Pens and Swords

This poster says it all, really, but I’ll elaborate.

My reviews so far have been pretty positive, as I don’t usually consume media I won’t like. But I regretfully admit that I have made the odd mistake, so it’s time to remove the gloves and sharpen my claws on H. G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds, as butchered (sorry, retold in contemporary fashion) by Steven Spielberg.  Aliens land. Aliens destroy, conquer and are then themselves destroyed by a twist of fate.

This is surely a story hard to ruin, especially with modern technical movie wizardry. Yet the movie has been shorn of its context. The British Empire at the time of writing (the late 1800s) was entirely different to modern-day America. The idea of the British Empire itself being colonised and its indigenous life all-but-obliterated by mighty invaders was deliciously ironic, but Spielberg’s version happily disregards this subtext in its relentless quest for Tom-Cruise-ification.

To  those who think I’m a hopeless purist and that Spielberg could add value to and even strengthen the story with a modern context, I say all right. For argument’s sake, ditch the historical setting. But my teeth aren’t all the way in yet, so bear with me.

Wells’ unnamed protagonist had no daughter as Tom Cruise does in the film. He was a scientific journalist separated from his wife. This separation provided its own narrative drive; his observations were sharpened by a sense of isolation. By ditching this dynamic and making him a father, Spielberg lost an opportunity to comment on isolation, and the gathering and processing of information in contemporary life. He relied on the much more predictable effect of the Independence Day-type format - imminent destruction of the main (usually male) character’s wife, kid, dog and so forth - to provide emotional texture.

As I’ve shown in a previous post, I’m the last person to cast aspersions on the lovably simple Independence Day. It’s just that I have this nagging feeling H. G. Wells never intended to be lovably simple. His understated, journalistic style was what made The War of the Worlds terrify audiences in Orson Welles’ radio-play version. People thought it was real. This sense of reality, his British restraint, if you like, was what made Wells famous.

Usually I love Spielberg for his action, family values, cute kids and alternately weepy and triumphant scores. But in this case he should have shown some Wellsian restraint. Arguably, a lot of viewers were going to be H. G. Wells fans and he owed that demographic as much as any other. If he was going to use the words “H. G. Wells” and “legacy” in the opening credits at all, he should have at least attempted to give that legacy what it deserves.

Gone was the chilling portrait of society’s typical hubris, its slowness to recognise the seriousness of the threat in time to save itself. Unused was the potential for electrifying cinematic use of the Red Weed. As a plot and visual device, the alien takeover of gardens, earth, buildings familiar to us all by an unknown red plant could have been both menacing and beautiful – uncanny, as Freud would have said. Instead it is used in a token, decidedly unspectacular way. Underdeveloped were the complex theories about the aliens, their landing methods, capabilities and the structure and function of their Heat Ray. Subtlety and detail was replaced by corpses floating down a river.

Normally I like corpses, but these were beside the point. In fact, the part where a few corpses might have been well-placed is cut. The road scene early on in the novel in which a mass exodus of panicked people trample each other in the effort to get out of town, showed the human race as a frightening and dangerous force in itself. It was poignant and scary, and not using it wasted another opportunity to nuance the story.

Little time seems to elapse in this movie, particularly before and after the violent bits, when the narrator is observing the cylinder and later hiding out in the abandoned house watching the aliens and going a bit mad. The novel used this sense of passing time to built tension and show how the aftermath to disaster is even worse than the high-octane horror in a way, because it lacks the hope of adrenaline.

Instead you are rushed through a simplistic, atmosphere-free tale in which everything’s fine, then fucked, then over, and I am monumentally disappointed.

Part biography, history and travel narrative yet surpassing all in sum, Martin Edmonds’ story of the Burke and Wills expedition is told through the life and death of its scientist, naturalist, collector and artist, Ludwig Becker.

Reflective and atmospheric, Edmonds’ descriptive work fleshes out the human side of Becker and the expedition and teases out the tragedy at the heart of what I previously thought of as a rather dry story, told to death.  

