mellowdramatix

Guess what you're reading? It's the first LJ post I've made from my new office at the university. Well, I am sharing it with two other people, but since they're not here today it's MY office. The computer isn't too bad either; it might even be a bit flasher than mine at home, especially since mine has gone on strike or something and is refusing to run at a proper speed, but that's another story.

I'm still not enrolled yet though. My status has sat at "Pending" for nearly two weeks now and when I made some enquiries yesterday I found out that it hasn't changed because I haven't submitted the enrolment form that NO ONE told me about, which has to also be signed by my H.O.D. and the Dean, as well as about 20 other people (probably; anyone who knows the university's administration will understand). This really fucked me off and made me want to unload at everyone I've been dealing with (I did ask on more than one occassion if there was anything else I needed to do and was told "No"), but I know that if I did they'd treat like shit for the rest of the year, so I have to be all sunhine and lollipops to their faces. Damn academia!

It really feels like I've arrived, though. I've started my Masters, got 3,500 words to do by next Friday (haven't started) and I'm gradually adjusting to the idea of having all my free time ripped away from me like a ball of yarn from an angry kitten. Good times. If only I was enrolled, then I could get the allowance and not to work so much. Oh well, give it time I 'spose.

Also, there's a Clash poster on the wall here. Nice.

In the news today:

-The idea to crush the cars of offending boy racers has been squashed by the finance companies worried about their payments being threatened. Never mind that it's their fault that these morons have their cars in the first place as well as all the other harm they've done to the economy by dishing out easy credit to people who could never afford to pay it back.

-Everyone's pissed off at Christian Bale for unloading a fierce tirade of abuse at a DP on the set of the next Terminator movie, insisting that no one deserves to be yelled at like that. I've been abused worse for far less so I don't see what everyone else is on about. If a guy is constantly messing up the scenes of a passionate method actor like Bale, especially if it's high in emotional tension, then he should anticipate an earful, and rightfully so. Shouldn't expect any different on the set of a movie being made by the guy who directed Charlie's Angels though.

-Two of the people arrested in conjunction with the death of Nia Glassie could be out of jail by August. That'll learn 'em! I'm also sure the mother of 10 who was caught drink driving while heavily pregnant will learn her lesson from the community service the defence counsel wants. Bonus points for the judge who doesn't want to lay charges despite numerous warnings for drinking and her comment to a probation officer that she doesn't want to give up drinking because she likes it too much.

-A Waikato train driver received a hail of bottles and stones after he stopped and advised some kids that playing chicken with trains on a bridge might not be so safe, illustrating why I never bother to help out the little shits.

Honestly, I'm usually not too affected by the news or people's reactions to it, but this really depresses me. Now more than ever, I really, honestly, deeply loathe people of all colours, creeds and gender.

Except you, of course.

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4 weeks since posting.

Man, it just feels like such a chore these days, like calling my mother. A lot of the time it's really hard to come up with a lot of stuff worth posting and when you do, it's impossible to find the effort or time to broadcast it to the world. Is it 'cause I'm not as bored any more? Since holidays began I've been devouring legions of books/movies/albums in between working some extra shifts at work, and it's been a welcome relief from having to read/watch/listen to something studiously, which is an efficient method for killing any joy you may have experienced otherwise. Almost as a cleanser, I've gobbled up a lot of Stephen King film adaptations and read IT, which took me about a month, with it's 1100-odd pages and all. Most of it's been pretty mint. Check out The Mist if you haven't already - it's one of the best horror films I've ever seen and has future classic smeared all over it.

One classic I seem to have missed the boat on is The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Maybe I'm oblivious to something, 'cause I found it a bit silly and boring. All the screaming shredded my nerves after a while and it was REALLY hard to care about what happened to the characters. And I can say that, because I've seen it now, so at least there's that.

Apart from having to be a bit tighter with my dollars lately, things have been pretty good. Results came in and I got a B, a B+, an A- and an A, so that's cool. In the process of applying for a MA for next year, just got to write up my proposal. It has to be a few pages, but it's double-spaced too, so that's not so bad. All I gotta do is come up with some decent waffling.

Also, this film rocks balls:


There don't seem to be many people who've heard of King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters, but it deserves a big audience. You've got Billy Mitchell, former teenage video game champion and world record holder in Donkey Kong, who now has a restaurant, his own line of hot sauce and a tribe of slavish devotees who make up the world of competitive video gaming. You've got Steve Wiebe, a science teacher who takes up Donkey Kong and smashes Billy's record, only to have his record attempt ignored and his general presence abhorred. Then it turns into a nerd's Rocky, a true underdog story for the ages. The best thing is that it's a documentary. Fuck reality TV, that shit's for chumps.

It only took me a few months of going there to realise that the people who frequent Digg aren't always the cream of the crop in terms of intelligence, sense of humour and creativity. Yet I can still barely believe the amount of uproar generated by MTV's apparent decision not to award Rick Astley (you know, the 'Rick Roll' guy) their "Best Act Ever" award, despite overwhelming votes in his favour. Now, even though I don't care, I can see how it's a dick move on MTV's part, but I wouldn't expect anything else from them either. At any rate, it certainly isn't worth the fury expressed in the comments. How can anyone with anything close to what most of us would call a life care that much about an internet meme, especially one that should only appeal to pre-pubescent boys? The act of Rick Rolling isn't far removed from prank calling and while I don't cast judgement on anyone who finds it funny, placing this much importance in it seems impossible lame to me.

