Not Quite Hollywood.

Documentary, Australia, 2008

Of the many criticisms leveled at the Australian film industry in the last decade or so, the one I've found myself echoing most is that too many Australian films are dull and depressing. Every picture is filled with gritty, realistic characters and honest, true-to-life stories, but they're all so grim and slow that they're painful to watch.

Mark Hartley's Not Quite Hollywood reminds us that things have not always been thus. It is a celebration of the schlock genre films made here in the '70s and '80s, focusing chiefly on horror, sex comedy, and action. Older viewers will remember the likes of Alvin Purple, Mad Dog Morgan, and Razorback. Most of us young 'uns will recognise nothing here but the Mel Gibson classic, Mad Max. That's because these films were disposable fun. The people who saw them weren't after cultural insights, thought-provoking themes or realism of any kind. They wanted blood, boobs and dynamite. And yes - Australia delivered.

I had been ignorant of this entire movement. I watched with shock and excitement as I discovered the forgotten Australian monster movies. I glimpsed the intimate tan lines of now-revered actresses, watched stuntmen turn cars into steel wastepaper, and saw Australian landscapes transformed into sinister forests and post-apocalyptic wastelands.
These were fairly low-budget films, and according to film crew who were interviewed, the first budget sacrifice was safety. There are some horrific stories of near misses - and not-misses - on set.

Hartley interviewed dozens of people including Barry Humphries, Sigrid Thornton, Quentin Tarantino, and a boatload of 'Ozploitation' fans and filmmakers. Tarantino's input is golden. He is in love with the films and the stories. He recalls seeing and loving the films in their time, but he also demonstrates their lasting creative value: his own work is crammed with genre film homage, and Kill Bill is dedicated to Ozploitation director Brian Trenchard-Smith.


The movies referenced in Not Quite Hollywood are hard to find these days. They have essentially been omitted from Australia's filmic history. Yes, a lot of them are clumsy trash - a fact smilingly acknowledged by many of their creators and even their fans. But Hartley's documentary will have you hoping to catch a glimpse of them in the video store. He doesn't flog them as lost classics, nor Australian cultural staples. He just shows them as they are: bloody good fun.

Happy Australia Day!

Mine.

This summer, I am my mother's maid. I have volunteered to clean her two-storey, four-bedroom house, which is filled with the accumulations of a quarter century. My Christine has volunteered to restore the great library, and I am working on the dining room. Most of our time is spent sprawled on the carpet, sentencing bits and pieces to their deaths. We've already filled the wheelie bins half a dozen times, and today I drove a second carload of recycling down to the depot. There's so much more to go, but nothing motivates us more than seeing the carpet reveal itself, inch by inch, as we mine the dusty mountains.

Mum is working with us to sort through the stuffs. She has wanted to shift it all for years, but life has brought her too much stuffs and not enough time to go through it. She struggles to part with some things, things that were hers for so long; but on the whole, she is showing little mercy. It's just a matter of watching each thing as it hits the 'disposal' pile, and saying to herself: 'This thing is no longer mine.'

Here you can see the work we did yesterday. My mother originally wanted this room to be a dining area - a plan I never even knew about, since it has been filled with papers and files, sewing and knitting gear, excess books and letters for as long as I can recall. It's always seemed tiny. Just a passage from the main house to the library. But Christine, working in the library, found it practically impossible to hop back and forth through the tangle of paper. So she thought she'd straighten the path a bit. Of course, once she hit carpet, she couldn't stop. Mum and I got involved. In the space of a few hours, half the room was cleaned out. And soon enough, the other half too.


Go Team Dork!

They say hard work is its own reward. Well, it feels pretty amazing to turn all these messy places into clean ones; it's even more exciting to think about turning clean places into pretty living spaces again. But that's not the only reward we get.

As I said, Mum's been collecting for decades. There's a lot of junk to be tossed, but we find a gem here and there. And these are some of the things Christine and I found yesterday:

On the left, my stash includes The Blind Watchmaker, a book on evolution by everyone's favourite Richard Dawkins; a Women's Lib poster bearing a quote by Joyce Stevens; a reproduction of the famous painting, Lady with Ermine; and a bunch of awesome gold stars, for rewarding people when they please me.