Snippets, anecdotes and quotes taken from Becker’s notes illuminate the atmosphere and humanity (both good and bad) Edmonds picked from the story’s bones. Edmond makes Becker real and immediate, so much so that by the end I really don’t want to hear the rest; for it’s not a particularly happy story.

Nevertheless I am compelled to go on.

Now it has taken a place in my mental collection of haunting representations and stories: alongside Sidney Nolan and Peter Carey’s Ned Kelly; Capote’s In Cold Blood; and Joan Lindsay and Perer Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock.

Past and present blend as the narrative alternates between Burke & Wills’ expedition and that of the author following, albeit much more safely, in their footsteps years later.

The land he is seeing draws the author’s thoughts repeatedly back into the story of the doomed expedition, and one of Edmond’s major achievements is to give you a sense of not only what the land looks like today and how it looked 150 years ago, but 50 000 years ago before he, Ludwig, Burke or Wills ever walked upon it.  

A finely worked sense of ominous inevitability grows in the reader as we hear the now-familiar details of the party’s demise.  

Discord grows between the dwindling numbers of men in the party. Gradually, and necessarily, they discard the camels, trackers, people, other supplies and hundreds of litres of rum which were catalogued with such pride at the journey’s beginning.

Becker is eventually required not for his artistic services but for the extra pair of hands that may make the difference between life and death. He is forced to leave behind the careful records, the tasks and equipment that constituted both his life’s work and his purpose for being on the expedition.

Edmonds draws a vivid, heartbreaking picture of Becker: ill, injured, bullied by the sadistic Burke and forced to make his observations and artworks at night. His love of his work, and unshaking commitment to it, is fully realised as we are shown the completeness of his exhaustion yet his absolute determination to continue with his mission as long as he is able to pick up a pencil.

The uniqueness of this book is its marriage of the human story with art history; Edmonds clearly has a deep respect for Becker’s artwork. I was as affected as he by the uniqueness of the work, which Edmond describes as in the tradition of miniaturing and portraiture - mixing scientific precision and detail, yet illuminating its subjects with whimsical, the fantastic and the grotesque.

In this crucial aspect the book is let down by its publication in trade paperback with a few measly reproductions in the centre, so small that the reader is forced to read the words and use the pictures as a sort of imaginative aid to help fill in details and colours described and vitally important to the story thematically, yet invisible in the versions shown.

I would love the opportunity to buy this in a coffee-table, hardcover format, with full-page glossy reproductions and more illustrations taken from Becker’s notes, already so painstakingly sourced by Edmond.

As Edmond’s background to this process recounts, he says to the librarians who want to know why he wants to access Becker’s jealously guarded sketchbook and poorly lit paintings that there is no substitute for seeing the originals. And why block access to art the public doesn’t know or care about anyway?  

Therefore, it is a shame the scale and pathos of these rare reproductions weren’t given justice, though I recognise the market for such a book would be almost negligible.

To give the art community access to a book that rests firmly in the Australian history section would achieve Edmond’s goal far better – to give Becker his rightful place and recognition in art as well as history. As it is, the book is forced to be less than it was originally capable of, much like Becker at the close of his journey.

Yet this cannot undermine the subtle, scholarly elegance with which Edmond has written his elegy; it will certainly remain in my consciousness, as will Edmond himself.

 A blend of science fiction and literature, the story of Jimmy, Oryx and Crake is set against the backdrop of the destruction of the human race.

Their story is partly an echo of this process, played out on an intimate scale.

The book also points out, as does Crake himself, that human development comes down to individual feelings and actions.

That is, nobody, no matter how great in scale their plans, is immune to their own humanity. In the end people make their decisions according to this incontovbertible humanity rather than anything else.  

Although for this reader, a question mark still hangs quietly over Crake’s own motives.

By remaining silent on this Atwood seems to be saying some things cannot be explained.