The worst part is that it's just some guy's blog; there isn't any link to an official MTV site, so how do they even know it's genuine? Few things piss me off more than blind belief, and these guys even have Republicans beat.

Dammit, I really should've seen this coming.

Along with No Country Old Men, which was such a massive disappointment that it's put me off ever watching a new Coen brothers film again (Burn After Reading looks like the kind of stupid bullshit you'd make if you had researched the theoretical structures of comedy without actually understanding humour yourself, like a guitar player who is technically amazing at playing but wouldn't know a good riff if it cut his nose off), There Will Be Blood has been hailing as one of "the" films to watch this year, but guess what?

It. Is. Fucking. Boring.

It's about 2 1/2 hours long and practically nothing happens. Daniel Day-Lewis shows his magnificient acting skills, the cinematography is wonderful and the soundtrack (provided by Radiohead's Johnny Greenwood) is suitaby evocative. But so what, when there's almost no plot or interesting characters for these formidable talents to utiliise. As per bloody usual, however, this bland, empty, meandering claptrap is being met with high critical praise and topping Top 10 lists everywhere.

Makes me want to throw up. I couldn't maintain my attention span after the first hour was over, which is a shame because I had really looked to watching this for months and have only just been able to find the time. Perhaps the worst sin is the dialogue. It's not as horrible as, say, a horror movie, but it's nowhere near good enough to belong to a film hailed as a "classic" (apparently it only takes a year before a film can be deemed classic by whomever decides such things). Watching it reminded me of watching movies like Babel, which I thought would be an awesome film but was actually just a depressing hodge-podge that didn't deserve it's 150 minutes or so.

This could've been a great film, but the sad, inescapable fact is that there's no point to any of it. Most great films have some sort of point to make, even if it's trite, but this film seems to only exist to look pretty and convince critics that it's wearing the emperor's latest line of clothes. What bugs me the most is that I like to think of myself as someone who knows their movies, but again and again I find myself disagreeing strongly with the majority of critics on films like this. It's like scenesters of any variety: there are groud rules laid out about who is and who isn't worthy of praise and, regardless of the actual quality of their product, they are to be abhorred or adored. If going to university has taught me one thing, it's that you can make an argument for or against anything so long as you can find an appropriate context into which you can squeeze it.

Just more faux-intellectual bullshit for the masses I guess. Now Forgetting Sarah Marshall, there's a movie!

For fuck's sake Hell. Almost nothing offends me, but Hell Pizza's lame, "controversial" campaigns always manage to raise my ire. OK, the Hitler thing was kinda funny, but handing out condoms? Making fun of Steve Irwin's death? They might as well just launch a postcard campaign saying "We're called Hell - shocking, right? Doesn't it just INFLAME you?" for how pathetic and obvious their schtick is. Like Marilyn Manson, it's all about trying to appear edgy, but that's hard to do when everything you do is just a lame retread of someone who did it better. How dumb do you really have to be to make fun of Sir Edmund Hillary in a New Zealand advertisement when his bones haven't even been cold a year? You'd have to be even dumber to throw Heath Ledger into the mix, and all for the sake of drawing attention to their overpriced, although decent, pizzas.

Isaac Hayes dead at 65.

First Bernie Mac, now this? Someone better keep an eye on Samuel L. Jackson.

At least Chef got a decent send-off.

That's what Johnny Rotten said about Shakespeare's Richard III (the character that is, not the actual play) in his autobiography. This week I had to plough through it for my Shakespeare Adaptation class and it's random to hear that someone like Johnny Bloody Rotten can identify with a major character in English literature and still sing about being pretty va...cunt. It cracks me up though; Richard III (the play) was written to hassle the guy of the same name in order to fit in with the opinions of Elizabeth I and allow Big Willy to keep his head, while the guy who ended up rallying against everything Elizabeth II stands for identifies with him.

...

Maybe that one's just for me.

Anyway, yeah, busy semester. I'm lousy at Shakespeare so getting through a play a week as well as grappling with an adaptation is chore enough without having to read a novel a week for NZ Literature. At least I enjoy that one though; we just finished getting stuck into this impossibly pretentious and toffy book called Different Kinds of Pleasure. It's all about these poncy rich fucks getting into ballet and latin and cricket and stuff like that while whining about their lives and doing nothing to fix their problems. Also, the most interesting characters get killed off or made to look bad, so it was pretty insulting all round. Great fun to savage in class though.

Other than that, life's going pretty good. I think Em and I have been going out for about a six months or so, so that's awesome. Turned 25 the other week too, which means I get $220 a week from the gummit instead of $191 like I used to, so that's awesome. Went and saw The Dark Knight last week and that was just stone cold wicked bad sweet. Can't wait to buy the DVD.

But yeah, things are pretty good all over. If only I wasn't forced into doing a Shakespeare paper, then I'd be set.

I wouldn't have minded.

OK.

Everyone who knows me knows that I'm somewhat of a film buff and that I'm, without wanting to sound like a wanker, fairly intelligent when it comes to interpretation, symbolism and all that sorta thing. No Country For Old Men, aka the winner of the Best Picture Oscar earlier this year, is a film I've been wanting to see for ages. Everyone I know who saw it told me it was wicked. I've been having this movie's merits expressed to me ever since someone was able to download it. I like the Coen brothers and I love the idea of a GOOD movie being released for once, so I couldn't wait for it to be released at the store.