On the right, Christine's haul comprises a page of wacky fun stickers; Backlash, the feminist classic by Susan Faludi; some boring political booklet; notepads and the Mr Bean teddy.
We also found an awesome t-shirt with The Beast on it, which was clearly meant for Christine. It was meant for a small boy (i.e. my dear brother), but it fit her perfectly!

As we make our passage through the house, we shall find many more great treasures. We are not mere cleaners. We are miners; we are explorers. We are discovering secret grounds. We shall bring them forth and transform them! We shall be masters of this dust-encrusted world.

Quicksand.

The trouble is, reason and feeling always refuse to co-operate. I feel pain and sadness and hurt and there's no damn reason why. I tell myself I'm safe, lucky, loved, but my heart won't stop pounding in fear and loneliness.

For two weeks I've been unable to negotiate my way out of my misery. There was no real cause for the feelings, but more dangerously, the depression made its own excuses to hang around. Unhappy people are very good at finding faults. All your clothes are ugly, someone turned up three minutes late, speech impediments are annoying not charming. God she's slow, who left plastic wrap on the floor, ugh I woke up sore and now I just hurt all over. That's if you got out of bed at all today.

So it hasn't been fun. I'm sorry to anyone I've been ignoring. I'm sorry to anyone I've been rude to. And thank you, thank you to each of those people who reached into my tangle to try and help me out.

Sad.

I'm sick of feeling like this.

Name.

If you're reading this blog from the actual blog, as opposed to the Facebook facsimile, you'll notice it has a rather silly title. Glorious Pancake Morning. It does sound a little like a 13 year-old's first hotmail address, but I actually did have a meaning in mind.

Pancakes for breakfast is a big, special treat for me. It's not just about eating a meal. It's about laying out the table with exciting toppings, practising my egg-breaking skills (my intact yolk ratio is actually getting worse), sitting down with all the people in the house and waking up slowly, blissfully, together. Preferably while still wearing your pyjamas.


The point is, pancake mornings represent some of the best and most valuable things in life. They are something to look forward to. They can help to make you feel positive about the rest of your day. They are self-made moments: cook your food and help yourself and just relax - you're home, with people you love, and you don't have to eat with cutlery.

When I'm feeling half empty, I try to follow one simple plan:

• Have something to look forward to.

If I can't think of anything I'm waiting and hoping for, then I don't really feel like attending tomorrow. But if there's something happy on the itinerary, I have a reason to lay out my clothes. Just something small. Seeing a friend in class, or having a nice dinner planned. Having a couple chapters left of a good book. Knowing my girlfriend will be waiting for me after work. Brown paper packages tied up with string - you know.

Bigger things can be good too, but I've found - particularly when I was most depressed - that the biggest expectations may lead to the greatest disappointments. Last year, I planned a surprise date with Christine (a tour of Melbourne architectural landmarks, with which she has an adorable obsession). It was going to be a really special, wonderful day and she would love me forever. Except that, that day, we were both feeling a little off. A little irritable. It was a fairly typical thing in a fairly awful year, but after investing so much into trying to make it special, I felt even worse about it than I should have. The dumbest thing is that she would have shaken it off and loved everything if I hadn't kept on being so damn disappointed.

So that's why the name. It's a reminder to make life good for myself, in small, simple ways. I wanted the blog itself to be one of those ways. I want to look forward to writing it, and (like arty wankers everywhere) I'd like to think people look forward to reading it.

Crawly.

...and today, when I was driving to work, going 80 along Princes Highway, I noticed a small huntsman spider clinging helplessly to my driver's side window. Its poor little spider arse was flapping about in the wind rush, but its legs held desperately to the glass.

I felt almost sorry for it. I tried to slow down enough for it to scuttle to safety. Luckily we got a red light. The little spider climbed gratefully up the window and I felt a feeling of charity and warmth building inside me (well, warmth, anyway. We're talking 43 degrees here).

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the spider scuttling along the window on the other side of the car. It had spanned the car roof already? Whoa, that was fast! But then I turned to look, and realised this spider was about three or four times as big as it had been a moment ago. Fuh-juahhhh!? Looked forward again. Little spider still hanging to the top of the driver window. And back again. Massive huntsman darting out of sight!

MY CAR WAS COVERED WITH SPIDERS!