She forces your mind to bend in an effort to comprehend, to reconcile causes and outcomes. And this - to me - is the point of literature, to explore what inside and outside yourself and others, whether you end up with understanding or a greater sense of the ultimate incomprehensibility of the world.  

Oryx’s past happened, and yet again it did not. Her scars were those of human beings in general, her nameless sisters.

Oryx’s feelings may be genuine, or yet again may not. Her experiences are hers yet she does not own them. This decentralisation of human experience is repeated in various guises. News and the internet feature heavily in the “before” scenes. People are put on display, removed from reality. Jimmywatches old movies in silence, precious artefacts of a world forever removed from him.

The story is so incomplete, as all life feels in a way to those who are living it, always striving for greater understanding, greater security, greater happiness. Stories do not really end (well, we and the characters live as though they don’t) and nothing is explained, either by the Almighty All-Powerful or Margaret Atwood (or perhaps, as I have long suspected, the two are one and the same.)

This element was perceived by some critics as a lack of emotional depth; I can see how a reader could feel that way. There is a definite element of the parable in this book.

And yet Atwood’s creation is so richly detailed, so full in its suggestions. The blanks are pointed out rather than painted over.

This makes Jimmy’s consciousness of his own very apparent mortality especially devastating. Wounded but proceeding, he brings to mind thoughts of immortality. As Crake describes it,

“Immortality is a concept. If you take ‘mortality’ as being, not death, but the foreknowledge of it and the fear of it, then ‘immortality’ is the absence of such fear…”

John Malkovich reportedly said somewhere he wanted to make an action movie for himself. I hope the idea of this excites you as much as it did me.

What Malkovich apparently wanted was pure adrenaline and fun, and Red has this in spades.

It’s a promising premise for a film – a bunch of retired secret agents join up for one last escapade - and it’s executed masterfully. The best comedy comes from Malkovich’s ultra-paranoid, twitchy and irrational character, but he’s perfectly complemented by the rest of his ‘old’ friends and the plot continues to generate and build on its own momentum and you find yourself genuinely emotionally engaged – when misfortune that seems insurmountable catches up with a certain character, you really, truly care!

Well, I did. The movie has heart, as well as brains, balls, bawdiness and funnies (I couldn’t be bothered thesaurusing till I found a humour-related b-word) and there’s never a boring moment. 

It’s got a killer cast – Helen Mirren is dynamite, and her hapless Russian love interest provides her with the ideal comic foil. I’ve never found a sixty-something year old lady hot before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Mary-Louise Parker does some beautiful rubberfaced comedy and manages not to annoy me even once even as a helplesss female character.

Bruce Willis is as tough and cool as always (I sure hope he plans on being cryogenically frozen, because I don’t think I can stand to live in a world without Bruce Willis making action movies).

John Malkovich is worryingly good at being an LSD-addled, compulsively murderous conspiracy theorist.

Morgan Freeman as good as ever, and, somewhat worryingly, is wonderfully convincing as an infirm 84-year-old.

Love the cameo-type role of underground records officer played by Ernest Borgnine, who really should be cast as Mr Toad in a Wind in the Willows adaptation without delay.

The movie has great action sequences with stylish fighting – but the fighting remains visceral and not TOO stylish (If you don’t know what I mean by too stylish, think Angelina Jolie-type-action). To illustrate, Bruce Willis channels John McCain in a  memorable running exit from a speeding car, emerging upright and shooting in an impossible stunt – but at no point does the movie sell itself short by relying on clever tricks like this. They add to the sense of pace and style but are used judiciously enough not to detract from the film’s main strengths, namely, characterisation and humour.

I hate describing things as ‘romps’ but this, if any movie does, deserves the old cliche. There is a sense of pure enjoyment and energy about it that is charming, but it keeps its edge with the perfectly choreographed action and acting clout that its veteran cast brings to the table.    

A simple but beautiful narrative that showcases Obama’s gift with words and soul-searching bent.

