Human Rights Arts & Film Festival

Human Rights Arts & Film Festival making its way around Australia from 23rd April to 30 May, with this film from CARE Australia being screened alongside some other cool offerings. It's going in the diary.

Precious

Absolutely emotionally gruelling. Go see it.

Film Review: District 9

A movie about aliens? Aliens called Prawns? A low budget sci-fi about Prawn-like aliens? In Johannesburg? Really? Is this a good idea?

You know, I'm not so sure.

This low budget flick, aided by the clout of Peter Jackson, is not as bad as it could have been. The acting is plausible. The special effects decent enough. The pace is mostly maintained. Where the film really let me down was with the dialogue. In some parts its laughable, and not in the 'we are taking the piss out of ourselves kind of way' either. In other parts the dialogue is downright groan-worthy.

I do like what it says about apartheid, and illegal immigration, and multiculturalism, even if the film kind of hits you over the head with it (again and again). I suspect District 9  has reached a different kind of audience than would normally seek out a tale about these social ills, which is a good thing too. But overall? Not worth the price of your popcorn.

[what they say: "An extraterrestrial race forced to live in slum-like conditions on Earth suddenly finds a kindred spirit in a government agent that is exposed to their biotechnology." IMDB.]

Film Review: All About Eve

The only thing I knew of All About Eve before I sprawled out on my bed under the fan to fill my Friday night was that Bette Davis played the lead. Having not quite recovered from her formidably creepy performance in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane, I was preparing to watch a bitch.

What I didn’t expect was for the bitch to be played by someone else (Anne Baxter playing Eve). As the tale unfolds of an over-enthusiastic fan-becomes-evil-usurper-over-aging-star it is easy to predict where the story is going. So predictable that at one point I paused the film to go and wax my legs. Yes, I’m of the digital generation, saddled with the attention span of a goldfish.

The Gloss has worn off, Ms. Johansson

Dear Scarlett,

It’s time you and I had a chat. As someone who stumbled out of a dingy cinema onto the Sydney streets in a state of disconnected wonder post Lost In Translation, I want you to believe I’m on your side. Really I am. I loved what you did with that character. I believed you. I loved the way you walked around your hotel room in your undies and scorned the ‘pretty’ girl for calling herself Evelyn Waugh. I’m also a Bill Murray fan, so imagine my joy at the two of you being paired up on screen. Granted, I’m not convinced about the final whisper scene, but forgetting that, you had me won.

From there I followed you and your bee stung lips to A Love Song for Bobby Long and felt satisfied with my loyalty. I'm happy to say it – you were good. In between film roles there was plenty of paparazzi tabloid fodder and women’s mag features to make me feel comfortable with my predilection for you. Comments about getting regular STD tests, the usual “I’m comfortable with my body”, and even the relief at the honest acknowledgment that you “believe in plastic surgery” (even though you’re comfortable with your body, but hey) made you stand out a bit from the crowd who were off swanning around without their knickers.

Film Review: The Informers

Having been holed up in bed for much of the past week with a nasty flu (no, not that flu), I’ve jumped on the opportunity, more like seized it by the neck and wrestled it to the floor, to plant myself in front of my laptop screen and brush off my inner film buff. Given I’m in Bangladesh, this is a little more difficult than I’d like, I have been at the mercy of the film collection inside my home, which had been built over about five years by various volunteers. Hence, the genres vary wildly.

This is my excuse for watching The Informers. I can’t think of a better one. Oh wait, yes I can. The cover said something about screenplay by Brett Easton Ellis, and who doesn’t have a soft spot for Pat Bateman? I’ve learnt my lesson though, having sat through what can only be described as the Worst Film I Have Seen All Year – and I’ve seen He’s Just Not That Into You, (enough already with the sexy minx Scarlett! Enough!) so I have well-established credentials in that department.

Will Dry July lead me to The Lost Weekend?

snapped at Changi airport last Dec...so pretty

Given I’m living overseas at the moment, I wasn’t aware it was Dry July until I read Richard Glover’s SMH opinion piece, but the only reason I read the piece in the first place is because my friend Natalie and I are trying to dry up our livers at the moment too.

This seems particularly ridiculous since I live in a mostly dry country (Bangladesh), where buying liquor is expensive, difficult, and in Chittagong, near impossible on a volunteer’s allowance. You’d think all this means I’d have no need to dry out.

But, no. It seems that by living in a constant state of alcohol scarcity, the minute I can get on the sauce, I get that glint in my eye. You know the one. It starts right around lunch time and by the afternoon it’s well on to sparkling. It’s the kind of glint that says ‘I was never any good at maths anyway, so why bother counting?’

It’s also the kind of glint that had me scraping my head off the pillow after three hours sleep on a school night, and dragging my sorry arse into the office where I spent eight hours dreaming up escapes. Leaping out the window from the 13th floor was seriously starting to look like a more appealing alternative to my 2 o’clock meeting.

That was last week, and since then I am pleased to report I’ve stayed very much on the wagon. In celebration of my (temporary) sobriety, I watched The Lost Weekend, a 1945 film about an alcoholic on a bender praised by movie critics, for very good reason it turns out. The script is superb.

As I watched Don explain between shots of rye whiskey why it is he drinks, however, I squirmed.

It shrinks my liver, doesn't it, Nat? It pickles my kidneys, yeah. But what it does to the mind? It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly I'm above the ordinary. I'm competent. I'm walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I'm one of the great ones. I'm Michaelangelo, molding the beard of Moses. I'm Van Gogh painting pure sunlight. I'm Horowitz, playing the Emperor Concerto. I'm John Barrymore before movies got him by the throat. I'm Jesse James and his two brothers, all three of them. I'm W. Shakespeare. And out there it's not Third Avenue any longer, it's the Nile. Nat, it's the Nile and down it moves the barge of Cleopatra.

While I am no alcoholic, and I personally wouldn't go quite this far, I do know what he's getting at. It’s the very reason why I suspect when I reach the end of my self-enforced sobriety, I’m likely to attempt a reenactment of my very own Lost Weekend.

In an effort to stave off the inevitable, I’m not only banning the booze, but also all things that Make Me Want. Top of the list are: anything by Hunter S Thompson, The Dresden Dolls, Tom Waits, Arab Strap, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Amy Whinehouse, Friday afternoons with friends, hmmm… but 'these are a few of my favourite things…'