Guess what? It fucking sucked.

Well, to be fair, the first 3/4 ruled, with it's fantastic cinematography, superb acting and excellent storyline and pacing. But then, at around the 1 hour 30 minutes mark, the story grinds to a halt and just peters out, leaving the remaining characters to indulge in pointless, meandering monologues that don't explain anything or entertain anyone. Basically, it's the film equivalent of beating Bowser at the end of a world in Super Mario Bros. and being told that the princess is in the other castle.

Yet the film's getting almost universal praise. Admittedly, it's better than the other crap that gets flung out nowadays, but at least Cloverfield entertained me and left me feeling energised rather than...nothing. In fact, Cloverfield is one of the few new movies I've watched this year that have been any good in any measure of the word [also worth watching is Infamous, The Dajeeling Ltd., Juno and Perfume: Story of a Murderer, but I digress], assuring me that decent new movies are the lastest endangered species. Pretty much everything that comes out is either overwhelmingly generic, undermade, overloaded with bad CGI or just too damn arty-farty. Some big budget blockbusters get a pass because of their role as blatantly mindless entertainment, but most of the time they even fuck that up [except maybe for Iron Man, which I've heard is good from many sources and is getting almost universal...wait a minute!].

But No Country is a film that should've been a slam dunk. The Coen's have an amazing pedigree and they do sinister violence with a subtlety rarely seen in a world overrun by Saw clones. Maybe there's something I was missing. Checking out messageboards only resulted in me getting further annoyed as it's full of people being called morons and dumbarses for not liking or getting the movie, making it seem like the kind of movie that only pricks like so they can joke with other pricks about the uncouth commoners who need things like "closure" and "entertainment" and "coherency" in their movies. So, apparently, the only thing stopping me from enjoying this movie is that I'm not a prick.

Actually, I take that back. What stopped me enjoying this movie is that it finishes rather than ends. Like Broken Flowers, No Country is techincally brilliant yet doesn't have a proper ending and just cuts to black at a random moment, as if there was a stopwatch by the camera letting them know when they had enough to pad out a movie. This being a bad movie isn't in itself such a bad thing, but it bugs me that THIS is what is getting all the critical praise, meaning that I can't really trust anyone's word on what makes a good movie, possibly because our standards are so low now thanks to years of half-arsed filmmaking.

Usually I wouldn't go on a rant like this on here, but it pisses me off so much that I needed a outlet and I'd only be branded an idiot if I dared to try and have a proper discussion on a messageboard. No wonder I read more these days.

Amen Mayor Smuckles.

The last few weeks have been a real mixed bag. More on that when I feel like telling.

Big Day Out was powerhouse.
Heath Ledger died, what a massive drag. Every time I saw a DVD cover with his face on it at work tonight I felt my heart skip a little.
Auckland was well fun, like usual.
My natural grandmother also died, another drag.
I got enough holiday pay for me to successfully pay off my overdraft by term time.
Sorting out uni is turning into a hassle.
Handed in my notice at work; once 25 February rolls around I'm unemployed.

Details at six.

So Sir Edmund Hillary has tapped his keg and, while it's sad and all, dude was well old and had done as much as anyone could hope to achieve in his life, so big ups to the man who had no qualms about the knocking off of bastards. That time I got to meet him seems worth bringing up now, if only because it's a good story and now's as good a time as any to share yarns about the dude.

See, unbeknown to most, Aranui High School has a lot of ties with Tibet, specifically the areas where Sir Ed made great strides to improve the overall quality of life. I forget the specifics, but one day it was announced that he was going to pay our humble school a visit, so of course we had to put on a massive show. As part of the drama group, I was roped into helping write and perform a short sketch celebrating Hillary's bitchslapping of Mt Everest and I bet you can't guess who got to play the man heself. Go on, you'll never pick it.

I forgot what happened in the sketch. There were jokes about Weet-Bix and knocking off b-words and some outrageous Scottish stereotypes, but I cannae ken more thin thit. What sticks in my mind is the classic moment when he came in to watch the arse-end of a dress rehearsal and then we shared the mother of all photo ops when I, dressed as a a young Hillary, rucksack and all, shook hands with the real deal, who looked dapper as I might add.

I might also add that, apart from when the cameras were around, he was a right grumpy shit, totally over the media and any other unwanted attention. Couldn't blame the guy; knighthood must come with all sorts of hassle after all. His wife was absolutely lovely and she even went so far as to say that I "captured him completely, it was like looking back in time" [!],which still remains the best compliment I've ever recieved for my "acting". Naturally, I was fully shitcanning myself at the prospect of playing someone who was right there in the fucking audience, but knowing that I pulled it off did more for my ego than a million blowjobs.

So yeah, a tops bloke on all angles in my opinion, but that's not the best part of the story. During the fluffaround of giving a performance and meeting the man and being all "Hey I just played you onstage" I managed to secure myself an autograph on a fiver, which he apparently fucking hated doing. I just heard tonight that signed fivers are getting upwards of $400 on Trade Me. With all due respect to the man in question, it looks like I've accidentally got myself quite a nice cash cow all of a sudden.

At the same time, it feels a bit like selling Kurt Cobain's shotgun; it's just a wee bit sacrilege. What's a dude to do?