It’s not a particularly political book. It’s a traditional autobiography, dealing with childhood and coming-of-age. It does, however, cover how Obama first got into politics and public life when he became an adult. For those interested in his entry to the political arena , it offers a valuable insight into the challenges of those early days, but it’s still very much tied in with his youth and the motivations that brought about his entry into this life.

Though it’s not by any means a lofty philosophical work, remaining accessible and simple in structure throughout, the most striking aspect of the work that lifts it out of being just a chronology  is Obama’s continuing preoccupation with questions of identity, belonging and change – about reconciling your self, your family, your past and your future. 

Obama betrays a sensibility of the higher issues dealt with in philosophy and academia in relation to these issues, but never alienates the reader by becoming dry or impersonal in style or language.

Instead he shows that he feels keenly the same struggles that all men and women encounter in their hearts and asks himself the same questions we all ask of ourselves: about who they are, what they should do with their lives and where in the world they might belong. 

And in his case, of course, the answer turned out to be extraordinary, but I think for that you have to read his next one, The Audacity of Hope.

Published 26 January 2011

This is a blow-by-blow from the NY Times executive editor on how the collaboration between Assange, Wikileaks, The NY Times and The Guardian came about and was handled by all parties concerned.

Keller describes the reaction inside the US Government as they were briefed on the explosive nature of the leaks, and details the eventual breakdown of relations between the Times and Assange.

Lengthy, but fascinating in its level of candid detail, it paints some memorable pictures of Assange, and includes a link to a more detailed study of him. The whole article, in fact, is filled with links to other stories that are gripping in their own right and shows the web of connections between stories, events, people and organisations that a story of this magnitude forms.  

You could easily get lost in this article’s links for several hours, if you had the inclination to explore the web in more detail.

The article is 9 pages on its own, but if you have the time and even the slightest interest, it’s worth it.

By the end, the article ends its chronology of events and widens to a reflection of the attention and criticisms journalism as a profession has received since the affair broke out, and becomes a steadying reflection on the role of the press in a democracy.

And no, this article is not relentlessly pro-Assange. In fact, it’s measured and thoughtful.  Keller gives considered replies to what he describes as the three primary types of criticisms he, his profession  and his paper have received as a result of the Wikileaks scandal:

1. The uselfulness of the leaks themselves – what are they for? Who do they benefit? What’s the point?
2. Risk – to individuals and their opinions revealed in diplomatic cables and so forth. Who do they harm? Who might they harm? Keller goes through the different harm minimisation measures taken by the news media as opposed to the treatment of sensitive information by Wikileaks itself.
3. Accusation of news media losing independence by way of partnership with Assange.

Keller has had the chance to consider these issues and his own beliefs over past months and he shares them freely and carefully.

Highly recommended.

Source:

Toy Story 3 had a lot riding on it: certainly the affection of myself and my entire age group, who basically grew up alongside Andy and had very high expectations born of the high quality of the first first two movies. A trilogy or series comes with a guarantee of a loyal crowd at the box office, but this is balanced by the responsibility to get things right. Filmmakers can, and often do, ignore that responsibility at their peril.

Even outside this personal attachment  to the series, anyone who watches this movie will relate to the central idea. Everyone has had to struggle with the changing significance of a beloved childhood toy. Do you keep it? Give it away? Throw it out? Surely not!

We all need to see this struggle faithfully represented.

Andy, now 17, knows he can’t take his toys to college. He also can’t face the dustbin, so he chooses the attic.

Of course the toys never make it to the attic and are pitched out by his well-meaning mother. Hilarity and confusion ensue. Woody knows there’s been a mistake and is desperate to make it back to Andy; the rest of the toys pity him as deluded and try to embrace a new life in a daycare centre.

The structure and pace are faultless, an assault on the attention span. Although it is incredibly fast-paced, it sustains attention with the feeling of the whole story being one scene that just keeps extending relentlessly into the next catastrophe. I’ll wager kids would be as glued to their seats as I was. If something can go wrong, it most certainly will (and has, RIGHT NOW!)

