers are simply shoved in a flight simulator for a few hours.
With recent price wars, Qantas was as cheap as United, so I quickly booked on the Flying Kangaroo. It was a bit like a classy inner-city brasserie suddenly lowering their price to compete with McDonald’s. Why have a Big Mac when you can have fresh tagliatelle with cherry tomatoes? (OK, bad example.) What’s more, like most non-American airlines, Qantas has video-on-demand, with about three zillion movie and TV channels.
Those of you with long memories might recall that I used to be a film writer and reviewer for this newspaper. Back then, I would go to the movies several times each week, partly because I love the medium, and partly because got to see everything for free. That last reason was rather important. Nowadays, I don’t go to movies quite so often.
Hence, it was wonderful to have a 20-hour movie marathon from New York to Sydney (with a stopover in LA). I was determined not to waste this opportunity by sleeping on the plane. Guzzling more coffee at the airport than a Queensland doctor, I was bright and alert for my first movie, which was Wake in Fright. Qantas has a good selection of Australian movies, and this was one of those classics that I had somehow never seen, even recently when a fresh print was discovered and it was suddenly reappraised as Australia’s greatest-ever film. I wouldn’t go that far, but it was certainly impressive. No doubt it would have been even better with a decent sound system.
I continued through a couple more Aussie films (My Year Without Sex, an encore viewing of Kenny), a few Hollywood flicks (Two Lovers and something else that I’ve already forgotten) and a couple of docos, taking more coffee at every opportunity. Caffeine can only go so far, so eventually my brain was turning to blancmange. They had a selection of foreign arthouse films, but by this stage I was in no shape to appreciate them, even simple, sweet films like Shall We Kiss? (which I’d already seen, anyway). Instead, I saw New in Town because it has Renee Zellweger in it, and I was hoping that she was still cute after all these years. She was, and I was docile enough to find the film mildly amusing, though there is no logical reason why it was made (especially as Renee was much cuter in Jerry Maguire).
After “New in Town”, I was feeling rather tired, but forced myself to watch something else. I’d seen a lot of stuff on the way over to New York, so there was no great reason to see Star Trek or Sunshine Cleaning again. I’m one of the few people I know who’s never seen Australia, and I was quite proud of that, so I decided to retain my ignorance.
Instead, I sat half-awake through an early episode of MASH, saw a few episodes of 30 Rock, then saw an episode of The IT Crowd. I’d already seen it en route to NY but quite frankly, it’s one of the funniest television shows ever made.
After that, I went home and, from what I can remember, collapsed in my bed just after lunchtime. Worst jetlag I’ve had in years.
This column first appeared in The Canberra Times on 21 September 2009. By agreement with the author, it did not appear in the online edition.
The flights are the same: cheap and charmless. It’s possible to get a pleasant flight on Delta or United Airlines, if you’re lucky enough to get exceptional staff, but most of the service is pretty basic. The Americans invented no-frills airlines, which was hardly necessary. Recently, most of their airlines (no-frills or otherwise) stopped serving meals on domestic flights. A few months ago, one airline removed all the entertainment systems from their domestic flights because (get this) they were too heavy, apparently increasing the fuel use. What must be happening now, of course, is that each passenger is buying a hefty airport novel so they have some way to amuse themselves of the long flight from, say, New York to San Francisco. (Surely the main reason Stephen King is so rich is because US airlines don’t have decent in-flight entertainment.) These novels probably weigh considerably more than an entertainment system.
The Irish airline RyanAir now aims to outdo the American airlines in cheapness, planning to remove half the seats (and justify several centuries of insulting Irish jokes). No movies, no food, no seats. It’s only a matter of time before the travel aspect of a flight also becomes an optional extra, as budget travellers are simply shoved in a flight simulator for a few hours.
With recent price wars, Qantas was as cheap as United, so I quickly booked on the Flying Kangaroo. It was a bit like a classy inner-city brasserie suddenly lowering their price to compete with McDonald’s. Why have a Big Mac when you can have fresh tagliatelle with cherry tomatoes? (OK, bad example.) What’s more, like most non-American airlines, Qantas has video-on-demand, with about three zillion movie and TV channels.
