1. Sigur Rós - “Gobbledigook”
2. Erykah Badu - “Honey”
3. Los Campesinos - “Death to Los Campesinos”
4. McCarthy Trenching - “The Most Attractive Disguise”
5. The Smittens - “Gumdrops”
1. Sigur Rós - “Gobbledigook”
2. Erykah Badu - “Honey”
3. Los Campesinos - “Death to Los Campesinos”
4. McCarthy Trenching - “The Most Attractive Disguise”
5. The Smittens - “Gumdrops”
TV comic John Clarke once mocked an Australian Prime Minister’s claim that Australia’s future was in Asia. “I told him Malaysia’s future was in Canada,” said Clarke, playing the then Malaysian PM Mahathir bin Mohamad. I’m not sure Australia’s become any more Asian (or Malaysia any more Canadian) in the intervening decade.
The relationship really consists of a two way flow—Asia sends Australia migrants who enrich our social fabric, Australia sends Asia backpackers who get drunk in Phuket or Bali and return with Australian flags tattooed on their biceps.
Perhaps this explains my curiosity about the $110,000 Australia-Asia Literary Award, initiated by the Western Australian Government and won this year by David Malouf. There just doesn’t seem to be any reason for it. You can celebrate excellence in Asian writing or Australian writing. There are many prizes that will recognise good writing wherever it’s from. Why this seemingly arbitrary prize?
I can only imagine that it’s to encourage a sense of connectedness between the two continents. Yet the prize seems to be based on literary merit alone, irrespective of whether the Asian books have any Australian themes or the Australian books any interest in Asia.
In addition, the eligibility criteria seem highly flexible. The defining feature is that the nominated novels must be written by Australian or Asian residents or set in Australia or Asia. Ceridwen Dovey’s Blood Kin made the shortlist, despite the author being a South African residing in New York City.
Blood Kin is a remarkable book and I gave it a particularly positive review early this year. But it’s not an Australian book. If it’s set anywhere, I’d plump for a South American country—the languorous, tropical feel and the militaristic environment certainly don’t feel Australian. Dovey attended high school in Australia and has family here, but I doubt that she considers herself an Aussie.
It’s hardly surprising that an Australian prize jury would claim Dovey as one of our own. 2008 Man Booker Prize winner Aravind Adiga holds dual Indian-Australian citizenship and the Aussie press wasted no time in adopting him. His high school education in Sydney is hardly the defining characteristic of a life that has spanned four continents.
We’ve also latched onto Nam Le, a Vietnamese-born Australian now on his way to take up a writing fellowship in the UK. Le, the winner of the 2008 Dylan Thomas prize for his story collection The Boat is an exciting young talent and did at least spend a sizeable portion of his life down under. In fact, he’s probably the best-suited person in the world to take home a prize looking at the complex relationship between Asia and Australia. And he wasn’t even longlisted.
Ever since a certain Mr. Apatow introduced us to a middle aged man child with limited sexual experience, the motion picture comedy has been flooded with what could best be described as ‘self-aware slackers’. You know the type - hard and cynical on the outside, indulging in whatever vice or vices they can in order to make up for the emptiness inside. Eventually, with the help of an understanding gal pal, a bumbling best friend, or a combination of the two, our hapless hero discovers clarity, and in turn, a far more productive outlook on life. This formula has been followed in several recent laugh riots - Knocked Up, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, and Superbad. Now there’s another name to add to the genre, and while not as consistently funny as the aforementioned efforts, Role Models provides enough solid snickers to eventually win us over.
When they end up in some silly accidental legal trouble, energy drink corporate rep Danny Donahue and his arrested adolescent buddy Wheeler are sentenced to 30 days of community service. Forced to serve their time at a local outreach center known as Sturdy Wings, each man is paired up with a troubled youth. The expected result hopes for a little mature guidance and lots of substitute parent/child quality time. For Wheeler, that means putting up with the F-bomb dropping delinquent Ronnie, while Danny must contend with a D&D obsessed nerd named Augie. Of course, no one gets along at first, our heroes making many mistakes while desperate to relate to these kids. This really pisses off the former drug addict director of the center. Eventually, everyone finds a happy middle ground of acceptance, although their bonds are tested during a Renaissance Fair battle royale. No, seriously.