This escalates until the climax, which is almost amusingly epic. Yet you care so much about these toys you won’t laugh.

You just perch on the edge of your seat, entranced by a fabulous use of scale that shows just how vulnerable these tiny beings are; how much they love each other and will stick together until the bitter end.

The animation is spot on and endlessly impressive, particularly the scenes at the children’s playrooms, which glow with colour, life, cuteness and creativity. The care and appreciation that’s gone into the movement of a bunch of toys and dolls has an almost uncannily beautiful result. But it’s nothing nothing less than they deserve. They have a grace, humanity and momentum that’s vintage Pixar.

Andy is done as you would wish. His appearance, movements and speech are all pitch-perfect 17-year-old, as is his confusion about the best final resting place of the relics of his childhood.

This movie never hits a wrong note. It’s hilarious without being heartless, and touching without being sickly. Somehow, the makers managed to find a perfect ending for the series and please all parties. Everyone gets a good deal. You won’t have to hate Andy, and neither will his toys.  

At its heart is an honest recognition of an emotional truth – how attached human beings can become to objects. If you put the time into it, it is in many ways alive and worthy of your love. Anyway, that’s how I justify crying like a little bitch at the end.

British comedy sketch show is more or less it. 

But I like this! Is good! Stars, among other most excellently comedic people, Nick Frost the guy who was in Shaun of the Dead (among other things). 

And just ridiculous enough to please of a slightly sadistic bent who like things like Shaun of the Dead, IT crowd, or Black Books. 

Disclaimer: So far, I’ve only watched the first episode. 

Nothing to complain about regarding the premise, which is great. People are all young in this post-apocalyptic, futuristic utopia, and only reach thirty. They’re colour-coded as they age, making for some bangin’ costumes around a central theme of slender limbs and unfettered breasts, and at 29 are ‘Renewed’ (read: exploded and killed) by a Carousel that whirls them ridiculously around as they happily stretch their limbs out, waiting for oblivion.

They have cool red crystals in their palms that start blinking when it’s nearly carking time. That’s when they know that soon they willingly give themselves up to the clearly benign Carousel.

If they feel in any way suspicious about this process, and decide to ‘Run’, the poor fools get shot, or ‘Terminated,’ by police equivalents, who have cool explody guns, before they get as far as the next  gleaming white staircase.

Logan, one such enforcer, begins to doubt about the whole thing when he hears about the possible existence of a world beyond the bubble, from a woman who appears on the complex’s prostitute/sex slave conveyor belt-type-thing (I know, right?!!)

As you will now be realising, this is perfectly, reliably old-school sci-fi for those who have the itch to see other worlds and otherworldly objects (and hot 70s girls without bras). For example, the people in this world have cars that whiz through the air in glassy tubes, which every good sci-fi movie should feature regardless of subject.

Everyone in this world is notably thin and sexy seeing as you never see anyone do any exercise except wander languidly about being young. However, you never see them eat either, so I guess it’s fair.

The sets are very cool. From the split-golf-ball ‘bubble’ world the majority of the movie is set in, to the post-apocalyptic ruins of the outside world, the movie uses scale excellently to set scenes and goes blissfully nuts with ‘advanced’ computers and sci-fi devices, cars and other machines that don’t need to be explained (or indeed explainable) to serve their purpose.

The average fan doesn’t need an explanation either, if it’s stylish enough, and anyway you expect old sci-fi movies to make the impossible possible without even approaching actual science. It’s hardly H.G. Wells, but it’s part of their charm and part of why you watch a movie like this in the first place. After all, movies are about escapism.

The old man character, if you get as far as him, is the best character of the lot, and may or not be the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz movie. I couldn’t be bothered checking.