Those of you with long memories might recall that I used to be a film writer and reviewer for this newspaper. Back then, I would go to the movies several times each week, partly because I love the medium, and partly because got to see everything for free. That last reason was rather important. Nowadays, I don’t go to movies quite so often.
Hence, it was wonderful to have a 20-hour movie marathon from New York to Sydney (with a stopover in LA). I was determined not to waste this opportunity by sleeping on the plane. Guzzling more coffee at the airport than a Queensland doctor, I was bright and alert for my first movie, which was Wake in Fright. Qantas has a good selection of Australian movies, and this was one of those classics that I had somehow never seen, even recently when a fresh print was discovered and it was suddenly reappraised as Australia’s greatest-ever film. I wouldn’t go that far, but it was certainly impressive. No doubt it would have been even better with a decent sound system.
I continued through a couple more Aussie films (My Year Without Sex, an encore viewing of Kenny), a few Hollywood flicks (Two Lovers and something else that I’ve already forgotten) and a couple of docos, taking more coffee at every opportunity. Caffeine can only go so far, so eventually my brain was turning to blancmange. They had a selection of foreign arthouse films, but by this stage I was in no shape to appreciate them, even simple, sweet films like Shall We Kiss? (which I’d already seen, anyway). Instead, I saw New in Town because it has Renee Zellweger in it, and I was hoping that she was still cute after all these years. She was, and I was docile enough to find the film mildly amusing, though there is no logical reason why it was made (especially as Renee was much cuter in Jerry Maguire).
After “New in Town”, I was feeling rather tired, but forced myself to watch something else. I’d seen a lot of stuff on the way over to New York, so there was no great reason to see Star Trek or Sunshine Cleaning again. I’m one of the few people I know who’s never seen Australia, and I was quite proud of that, so I decided to retain my ignorance.
Instead, I sat half-awake through an early episode of MASH, saw a few episodes of 30 Rock, then saw an episode of The IT Crowd. I’d already seen it en route to NY but quite frankly, it’s one of the funniest television shows ever made.
After that, I went home and, from what I can remember, collapsed in my bed just after lunchtime. Worst jetlag I’ve had in years.
This column first appeared in The Canberra Times on 21 September 2009. By agreement with the author, it did not appear in the online edition.
10 October 2009
Political Correctness
All the recent offence caused by the blackface routines on Hey Hey It's Saturday and Safran's Race Relations has left me thinking about my column - published in The Canberra Times on August 24 - that somehow caught the zeitgeist more than a month too early. (It's always at the wrong time. This time it was too early.)
So far, I've been posting some of my older columns. From now on, I'll do more recent ones... starting with this one. Though it was written before the Hey Hey controversy, this says everything I need to say about the topic...
So far, I've been posting some of my older columns. From now on, I'll do more recent ones... starting with this one. Though it was written before the Hey Hey controversy, this says everything I need to say about the topic...
Our previous PM spoke out against political correctness, and I have to say, I agreed with him. Except in practice. Obviously, he didn’t like political correctness when it came to native Australians or refugees, but we had to be very PC after 9/11, when it suddenly became “inappropriate” to criticise him or his allies.
I’m not sure if the current PM has said anything about political correctness, but it seems that he likes it. Just ask the boys from The Chaser. Sure, they did some dopey things, but after the outcry (including Kevin Rudd’s tut-tutting) over their Make-a-Wish Foundation send-up, anyone would think that they were Kyle Sandilands.
Beyonce and her back-up dancers were black. Sorry, African-American. When watching the Double Take sketch, I noticed two things. Firstly, the singer/dancers have remarkably good figures for comediennes. (It’s not very PC to say that, is it? Bummer.) Secondly, while their hair and clothes are direct copies of the original, there is no attempt to make them look black. Sorry, African-American.