Last time we saw Paul Rudd and several members of MTV’s cult sketch comedy series The State working together, it was on the uneven but often interesting Commandment comedy The Ten. Now comes the hilarious, if half-formed, Role Models. Offering a trio of elements so effective that they literally blot out almost everything that’s bad, director David Wain finds a way to milk the current craze for anything Apatow into a sweet, sarcastic slice of coming of age affection. By the end of the film, we really care about Danny and Wheeler, the former’s faltering relationship with good sport lawyer Beth (played by the currently omnipresent Elizabeth Banks), and their two underage sidekicks. And thanks to these important aspects, the filmmaker unlocks a series of ways to keep things consistently funny.
The first formidable feature is the raw raunch power of a cursing grade-schooler. Nothing is funnier - or more inappropriate - than a wee one working it, Richard Pryor style. Oddly enough, actor Bobb’e J. Thompson is more than just a sailor’s handbook of profanity. There is real pain and anger in this kid and though the novelty of hearing him swear a blue streak wears off quickly, the effect is still sensational. He is matched quip for quip by Rudd. As he did in Knocked Up, the current “FOJ” (friend of Judd) drops little atomic bombs of brilliance, either in reaction or rejoinder, keeping everything Danny does a question of taste and/or tolerance. Rudd is especially strong during the opening bits, where his dead end life as an energy drink pitch man proves almost lethal. He even has a nice running joke with Thompson (who tags him with the ultimate put-down, “Ben Affleck”).
The final fun facet is the film’s unbridled love for things just slightly outside the mainstream. KISS, about as relevant in 2008 as Uriah Heap and Foghat, become the inspired muse for both Wheeler and our quartet’s last act stand off during the role playing L.A.I.R.E. tournament. Just hearing “Detroit Rock City” blaring from a Minotaur shaped monster truck is more than enough sweet cheese movie magic. Even better, the whole Middle Earth dynamic is both celebrated and chastised, its lack of a link to reality matched evenly by how much pleasure and pride the competitors get out of the event.
So, what doesn’t work? Frankly, the perpetually scruffy Seann William Scott is too lost in his own libido to garner our sympathy. You just know the minute he sees a hot chick with a pair of come hither…eyes, he’s abandoning Ronnie to his own unsupervised devices. And Elizabeth Banks does the whole noble girlfriend part perfectly, but she’s almost ancillary to the entire narrative (as Rudd’s serenade of the KISS classic “Beth” illustrates). In fact, Role Models really doesn’t need such mainstream sentimentality. The way in which our do-nothing heroes begin to bond with their lost and somewhat fragile charges provides more than enough emotion to sustain us.
Role Models may be more sweet than satiric. It tosses off the slang and four letter slams with casual abandon, recognizing almost inherently that we will giggle at their presold shock value. But it’s the moment when Wheeler and Ronnie connect over the concept of breasts (or “boobies”, as the movie lovingly calls them) or when Danny defends Augie to his clueless parents that this film finds its voice. In fact, without the sexual references and graphic language, this would be a pleasant PG romp. But Role Models knows it takes more than heart to get Cineplex audiences interested in a contemporary comedy. So it borrows a few blue moves from the Apatow playbook. To paraphrase a classic quote, copycatting is the sincerest form of filmmaking flattery. This winning, if slightly wonky, effort has enough positives to keep the few unnecessary negatives at bay.
So this is what five Oscar winners gets you? This is the result of the combined Academy caliber efforts of Reese Witherspoon (Walk the Line), Sissy Spacek (Coal Miner’s Daughter), Mary Steenburgen (Melvin and Howard), Jon Voight (Coming Home), and Robert Duvall (Tender Mercies)? Certainly this quintet, along with some solid satiric support from Wedding Crashers cad Vince Vaughn, and a dash of supplemental slapstick from Swingers pal Jon Favreau, could create a clever, comic Yuletide gem, right? They’ve even got Seth “The King of Kong” Gordon on their side, steering the material toward some edgier environs. And yet, with all this potential talent on tap, Four Christmases ends up a wasted, worthless excuse for holiday humor.
Unmarried yup couple Brad and Kate certainly enjoys their Christmases away from the family. Every year, they make up elaborate stories about charity work and traveling to unfriendly climes so they can get out of the mandatory Noel get-togethers. Instead, they head to exotic locales like Cancun and Fiji and enjoy a particularly cool Yule. But when San Francisco International gets fogged in, and a live news report exposes the pair’s plans, its not long before the cellphone starts to ring. Before long, the duo are heading out to visit the relatives. For Brad, that means seeing his redolent, redneck Dad (and cruel cage fighter brothers) and his May to December Mom (she married his best friend). For Kate, it’s confronting her sister’s raging biology, and a distant father who may just hold the key to her future - with or without Brad.