Fuck I hate the holidays. Not so much the Christmas/New Year's sorta thing, that whole shebang is perfectly fine and for the most part I'm indifferent. But man does it suck knowing that not only do I have no school, but neither does anyone else, which means more kids everywhere, but especially it means more kids at work. Arrogant, disobedient little sods every one of them and if they're not an ill-bred little hellraiser, then I bet they're thinking about signing up. Worst of all though, there's no uni. 

On the surface, an absence of classes is right up there with sex with Jessica Alba on the list of Awesome Things [although I can only speculate unless she starts answering my letters], but, much like a certain pill-popping uber-doctor on TV, I put a lot of stock in my academic endeavours so no uni, for me, almost means no identity. Without a class to be bunking from or an overdue essay to be procrastinating on there's not a helluva lot else going on for me besides Guitar Hero, Calvin & Hobbes and Paul Jennings. Oh, and the ever-annoying Sorting Out Of Next Year's Classes.

After a meeting with the Head of the English department, the esteemed Mr Patrick Evans, who was pretty impressed with my results and wanted me to keep studying more than I want sex with Jessica Alba, I've fully embraced the idea of doing an Honours year in '08. He stressed the creative writing courses offered and said I'd probably be interested in what sounds like the best class possible for someone like me. Basically, I meet with him [or another teacher] once a week [or fortnight, if I wish to be so lazy] to talk about whatever I've been writing. No classes, just meetings. I don't even have to do more than one story if I don't want to. Too good to be true? Not this time. The best part is that I don't need a portfolio to apply. The only requirements is approval from the HOD, and seeing as how he was practically bribing me to take it I think that it's more or less in the bag. Man, recognition smells sweet.

Oh yeah, and BDO '08 timetables are available now. I've already planned out my day:

12:30-1:15 - The Checks
1:15-1:45 - Liam Finn
2:15-3:00 - Kool Keith and Kutmasta Kurt
3:45-4:30 - Dizzee Rascal
4:45-5:30 - Battles
5:15-6:15 - Unkle
6:15-7:00 - Tom Morello aka The Nightwatchman
8:30-9:15 - Enter Shikari
8:00-9:15 - Bjork
9:15-10:30 - Rage Against The Machine
10:45-11:30 - Supergroove

There's a bit of overlap but you get the idea. 2008's already off to a good start.

"In Springfield, Lisa convinces the locals to clean up the polluted Lake Springfield after the sinking of the stage of the Green Day in a concert of rock and roll. Meanwhile, Homer saves a pig from being killed in Krusty Burger and adopts it, calling the animal Spider Pig. After two days, Spider Pig fills up a silo with its excrement and Homer dumps the silo in the lake, polluting it. The angry population forces the Simpsons to move to Alaska. Meanwhile the president Arnold Schwarzenegger is induced by his advisor from EPA to put a dome over Springfield to hold the population and destroy the city. When Marge sees the new in the television, she tells Homer that they must return to Springfield to save their town and friends, but Homer is not convinced if people of Springfield deserve their support."

That's taken verbatim from the Video Ezy slick for The Simpsons Movie. Who writes this gibberish?

Exaggerating Quality for Fame and Profit: 5 Incredibly Overrated Cult Films

By Cliché Guevara

 

Ever look closely at the cover of a DVD? If it’s a film that made brontosaurus bucks at the flicks, you bet your bunghole that it has “Special Edition” written in nice shiny letters across the top. Maybe it’s the 2-disc “Collector’s Edition” with an extra disc full of the same hour’s worth of footage re-cut as 4 different making of that you’re never going to watch anyway. Yet even though most of us are cynical enough to know that it’s all a bunch of poohdust, there’s still an undeniable allure to these labels that makes us feel like we’ve gotten a good deal, even if the stripped-back, single disc, not-so-special, non-collector’s edition is $5 cheaper and has just as much movie on it.

 

A similar spell is cast by the shakily defined genre of arthouse. Like indie, cult and New Wave, it’s impossible to come up with a definitive definition of what constitutes an arthouse film. Personally, I think it’s a silly term – surely all cinema is art, right? According to Dr. Wikipedia, an arthouse film is “a typically serious, noncommercial, independently made film that is aimed at a niche audience”, which at least explains why the vile rape/revenge fantasy I Spit On Your Grave ever got made. However, the good doctor falls short of telling us why arthouse has become a blanket term used by film nuts and video stores the world over to include anything that’s just a little bit odd and doesn’t warrant ordering more than 2 copies.

 

I don’t know either, but I do know that “arthouse” films, as a rule, get way more praise than they deserve, from mainstream and independent media alike. And don’t forget the stupid bastards who watch these pretentious, explosion-free, witless “portraits” and then go on to look down their noses at the flat-headed philistines who didn’t get the obvious symbolism between a boring road trip and the American occupation of Iraq (the sanity-draining Twenty-Nine Palms). I mean, what more information do you need? So, in the interest of saving you two hour chunks of your life so you can watch more downloaded episodes of Heroes, here’s a list of my Top 5 Overrated Arthouse films.

 

Overrated Film Number Five: Adaptation (2002)

Reception: “overwhelming critical acclaim” (Wikipedia)

Why It Sucks: The short version is that it’s just too confusing to be fun. Even reading the plot summary has you reaching for the Nurofen and you end up knowing less about the film than before you read the damn thing. Supposedly, screenwriter Charlie Kaufman is asked to write a screenplay for a film adaptation of a book, but decides that the book can’t be filmed. So he writes a screenplay about a scriptwriter trying to write a screenplay based on a difficult book, which is basically the film version of that old trick we all played in fifth form English when you write a story about how hard it is to write a story.