14 September 2009
Gender-Swap Remakes
OK, girls, what’s your favourite movie romance? Titanic? Gone with the Wind? How about one of those indistinguishable comedies starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan? My favourite was You’ve Got Mail, about two people who fall in love anonymously by sending emails to each other, unaware that they know (and despise) each other in real life. It’s a nice idea, but not everyone realises that it was a remake of a 1940 movie called The Shop Around the Corner, starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan. Of course, they didn’t have email in 1940, so when the movie was released it was considered an avant-garde work of science fiction. (No, not really. It actually was a movie about letter-writing, with no references to email. They missed a great opportunity there.)
Why do I mention all that? Because the way things are going, romantic movies might soon be the only way our favourite film actresses will be getting lead roles. With the failure of recent movies starring Our Nicole, Our Cate, Their Renee, Someone Else’s Charlize and other A-list leading ladies, Hollywood studios are rehashing their age-old theory that women are box-office poison. A Warner Bros bigwig has reportedly said that the studio will make no more movies with female leads.
This never made sense to me. Women go to the movies. I’ve seen them! Even if they didn’t, we men also like watching women in movies. Certain women, at least. Why else would Cameron Diaz be so popular?
Fortunately, I’m remarkably clever, so I have a solution. Did you see Jodie Foster last year in The Brave One. It’s Death Wish, except that the avenging, mass-murdering angel is (get ready for this) a WOMAN. This gave it an extra twist, and meant that nobody wanted to see it. But guys, it has violence! Bad people having their brains blown out! It has everything you could possibly want in a film!
Even if it failed, perhaps Hollywood needs this kind of movie to restore the gender balance. Rather than giving its leading ladies more girly roles, it needs to give them the same cool roles that it gives its leading men. Hilary Swank’s whole career has been based on such roles. She dressed as a man in Boys Don’t Cry and disguised herself as a man in another film (though, as that was a major plot twist, I won’t tell you which one). When not doing that, she’s played decidedly masculine roles like Karate kids and champion boxers. And she has better box-office than Our Nicole.
So that’s what we need: more boys’ stories with female heroes. That sounds easy enough. Just get some popular movies and rewrite them, a la The Brave One.
I AM LEGEND: Reese Witherspoon is the last woman on Earth. Like the Will Smith version, this movie should be terrifying, especially to a great deal of men.
IRON WOMAN: Lindsay Lohan steps into Robert Downey Jr’s shoes, as a talented actor trying to rescue her career after a downward spiral of drugs, alcoholism, rehab and bad career choices. (Oh, and she plays a superhero too.)
THE ADVENTURES OF CHRISTOPHER, KING OF THE DESERT: Julie Christie, Rachel Griffiths and Natalie Blair play a transsexual man and two drag kings who travel across the Outback to do a show in which they put on garish costumes and perform old Dr Hook and Village People songs. (I don’t know about you, but I reckon this one could actually work.)
If all this fails, we can always find some older movies and modernise them, a la You’ve Got Mail…
SOME LIKE IT HOT: Sandra Bullock and Scarlett Johansson play members of an all-female thrash-punk band who witness a murder, then avoid the mob by disguising themselves as the guitarist and bass player of Whitesnake (because even the mob has too much taste). With Bette Midler as the eccentric millionaire who falls for Sandra. Imagine the hilarious scene at the end in which, as they embark on their honeymoon, Sandra finally peels off her false moustache and says “Dammit, Brunnhilda, I’m a woman!” To which Bette says “Good. Now you’re perfect.”
CITIZEN KANE: Tycoon Charlotte Frances Kane (Laura Linney) dies, and her final word is “Rosebud.” A crusading reporter (Naomi Watts) goes searching for the meaning of that final word, and realizes that it was the secret ingredient of her new cosmetics product that will save her company and save the world. It also brings her back to life because, as any all-knowing Hollywood executive could tell you, nothing ruins a movie more than a downbeat ending.
Apart from a female lead, of course.
Column originally posted in The Canberra Times, 26 May 2008.
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