Flailing like a dying fish out of water and eventually smelling just as fetid, Four Christmases is stiflingly unfunny. It’s rotten mistletoe over a condemned homestead’s archway. In fact, it’s such an unbridled waste, such a horrifying amalgamation of inept attempted laughs that you wonder what the capable cast was thinking during the filming of certain scenes. Did Favreau and Vaughn really believe the WWE-inspired physical comedy ‘smackdown’ was going to elicit anything other than groans? Was seeing Steenburgen in full Jesus freak mode (alongside a scruffy looking Dwight Yoakim as her pastor beau) supposed to be a legitimate reason to laugh. Does referring to Witherspoon’s character as “Cootie Kate” make the sequence silly, or just stupid? And how far can the whole “kids are craven and evil” thing be pushed before it borders on abuse…for all involved?
With its anthology-like set-up (we just know we’re going to have to suffer through a quartet of these pained visits) and Gordon’s incomplete directing style, there’s always some small amount of potential in this ‘holidays as horror story’ scenario. But the minute we get to the redneck haven of testosterone and terminal b.o., all bets are off. The scenes where Duvall does his best hick trick while Favreau and Grammy Winner Tim McGraw play Deliverance is just dumb. It leads to nothing legitimate, and when Vaughn takes a fall from several feet, we wonder why his next stop was the home of Witherspoon’s mom, not the hospital. The preceding set-up is doubly dreadful. First, we have to witness our heroine fighting off brats in a backyard moonwalk, only to have that topped by a horrid Nativity pageant where Vaughn does his worst Richard Burton meets a muppet overacting.
At this point, we pray for some manner of respite from all the idiocy. On the plus side, Four Christmases delivers. On the downside, this is done by giving Spacek and her cougar character little or nothing to do. Instead of milking the possibilities of an older woman/younger man ideal, Vaughn gets all the good lines. Rattling them off like he’s making them up on the spot, we’re actually happy when Favreau turns up again to whip his brother’s butt in the board game Taboo. By the time we arrive at the Voight residence, we’re as ready as the characters to call this experience over. Luckily, we get to leave the theater. Our cast must suffer through the kind of last act desperation as inspiration that often brings the entire production to a crashing halt. Luckily, that old Tinsel Town standby - biology - comes along to save the day.
If it was anyone other than the performance powerhouses of Duvall, Steenburgen, Voight, Vaughn, Spacek, and Witherspoon in front of the camera, we might have allowed for how way below average Four Christmases is. But casting an A-list immediately elevates the expectations, and not a single actor meets them. We imagine they can make up stuff funnier than what was in the script, but we’re clearly misguided in that concept. Gordon obviously allowed his far more experienced cast to run ramshackle over his designs, with Vaughn the most egregious offender. There are instances when he goes off on stupid stream of incomprehensibleness rants that merely add up to literal minutes of laughless screen time. He is matched by Witherspoon in that she’s offered nothing remotely humorous to add. She’s the sap. He’s the uninvited guest whose long overstayed his welcome.
By the end, we just want the obligatory break-up/make-up and to be done with it. It’s rare, especially in this current rib-tickling renaissance, to find something as solidly hateful as Four Christmases. If the holidays didn’t already have you contemplating suicide, this sad excuse for something warm but witty will have you headed for the nearest crisis hotline, ASAP. This time of year is already a chore, what with the mandatory family fellowship and credit crunching consumer guilt. The last thing we need is a movie that manifests its anger in strangulated, unsatisfying ways. Apparently, when actors cash in their Oscar credits, this is the kind of crap they are given. Kind of puts their pissed off prima donna antics into perspective, doesn’t it?
He’s been making movies since 1992. Yet in 16 years, he’s completed only four projects - 1992’s Strictly Ballroom, 1996’s William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet, 2001’s magnificent Moulin Rogue, and now the old school epic named for his native land, Australia. So why has Baz Luhrmann been so lax in his creative output? Granted, there have been a couple of setbacks (he was fast tracking an Alexander the Great pic with Leonardo DiCaprio when Oliver Stone and Colin Farrell beat him to the punch), and has rejected offers to “go Hollywood” to make standard mainstream fare. And yet his latest is so enamored of Tinsel Town’s Golden Age that MGM and Gone with the Wind should get a restraining order. This doesn’t make Australia bad, just antithetical to what we know about Lurmann’s previous patterns.