This is starting to feel like the opening to a very bad 'creatures' horror movie...

Bug.

So my father's house is infested with spiders.

For a week or so, we've been sharing our home with a fairly impressive huntsman, legspan about equivalent to a human palm. It's like an enchanted portrait: you never actually see it move, but every time you look, it's somewhere different. It's always lurking in a corner of the ceiling, statue-still and menacing, with staring eyes and cruel pincers. So I've decided it's time. It's been long enough, and it's time.
To name it.
I'm thinking maybe Melanie?

But seriously, there are daddy-long-legs weaving cobwebs behind every door. Outside, if you shift the rake or lift up a brick, one of those little jumping spiders will give you a shock as it scuttles away. The worst, though, is the red-back spider I found getting comfy in a corner of the ferret cage. It had actually made a web there. Juicy thing with a bold red stripe like a hooker's nails. That one was exterminated instantly, of course. The ferrets seemed fine.

That was a couple of weeks ago, but today I gave the back porch a proper clean and had another encounter. There's this little old hutch that I used to use for the ferrets before Dad built Weasel Tower. It sits empty next to the new one, because I keep planning to revamp it and use it as a ferret play box. Well anyway, I had the broom out and I thought I'd open it and get rid of the cobwebs inside. First I see a whole bunch of little daddy-long-legs clambering awkwardly out of my way... then suddenly a little black monster is tearing out of the hutch. It didn't have the red stripe, but otherwise it looked just the same as the one I'd killed before. I tried to spray it with my heavy-duty degreasing spray (toxic as hell) but I think it got away. Then I looked back into the hutch, and I saw them - crawling through the dusty cobwebs - at least three more, all full-grown and black as death. I sprayed and sprayed. They're fast though - I only managed to kill one. At least I know the spray works. They all disappeared into the garden and the hutch is free from webbing now, but I'll be checking it to make sure they don't come back.

I'm not afraid of spiders. I know there are some dangerous ones out there and I'm not exactly pleased to have them around, but I don't freak out when I see one. I read that arachnophobia is one of the most common phobias. I suppose it makes sense. Wolves and sharks aren't exactly plentiful in populated areas these days, but there are spiders in everyone's houses. You hardly even think about it, right? Cobwebs just appear. You never see them being made. And then there's that Libra fact that says everyone swallows about eight spiders a year. What kind of spiders are most commonly swallowed? How much spider venom are we ingesting, exactly? And how did they collect such a statistic in the first place?

The more I think about it, the more it seems fitting that bugs should be the scariest non-human thing that humans are afraid of. They spread so many diseases, and they're so tiny you barely notice them on you. They're hardier than we'll ever be, with their full-body armour, so many eyes and legs that one or two is expendable without causing injury. And there are just so many of them.

Do you feel itchy? Something tickling at your cheek? Could be your hair. Could be something else. What's that that moved in the corner of your eye?
Could just be a shadow.
Or it could be Melanie.

Tea.

Yesterday I had a Devonshire tea party with a group of my favourite friends. We drank three varieties of tea (black, peppermint, chamomile) and ate two categories of scone (boy scones, girl scones) served with two options of cream (sugary, pure) and some godawful number of scrumptious jams. What a feast! It all started me thinking about the place of tea in our culture. Such a simple drink: boiling water, teabag. Optional cream or sugar. Cost: maybe ten cents a cup. But a cup of tea is worth far more than the sum of its parts. It has a value in our world above and beyond the monetary.

Drink is quite an industry. Every type of beverage has an identity and a role in our lives.
Alcohol, of course, is a global staple - its complex, costly, time-consuming preparation gives it integrity with the upper crust; its worry-washing properties give it popularity among the masses.
Coffee has secured its status as working Melbourne's drug of choice. It's the early morning pick-me-up and the mid-morning catch-up. It's got style and groove and it's gotta be made well - we're happy to pay for quality - but in the end it's an addiction and we'll take whatever's up for grabs because we gotta gotta gotta have our fix.
Soft drink, now that's a funny one. It owes its unbelievable success to the Great Marketing Gods. The Coca-Cola logo is the most recognised symbol on the planet. Its branding goes on everything, from the Olympic Games to Santa Claus. Somehow, soft drinks - these corn syrup-infused chemical cleaners (tough on grease!) have become the party drink of a lifetime.
And bottled water. Yes. Water that comes in bottles. Is now an actual commercial product. Despite the fact that Melbourne tap water is some of the cleanest and healthiest in the world, the people of our city are falling over themselves to pay four dollars for a bottle of 'spring' water.