 

As well as all that, Charlie (who’s a real person and writer of this migraine) is annoyed by his twin brother Donald (who isn’t real, but is in the movie, I think) who also wants to be a screenwriter and- oh who the hell cares? I’m sure that Kaufman felt really clever when he was sitting as his typewriter banging this out, but ultimately Adaptation is afflicted by a similar curse to the one that plagues The Simpsons: it’s more fun to talk about than to actually watch. Except that Adaptation isn’t any fun at all to watch, despite the presence of two Nicholas “Put the bunny back in the box” Cages.

 

All in all, it feels too much like a post-modern self-indulgent experiment that has most of its fun at the expense of the audience. A lot of critics and film buffs love it, so you’d be forgiven for assuming that it’s something more than a rotten egg omelette. But, really, it’s just Charlie Kaufman talking to his imaginary friend and getting his buddy Spike Jonze to film it. Gotta give them points for guts though; this was either going to totally rule or totally fail. I guess what happened really depends on your interpretation.

 

Redeeming feature: Well, they did make Being John Malkovich, and that was pretty decent.

 

Overrated Film Number Four: Coffee and Cigarettes (2003)

Reception: A big following amongst anyone who considers themselves “cultured” and/or is a White Stripes fan

Why It Sucks: Because it’s like a 95 minute version of every conversation you’ve ever had in a café with anyone. On paper, it’s a decent concept, but Jim Jarmusch apparently forgot that most of our conversation is made up of small talk and small talk is, well, pretty fucking boring. If Jarmusch has set the whole thing in one café with the camera weaving in and out of different conversations then he’d really be onto something flash, but by making a series of short films instead, he kills the chatty flow he could’ve easily maintained had he not been so hung up on casting celebrities as well as established actors.

 

Admittedly, two of those celebrities kick immeasurable quantities of arse and the conversation written for them is exactly how we would imagine them conversing backstage. But not even Iggy Pop and Tom Waits can keep their segment from lapsing into a series of extended pauses punctuated with awkward silences and shifting gazes. This motif, like the eye-catching blend of black and white weaves through all the stories, meaning that even Jack and Meg White, another two talented musicians who also climb to have a sibling-like relationship find themselves being reluctant to talk and shifting their weight like the Chief of Police being put on the hot seat.

 

So it’s a good thing that Jarmusch has the Wanker Squad on hand to point out to fun-killing cretins like myself that the films are about how we can get drawn into the world of someone else’s obsessions and fascinations if only we had the time to go have a cuppa and a ciggie. But if their conversation is anywhere as dim and uninspiring as what we see here, then who’d want to bother?

 

Redeeming feature: Bill Murray. The guy’s like tomato sauce; he can make anything palatable. Yeah, even Broken Flowers.

 

Overrated Film Number Three: 9 Songs (2004)

Reception: I dunno, but I guess there’s a fan base comprised of horny men and art students who don’t want to admit that they like porn, or, in some cases, both

Why It Sucks: It makes sex look dull. Also, it’s an extremely lazy concept that makes arthouse fans drool: what if, instead of focusing on walking down the beach holding hands and talking about kittens, we make a relationship film that focuses entirely on the screwing? And, in between extended scenes of rutting, we can have bands like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and The Dandy Warhols playing a song in Brixton Academy? I have to admit, it sounds like an entertaining romp, no matter how transparent Michael Winterbottom’s grasps at notoriety are here. But then he had to get all weird with it.

 

First of all, the film is 69 minutes long, immediately ruining any credibility the project may have had originally. Maybe I’m making mountains out of mole turds here, but if I was making a serious film about sex then I’d do anything to avoid making it 69 minutes long. If he couldn’t be bothered doing some editing there, Winterbottom might as well have called it Bands and Bonking. Also, much was made of the fact that 9 Songs shows “realistic” sex scenes, a cinematic rarity.

 

Bullshit. Not once was there a moment of awkward positioning. Not once did the actors come across a condom that simply would not open without application of the rip’n’tear technique that most of us have had to apply at one time or another. And Matt’s onscreen orgasm has to be the most pathetic, pitiful and downright emotionless climax in the history of the world. Even Paris could have done a better job. Still, there is a bit of a sexy air to the whole thing, but damned if it doesn’t get old really quickly. Just rent a porno if you want to watch sex. At least they look like they’re into it.

 

Redeeming feature: The bands. I actually found myself skipping through the sex to get to the music, which is kinda like fast-forwarding through House to see that McDonald’s ad where Richard keeps hitting himself.

 

Overrated Film Number Two: Donnie Darko (2001)

Reception: Do you need to ask? This film is so popular there’s even a book about it, with a foreword by noted physicist Jake Gyllenhaal.

Why It Sucks: It’s nowhere near as good as people make it out to be. Before I ever saw it, I had a friend tell me it was his favourite film of the last decade. Now, that’s some stiff competition there; anything that can lay claim to that title has to be better than Fight Club, Pulp Fiction and Josie and the Pussycats. Naturally, I had high hopes. Boy did I feel suckered.