After her husband toddles off to the mythic title country to settle up on a bad land deal, Lady Sarah Ashley decides to head Downunder herself to see what’s going on. It’s the late ‘30s, right before Japan enters World War II and threatens the entire Pacific Rim. Upon arriving, Lady Ashley learns of her spouse’s death, the dire situation on her ranch, Faraway Downs, and the only possible solution to her problems - a cattle drive across miles of untouched outback. Hiring a handsome rapscallion named “The Drover” (a man her husband relied on to manage the enterprise), Lady Ashley succeeds in saving her land.
But then she is faced with two more major problems. One concerns beef baron King Carney, his corrupt future son-in-law Neil Fletcher, and the duo’s desire to claim her property. The second surrounds a half-caste aboriginal boy named Nullah, Lady Ashley’s growing affection for the child, and a government mandate which requires the lad to be taken to an island mission for training as a servant. It will take all her resolve, and her budding relationship with The Drover, to prevent personal and professional disaster.
Somehow, we expect more from Baz Luhrmann. While Australia is a movie with ambitions as large as the island continent itself, its Tinsel Town greatest hits approach keeps it from being the larger than life experience the filmmaker fancies. Granted, when you’re channeling everything from Margaret Mitchell to King Vidor, you’re naturally going to stumble upon some spectacle, and there are times when Luhrmann lulls us into a sense of clear imaginative complacency. But with its partially porcelain casting, dependence on an aboriginal approach to magical realism, and a last act narrative that piles on the false endings, what should have been stellar is merely amiable and acceptable. You will definitely love a great deal of what you see. Problem is - it has very little aesthetic or artistic nutritional value.
One can only thank the moviemaking gods that original Drover choice, Russell Crowe, bowed out of this project early on. His burly, beer swilling smirking would have ruined this film’s ersatz romantic chemistry. Beside, Hugh Jackman is a much more satisfying male lead. He brings a real sense of adventure and machismo to the character, so much that we really never care that he’s all six pack pretty boyishness and little else. Drover does have many of the movie’s strongest speeches, and hearing Jackman “go native”, accent wise, is well worth the ticket price. Sadly, Ms. Kidman is not. Though Luhrmann tries everything in his art box design powers to bring some ordinariness to the unwarranted A-list wax figure, he can’t coax a convincing performance out of her. At first, she’s merely awkward. By the time of her transformation into a woman of significant means, she’s shrill and overtly maudlin.
That just leaves doe-eyed dreamchild Brandon Walters as Nullah to carry us through, and he more or less does. With a face so sweet it could cause sugar to sour, and a demeanor that mixes his aboriginal roots with just the right amount of mainstream movie mannerism, he’s the single best thing in a film that should have several dozen such standouts. It takes someone of significant talents to avoid making a nonstop sonic reference to The Wizard of Oz‘s “Over the Rainbow” into a saccharine, syrupy statement, and yet Walters works it like the secular “Amazing Grace” it’s become. If Kidman had been replaced with, say, Naomi Watts, and Luhrmann had been convinced to pile on, not purposefully avoid, his previous visionary somersaults, Australia would truly soar. As it stands, we get a fine film frequently undermined by its own unobtainable aspirations.
And it’s all clearly Luhrmann’s fault. When he gives Jackman a “Clark Gable” moment during a fancy dress ball, or merges old school melodrama with references to outback mythos, we enjoy the revisionist reverence. But we want more of that Moulin majesty, that eye candy craziness that argued that anything could happen and probably would. The frequent montages, used to highlight instances of sex and violence, are not without their charms. But when your previous film flaunted grunge masters Nirvana as part of a turn of the century French dance hall drama, we should be wowed, not waiting to be so. By the time he gets to the CG heavy attack on Darwin (done up in complete Tora, Tora, Tora style), we welcome the novelty, no matter how uniformly fake it all looks.
With narrative threads frequently falling by the wayside, unresolved, only to see a half hearted attempt at an intertwining later on, and a feeling that no one is ever really in danger, even with evil staring our heroes directly in their flawless faces, Australia underwhelms. It’s still a very good film, albeit one marred by our desire to make it something more. If you simply stop kvetching and give in to Luhrmann’s latest inspiration, ignoring a few obvious flaws along the way, you’ll be whisked off to a land of enchantment, wonder, and occasionally solid visual virtues. But for his fourth film in 16 years, we anticipate something more from Mr. Moulin Rogue! That it’s not confrontational or deconstructionist may seem rebellious on paper, but blown up on the big screen for nearly three hours, Australia sure plays as purely conventional.