But tea - tea has never been cool. It's never been marketable. Yes, there are a few boutique tea shops popping up here and there, T2 and the like, but people still don't see tea as a 'scene' drink. Why? Because tea is something we can (and should) make ourselves. Tea is for the home. It's cheap, it's a little daggy, but if someone invites you in for tea, you know you're worth more to them than a three dollar latte. You're worth talking to sober. They will make a cup just for you and make it just the way you like it.

Yesterday night, Christine and I dropped by her friends' place to return something. We were clearly zapped from the day's heat, so they invited us in for tea. And three hours later we were still hanging around in their kitchen, chatting. All it took was a teabag. Ten cents. But that's hospitality. It's not cleaning the house 'til it's sparkling; it's not offering a platter of expensive niblets. Hospitality is warmth and comfort. It's taking the time, boiling the kettle, sipping slowly. It's remembering how someone likes their tea.

Ferrets.

It has come to my attention that many people do not yet know how awesome ferrets are. I have therefore prepared a handy fact sheet to educate you about the awesomeness of ferrets.

FERRET FACTS

Ferrets belong to the noble House of Weasel.

Ferrets are closely related to various species of weasel, stoat and mink. They are more distantly related to otters, mongeese, meerkats, and even skunks. Like weasels, they are cunning and sneaky. Like minks, they have lovely fur - a fine fluffy undercoat surrounded by thick shiny guard hairs.

Ferrets are the bendiest pets.
It's like they have no bones. Seriously. They can coil up and twist around and make their feet face the opposite way to their heads. They can curl so far into themselves that their heads are looking at their shoulders. You can throw them in the air or hold them by the scruff and watch them wiggle. My father, he likes ferret-bowling. We have lino floor. He bowls them down the hall and they slide along 'til they run out of momentum, stand up, and run straight back to him so he can do it again.

Ferrets are hilarious.
They are funnier and cuter than the funniest, cutest kitten you've ever seen. For instance, they are very excitable and love to play war. When they believe they have been 'challenged' (by you, or by a chair they've accidentally backed into), they will commence what is known as the 'weasel war dance' [please do watch this video, it's excellent]. This is a series of loopy hops and jumps, accompanied by bared teeth, lots of honking, and an expression of total indignation. It is very, very silly.


Ferrets sleep all curled up around one another. When you wake them up, they become instantly excited about the idea of playtime, and will scramble enthusiastically up the bars of their hutch. However, in the middle of the climb, they urgently need to yawn. This relaxes every muscle in their bodies and so they slide right back down and flop to the ground. And then they start climbing again.

They can also bear their entire weight by their jaws. So if you get one to hook its long canine teeth around your finger (not biting into it but hanging from it), you can lift it up off the ground and just watch it dangle.

Ferrets are NOT gross.
Everyone seems to think ferrets smell. Well, male ferrets have a weird musk that largely disappears when they are neutered. But in general, ferrets just have this subtle smell (just like cats and dogs have a smell). It's not strong, and they aren't dirty. It's just the scent of the oils in their skin.

Everyone seems to think ferrets bite. Hunting ferrets (like hunting dogs) are biters. Pet ferrets, when raised properly, do not bite. They nip when playing or if annoyed, but they do it to get your attention, not to hurt you. Pet ferrets like to lick. They like salty things, so if you're sweaty...

Everyone seems to think ferrets are rodents, like rats. Well, rats are actually pretty cool pets, but even so, ferrets are not rodents. Rat teeth are constantly growing and so they gnaw to keep them under control. Rats eat vegetables, plants, fruit and grain. Ferrets, on the other hand, are carnivores. They have tiny, clean little teeth for eating mice and so on. They don't chew through cords or paper or anything like that, although they do occasionally attempt to slay teddy bears.

________

So there you have it. Ferrets totally rock. You should come visit mine, so they can climb you and lick the inside of your ears.

Smile.