 

Like Adaptation, the plot isn’t really worth relating as it’d just end with me punching the next stranger I see because of the frustration that comes with trying to explain a movie that throws around more horseshit than an angry gardener. Fortunately, Doctor Wiki comes to the rescue again with a diamond quote that sums up the film better than Ebert ever could: “One morning, a jet engine from a commercial Boeing 747 falls into Donnie's bedroom; he avoids death by obeying a voice in his head causing him to sleepwalk outside from his room, corrupting space and time.”

 

As you do. This is probably one of those “maybe it’s just me” things, but if someone’s corrupting space and time, there better be a bearded dude named Rufus with a magic telephone booth somewhere in the vicinity. Instead we get some creepy guy in a bunny suit, which is probably meant to be a reference to Alice in Wonderland or something. At any rate, it doesn’t come close to cutting mustard and is just another pointless plot point in a film that is basically The Matrix without the kung fu.

 

Redeeming feature: It provides a handy gauge for finding cinematic wanks.

 

The Most Overrated Film On This List: Elephant (2003)

Reception: A few awards with foreign names

Why It Sucks: I need to digress for a bit: Fuck you Gus Van Sant. Kevin Smith may have turned into a hack version of himself, but he still nailed your arse to the wall when he portrayed you as a money-grubbing hack in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. It’s bad enough that you re-filmed Psycho scene for scene, which makes as much sense as Britney Spears trying to create Straight Outta Compton word for word. But then you had to turn in this go-nowhere up-yours to people who enjoy films where stuff happens and people have actual conversations. Which just so happened to be based on Columbine, no matter how much you say it wasn’t.

 

It could just be that I have a personal biased against this guy, but Elephant really is a shitty, shitty movie. A movie based on Columbine could’ve been really enthralling by capturing the tension those kids that survived must’ve felt when faced with heavily armed nihilistic teenagers, but instead we get clouds. About every five minutes Van Sant cuts to a floaty shot of clouds blowing by in the wind, apparently to symbolise something. And don’t get me started on the walking. After 30 seconds of following someone shuffling around an oppressive school hallway, we understand that they’re feeling isolated and strange. So why fill up half the movie with it? Run out of ideas to rip off? Also, check out Last Days for the same thing, except this time it’s about Kurt Cobain. Only, not.

 

Redeeming feature: It ends.

Damn I love Achewood

The editor of Canta is leaving after the last issue this year, meaning that the position is open for next year.

I can safely say without exaggeration that I have a fair chance of scoring this.

It'd be a fantastic opportunity.

But I wouldn't be able to move to Wellington in January, something I've been excited about for months.

Oh shiiiiit.

So here's the reason I went up to Wellington. Enjoy!


Satellites O’Love: Stalking The O’Lovelys in Wellington

By Cliché Guevara

 

There are figuratively millions of people in the entertainment industry whose personalities totally go against their body of work. Despite waxing lyrical honey on fireside love-making, Isaac Hayes is a bit of a jerk by most accounts. Sting is generally regarded as a major douche bag even though he had a particularly funny Simpsons appearance (“Quiet Marge, he’s a good digger!”). Quentin Tarantino is also a total and utter bastard, going against- actually, that one makes a lot of sense.

 

But nothing could be further from the truth for Christchurch band The O’Lovelys. For those who haven’t experienced the fizzy dollar mixture that is an O’Lovelys gig, the band mines a musical vein somewhere between The Veils and Yeah Yeah Yeahs with a slight twist of Nick Cave and his Bad Seeds. Although that description serves as a good starting point, it hardly does them justice as their sound is really quite unlike anything heard before, with an overdose of energy and passion that grabs your heart and loosens your booty. At any rate, it’s more accurate than some of the other descriptions bandied about recently, like comparisons to Cat Power and the label “new folk power pop”, whose meaning still totally escapes me.

 

Point-missing descriptions aside, The O’Lovelys have a vitality not often seen in the murky Christchurch music scene. Like contemporaries and soon-to-be household names The Ragamuffin Children (keyboard seamstress Brooke Singer also doubles as one half of this whimsical duo), their music is a lifting breath of fresh air that gives life to songs that are chocka with a scroggin-like mix of drama, energy, theatrics, groove, rock and soul. It’s hard to fathom how a group of young scallywags can produce such amazing soundscapes, but when you hang out with them, you can see where their spirited performances come from.

 

Perhaps a roll call is necessary. At the core is the dynamic duo of Laura Lee (vocals/synth) and Brooke (keys), collaborators since lunch money days at Hagley Community College. Laura Lee’s opera-trained voice is powerful enough to make vultures cry and gargoyles dance with Brooke’s ballerina-elegant key work providing a foundation most divine. Supplementing the sound is resident guitar hero Joe B Sampson a.k.a Joe Sambo, who is the kind of guy who buys a $7 hip flask then gives it to you because “you’ll get more use out of it than me” (Thanks Joe!). Bringing up the rear is Matt on drums, laying down rhinoceros-heavy beats with surgical precision. By their powers combined, they are captains of the O’Lovely ship and just recently they let the wind in their sails, pointed themselves towards Wellington to record their debut EP and went hard for starboard.

 

Guess who tagged along like a stubborn barnacle on the hull?

 

Random bits from my notebook #1:

(the band strikes up a conversation about KFC)

Joe: I used to get it on the way to practice, all the time.

Brooke: Urgh, I went off it even before I turned vegetarian.