The female lead is pathetic. She can’t even scream at a critical moment when she is in trouble, let alone do anything sensible like carrying a weapon or using one. She merely gapes in astonishment, thereby ensuring that she will go down in history as yet another lame movie bitch who couldn’t lift a finger (or a tonsil) to save herself or anyone else.  Her talents are: holding hands, taking her clothes on and off, and looking hot no matter how dirty she gets.

_______________________SPOILERS___________________________________________________

When the male character chooses a spectacularly unsuccessful way to prove to their colourful peers that there really is a world outside where people can and do get old (they have an old man to prove it, but choose to get in via a route they can’t take him, so they rely on shouting crazily at people), the female character decides she will help by shouting the exact same thing that has already proved unsuccessful.  

_______________________END SPOILERS_______________________________________________

Everything takes a few minutes too many in every scene for my 21^st-century sensibility, so that by the end you are wanting to shout GET ON WITH IT at the screen. After you’re halfway through, the scenes just aren’t interesting enough to be so drawn-out. My housemate suggested I call this review “Logan’s Walk”.

However, if you are a vintage sci-fi lover who loves cool sets, atmosphere, hot bodies, lasers, explody guns, inexplicable silver robots and feet that can stand bare on snow and remain uninjured, this is the movie for you and it famous enough that you should really see it.

I do recommend watching it, but I don’t necessarily recommend finishing it.  

NB: If you like the premise but not the sound of the movie, then I recommend reading the 1993 young adult/kids book called The Giver by Lois Lowry. This has some similar plot and style elements but much better execution and conclusion. It also develops the thematic material a lot more strongly.  Don’t be put off by the age category – people of any age would enjoy this book if they are interested in the subject matter. 

OK, so possibly I was a little mad to think I was really going to achieve a full-text, in-depth review once a week for my baby blog, born during the silliest season of all, and before a killer what-may-be-my-last session of uni. 

So I’m going to make this a little easier for everybody, because my guess is, everyone’s too hungover to read a lot at the moment anyway. 

Presenting, therefore, my guide to what I’ve been consuming recently, and how good, or not, it all was. You’ll be happy to know I’m not including foodstuffs. I don’t want anyone to know what I’ve eaten recently. 

Parrot and Olivier in America by Peter Carey. Novel: Literature, 2009. 

Sadly, the picture of the cover is not that of the incredibly DROOLINGLY HANDSOME BLACK LEATHER-BOUND WITH STAMPED TITLE LIMITED EDITION SIGNED BY AUTHOR WITH RED RIBBON BOOKMARK copy that I have been reading. But I can’t really take a photo that will showcase its beauty. 

I haven’t finished this yet. But as his novels get bigger and weirder, the more I love them. Even if you start a Peter Carey book thinking “oh, this is set in a place/time/culture that I know” you will soon leave your own realities far, far behind, scrabbling for footholds in Carey’s completely unique universe. No two books are the same, except for his reliably amazing writing, and - so far - this one has not disappointed. It’s talked about By Jennifer Byrne and the team on the ABC’s First Tuesday Book Club Christmas Special, 5/12/10. Watch the video here: http://www.abc.net.au/tv/firsttuesday/

SAS: The Search for Warriors. Two-Part Documentary: Military History, 2010 

For the first time in 25 years the SAS has allowed documentary photography. The resulting two-hour-ish experience spread over two episodes is unrelenting, adrenaline-filled, clear-your-schedule viewing and should not be missed. Whether you’re a military history devotee or absolutely not, you have my personal guarantee that you will be fascinated by every solitary minute of this deeply impressive and thought-provoking doco. 

Watch it here: http://www.sbs.com.au/documentary/program/sasthesearchforwarriors

Independence Day. Movie: Science Fiction/Action, 1996

You can’t go wrong with this movie. You need to watch this intermittently throughout the whole of your adult life to retain top mental functioning and psychological health. An admirable choice for your Boxing Day stupors, now and in the future. 

Quotable quote: Once again, the L.A.P.D. is asking Los Angelenos not to fire their guns at the visitor spacecraft. You may inadvertently trigger an interstellar war.