I'm still struggling with the whole concept of charitable giving, and I don't contribute to any organised charities (unlike my Christine). At this point, it's all too big. I can't pick one cause among so many (none of which are personally meaningful as yet). So I'm trying, mentally, to start small. The old 'Boy Scout Helps Elderly Woman With Her Groceries' scene. In shiny, affluent Melbourne, we've got it pretty damn good, but just because we live in a first world country doesn't mean we're happy. Maybe we should work on that first. Not by buying ourselves more stuff, and not by devoting ourselves to physical and mental 'self-improvement' (masturbation via gym membership, and so on). By turning our efforts outward. By being thoughtful, and kind, and helpful, and supportive. By - as my mother suggests - smiling at strangers as we pass them in the street. Remember that everyone is a person, just like us; remember that everyone feels sad, and angry, and lonely, and stressed. Most of us hurry through the day, watching our feet, watching the clock, always guessing at what will go wrong next. But the moment we put our chins up and see another human face, we have an opportunity to sweep our own messes aside and remind ourselves that we're not struggling alone. Meet their eyes. Smile. It's amazing how good it feels.

Wager.

Blaise Pascal argued for the existence of God. His argument is commonly known as "Pascal's Wager".

He said: there are two sides to the coin. One side has us living our lives any way we like on earth, dying, and disappearing from existence. On the other side, death is not the end, but merely a doorway into an afterlife of heavenly bliss or torturous punishment depending on our beliefs and choices on earth.
He said: isn't it better to assume the latter, and devote ourselves to worship and piety? If we are wrong, nothing comes of it. If we are right, we are rewarded. But if we choose otherwise, we will suffer an eternity of torment in hell.

It is easy to criticise, not the logic, but Pascal himself for operating solely out of self-interest. Regardless of whether God and Heaven exist, he merely wants the best for himself. So he is not choosing piety out of goodness, but out of fear.

But I say there is more to the wager itself. Consider this. Say we assume there is a Heaven and we do what we think will get us into it. So we see life on earth as fleeting. Get it over with. Deny pleasure; follow the moral code of the Bible; accept God as an answer rather than seeking out a fuller one. And perpetuate this belief, with the charitable intent of helping further generations into Heaven too.

What then if we are wrong? What if this life is all there is? We made little of it. We endured it, praying to an empty sky. And our descendants will do the same, on and on in a chain of fruitless devotion.

Isn't it better to assume that what we have is all we have, and make the most of it? We can then open ourselves up to the delights of earthly knowledge. We can choose our own paths and purposes. We can teach our children to do this too; they will treasure their lives and use them in the best way they can. And morally, too, it is better to be good on earth (to ourselves and to others) if this life is all there is. With no prospect of consolation in Heaven, we know that to deny someone happiness now is to deny them happiness forever.

Pascal's Wager tells us to act in the best interest of our souls. But I say: act in the best interest of humanity. Take care of each other and devote yourselves to making life worthwhile. And anyway - isn't that what you were already doing?

Watch.

William Paley argued for the existence of God.

He said: when we examine a watch, we see that through the precise combination of its many parts, it works. Without just one of those parts, it would cease to work. It must have been created deliberately to do what it does. It cannot have come into being naturally and gradually, part by part, because it could not have been a watch at all, unless it was a whole watch.
He said: humankind is just the same. We must have been created deliberately. We must have been made by God.

In evolutionary terms, we have some excellent rebuttals to this. We couldn't have emerged naturally in bits and pieces:

Gramma had one arm, Momma has two arms, I have two arms and a liver, and my baby is the first in the family to be born with a nose!

But we could have evolved from a few cells to many, from body-reinforcing calcium deposits to a complex and mobile skeleton. Just consider a foetus as it develops in the womb.

However, most intelligent people have cast aside the literal idea of God building Adam and Eve out of cosmic Play-Doh, saying instead that Genesis is meant to be a metaphorical account of creation. So Paley's argument should today be addressed in existential terms. Paley claims we were created on purpose. What purpose?

Clock technology has changed and improved, and the oldest watches are much different and less accurate than watches of today, but watchmakers have always striven for one ultimate purpose: to keep time.
Humans might not always have looked like they do now, but God has guided them through evolution to become what they are, always with the purpose of...

...purpose of...

...er...