Joe: Those Twistas are getting smaller and smaller too, I swear it. Such a rip-off now. That’s why I don’t go.

Laura Lee: I used to see this little Asian man around my work. He’d say he was going to KFC, but he’d call it “Dirty Bird”. Every day he’d tell me about going to get Dirty Bird. Then he’d flap his arms like a chicken.

 

The bands a few years away from the Ritz lifestyle usually favoured by genre-twisting rock stars, so we had to make do with a backpacker’s. The accommodation was pretty spiffy actually, although it was a bit cramped with all the equipment we had to lug around. It was fun to constantly be mistaken for a band member though (“You know, I’m quite essential to the creative process. They wouldn’t get far without me”), and one particularly naïve person mistook me for the band’s manager. HA! As if. The O’Lovelys are one band that wouldn’t have any use for a manager, especially with Brooke and Laura Lee being every bit the professional musicians, holding together all the loose ends. Sometimes their organisation was a little unnerving; aren’t touring musicians supposed to be all party animal and no responsibility?

 

But we’re a long way from a motley crew here, although Joe does his bit for the spandex brigade by lining up Jager shots once the day’s duties had been taken care of. Not that the others were dull; anything but. Spare time was also spent drawing, cutting up flyers (pretty much all the band’s posters are done by themselves), mingling, talking about music ‘til the small hours and eating upstairs. Part of The O’Lovelys generous spirit came through using the medium of food:

“Want some of my pasta?”

“Would you like a spread of my peanut butter?”

“Want the rest of this Coke?”

“Another Jager shot?”

A far cry from the selfish hedonism usually associated with professional musicians and, in a weird way, much more fun to be involved with.

 

Fun is definitely the operative word with this lot, even when they’re working. Most of their recording was done at Art Space (at least, I think that’s what it was called) which, annoyingly, was too far out of town for me to be bothered mishing to. Seriously, it was like, totally far, man. Ages. I heard it was kinda chilly anyway, with Brooke having to wrap herself in a heavy blanket to combat the cold. I did manage to hang with them when they recorded somewhere a bit more central on our last day in town though. Laura Lee was laying down vocals that day and despite having a bit of a cold and a few missteps here and there, no one lost their cool. The respect paid towards each other was quite remarkable considering the little amount of studio time available and the urgency of the situation. Like I said, professionals. Natural born. Dyed in the wool. Bound to be huge.

 

Random bits from my notebook #2:

Joe: Hey, check it out: (holds up a sports bag with every panel made of material that’s a different primary colour) It’s my So So Modern bag!

 

Hugeness doesn’t come cheap and The O’Lovelys have spent a lot of 2007 paying their dues, playing an endless line of gigs around town in places like The Jetset Lounge, Al’s Bar and, of course, The Dux. Unless you live in Christchurch, you didn’t have a chance to enjoy their infinitely awesome live show, but that all changed with this trip including their first ever Wellington gig. They played with local Wellington band Fighting the Shakes at a club called Mighty Mighty on Cuba Street. It’s a fun bar, with a T.G.I. Friday’s meets Live At The Apollo atmosphere and drinks menus printed on LP covers. It also has animal heads mounted on the wall and a noted lack of a stage. No matter, the band doesn’t like being elevated anyway.

 

Unfortunately, sound check was a bit of a go-nowhere. No one’s fault really, it’s just hard to get much work done when there’s two bands to set up before a movie screening at 5, so it kinda had to be left as it was. It did provide a good opportunity to buddy up to the guys from Fighting the Shakes, who impressed me even before they played with their bass amp so massive that it required a sack barrow just to lug it a few feet. Raw power as. They were really nice fellas too, with a sharp sense of humour to boot:

“So what kinda of music do you play?”

“Oh, you know, Creed, Nickleback, that sorta thing.”
“Really?”

“Nah!”

Cheeky bastards, had us all going.

 

Sound check also provided Joe a good opportunity to flirt with Sally the sound girl, which of course led to Laura Lee insisting that he propose to her after the gig. You know, she might say yes, since he is in the band and everything. Everyone knows chicks love guitar players. Nothing ever came of it, disappointingly. Maybe Joe’s married to the music instead.

 

Random bits from my notebook #3:

“band backstabbed in betrayal of Shakespearian proportions”

“the lack of a sound check is the rawest deal since the Treaty of Waitangi”

-note to self: DON’T drink and review.

 

Even though it wasn’t a typical stage set up and the band hadn’t had a proper chance to prepare, the tone of “the Mights” suited their sound beautifully. Because there was no stage and a multitude of tables and chairs, their performance was more dinner theatre than a straight gig, opening up all kinds of wonderfully wanky post-modern interpretations. Not to me though, I was there to shut up and dance, what with more than a few beers under my belt. The first few songs suffered from being a bit fuzzy around the edges, but I was probably the only one to notice, if the dancing bodies were anything to go by and in my experience, they always are.

 

The O’Lovelys hit the ground running like always, with every note of every instrument ringing as potently as a heart attack and with every syllable out of Laura Lee’s throat going right for the jugular. Their endearing spirit was painted all over Mighty Mighty and it didn’t take long for all of the crowd to be swept up from under the carpet and into the swing set. Noting song titles is a bit redundant with these fun time warriors, as no one song is ever particularly weak or strong in any given set.

 

Maybe I’m carrying on a bit. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe I’m missing out bad bits. Maybe that’s all true. But there’s no better way to capture the vibe of a good O’Lovelys gig. Anyone who has seen one would surely attest: even if they make a mistake, it’s awesome. Like a champion dancer, every misstep is quickly forgiven as the next five are sure to dazzle. The perfect mix of style and substance, tragedy and comedy, rock and some very dynamic roll. Maybe I am exaggerating. That doesn’t mean it isn’t bloody fantastic.

 

Fighting the Shakes promptly followed and they really tore the roof off the sucka. By that point I’d had a few more beers on the band’s bar tab (hey, it’s not my fault if the bar gives me free drinks without asking any questions) as well as a cheeky cocktail called a Bro Diddley, so I can’t remember much of their set other than it rocked like a brontosaurus having an eppy and included a blinding cover of Joy Division’s “Transmission”, which absolutely made my night and sent me off whirling Dervish towards ecstasy. No exaggeration necessary here, all you need to know is that these buggers are LOUD and fun with it. Check them if you get the chance.

 

The music industry is a notoriously hungry and fickle beast that often eats it’s young, but The O’Lovelys have the talent and the gumption to make it huge. With misery rock dominating the charts practically everywhere, surely there’s room for some genuine joy to enthusiastically slip through? From what I’ve heard of their soon-to-be-released EP, there’s chart-toppers a-poppin’ and no doubt there’s more waiting to be delivered in the collective minds of Team O’Lovely. With all the arseholes out there getting fat and rich off their art, spare some time for the avoidably puntastic lovely people that make up one of the most original and fun-loving emerging bands in the country. So, if you see they’re playing a gig near you, make sure you go. If you see their CD on the shelf, give it a listen. If you hear one of their songs played on the radio, like “Black Stitch”, “Scatterbrain” or “Spacesuits”, ring them up and ask them to play it again. Because time spent with the O’Lovelys is always more welcome than a free pizza.

 

http://www.myspace.com/theolovelys

 

Ah, Father's Day. As meaningless as all those Hallmark holidays are to me, today is especially unremarkable because of my lack of any kind of significant relationship with my father. It doesn't bother me these days; I'm a grown man, I've done fine getting this far without his influence and my mum does enough parenting to make up for it. I've always felt sorry for my 3 brothers and 1 sister that he had after divorcing my mother and today I was given another reason to hold that opinion.

See, Bryce, my youngest brother at 12, has been put into foster care and is doing far better than he ever would've done in my father's care, so no big deal there. He's a lot happier than I remember, he's doing well in school, all that good stuff. Today he was told to come over to my dad's house at 11 for a visit. He showed up a bit early to find no one at home, so he biked around for a bit and went back. Still no one at home. So he waited outside for 2 hours. No sign of life. Then he went home and called his house. 12 times. No answer. 

As I write this now he still hasn't seen his dad today and it's obviously broken his heart. He'd even bought a flash frosted All Blacks mug and a card. 

Now isn' t that disgusting? I'm pretty used to the neglect but I know that feeling of abandonment from my own childhood so it resonates pretty strongly for me. Especially since the last time I remember having a proper chat with my dad that he expressed a lot of guilt and regret about how slack he is as a father and how he'd promised to try harder. That was something like 3 years ago and he either hasn't chenged or he's gotten worse. 

I'd think it was unbelievable if I'd expected anything different.

Now that that's off my chest...

As some of you I've had to move out of my flat suddenly because of internal combustion and some very ugly energy between Sam and I. I won't go into details here because it's such a complicated scenario, but I will say that I lost control and lashed out at him quite viciously, which in hindsight I know was the wrong choice to make because Sam's always been very sensitive to violence. Not that I think my actions are justified, but Sam and I were getting one ach other's case really heavily, rationality went out the window and the fists came flying. 

Of course, there's more to it than that, but like I said, it's a complex issue that probably only makes real sense tot hose who know us really well. 

So now I'm back at home and, although it was a bit rough for a week or so, I feel so settled and relaxed. It could be because Mum insists on taking care of every single domestic duty [who am I to argue?] but I think that getting away from the current vibe of The Bishop has been exactly what I'd been needing for...man, months. There's no real bad blood on my part, although Sam and I will stil be keeping our distance from each other for a good while. 

Anner, Kate and Marc came out to Kylie's birthday on Friday [great night by the way, thanks largely to Michelle and her impossibly sexy dress]. I was glad to see that the dramas haven't had much of an impact of our friendships, although Marc really pissed me off by taking me aside and telling me that he wanted to hear my side of the story. Fair enough, but he would only let me talk for about two sentences then cut me off, so it was pretty obvious that he'd already made up his mind about my side of things. Kylie was trying to explain the situation to him and doing a pretty succinct job of it too [I was a bit too drunk] but he wouldn't let her talk either. Then he dropped some comment about how he heard I hadn't been taking my pills lately and maybe, maybe that's why I lashed out at Sam.

Nevermind that I have been continuing to take my meds and they've continued to work wonders on my moods, so fuck him for going there. But Marc is always going to be Marc so I'm not going to take it too personally. Still, I felt pretty insulted that he'd form such strong opinions without actually getting to the nub of my issues with me.

Those dramas aside, life's pretty sweet for me at the moment. I'm still sleepwalking through work [I'm at work right now even], I'm spending less money on bullshit and my thoughts are the clearest they've been for months.

If only we had internet on at home...