the occasional musings of a film nerd

war: it ain't good for entertainment

2010-09-27T21:43:00.002+13:00

After stringing out the finale of True Blood Season 3 over 2 weeks, I thought I could get my fix of Eric Northman on Generation Kill. I'd heard so many good things about it.

Every time I watch I feel like curling up on the pavement like the guy in Radiohead's Just video. It seems all too real to dismiss as fiction, without rhyme or reason or justice or redemption. I know it's good television - excellent, amazing, exemplary television - but.. but I feel like crying. But not. Is that what good television is? I don't even know any more.

I'll just lie here a little longer.

on paper heart

2010-05-27T20:36:00.004+12:00

I love the Onion AV club so much that sometimes I forget that like any review site, its reviews are always going to be subjective. When a friend clued me onto a film by Asian-American stand up comedienne Charlyne Yi featuring Micheal Cera, it sort of felt like a match made in heaven. It was like there was no way I couldn't like this film. And then the AV Club review was scathing. Like really scathing. And then I remembered Love Actually. And somehow I was convinced to dismiss the film.

Taking a break from work, I noticed that the film was playing at the Rialto. Almost a good year since it was released. I didn't feel like Iron man 2 yet, Prince of Persia was reserved for a more vacant frame of mind, and A Single Man wasn't on at the right time. I even forgot to check if the film was playing in one of their dreaded digital projection suites. And you know what? It didn't matter.

The film roped me in. Despite its 'twee-ness'. Despite its obvious contrivances. Despite the occasional irritation with the heroine - an unsurpassible obstacle to liking the film if I were to believe the AV Club reviewer. Admittedly, being a short awkward Chinese girl myself, there are probably biases.

The thing I liked most about the film was that even though there was the figure of the white male 'director' in film, the whole thing felt very much driven by a girl. I chose to read it as a feminist film of sorts, way more empowered than the drek Sex and the City has sadly become (and which I will sadly watch, like an automaton). Or maybe Sex and the City was always materialism dressed up in a very fetching feminist suit. I digress. I've read multiple reviews of Paper Heart since and most of the negative ones hinge on the opinion that Charlyne is an irritating, high-pitched, whinging ninny. She mugs for the camera, she squeaks like a pubescent boy and looks like a nerd. In essence, it feels like the reason that people don't like the film is because 'she ugly'.

The film seems to polarise people - those who think Charlyne is cute and charming and kind of cool in an offbeat cynical kind of way, and those who don't like the film because she's a funny-looking weirdo. I'm hitting myself now - because the AV club review really feels like it was written by a man who simply didn't find her attractive, and maybe he's that kind of sublimated misogynist who needs his heroines big-eyed and elegant. I'm not accusing him of being uncommonly down-on-women - I think most audiences, including women, are probably the same. And maybe I'm wrong, but maybe I'm not. Which is all the more reason to hit myself for taking his word against well... hers. And as a self-proclaimed feminist, I should know better.

breakfast: japanese chicken curry and rice from last night's dinner
verdict: a little bland, unfortunately.

stocktake 2010 (way belated)

2010-04-13T08:12:00.001+12:00

all good on all fronts.

breakfast: chicken and wintermelon chinese broth

verdict: soul food

My friend? My friend!

2009-12-28T19:11:00.004+13:00

Dear roseanne,

Thanks for donating to Chicago Public Radio and This American Life!

Your employer might double or even triple your contribution. Search for your company's policy and forms via MatchFinderOnline.

Also, if you didn’t check the box requesting “periodic updates and communications from Chicago Public Radio,” you won't be put on mailing lists of any sort. If you did check the box, however, we'll add you to the weekly This American Life e-newsletter.

Thanks, again!

Your friend,
Ira Glass

---

Dear Ira and crew,

No, thank you.

Thank you for making me fall in love all over again with the simple art of a good story. You manage to do it several times every week and make it look effortless. I know it isn't, and I know you work really hard. I am humbled, honoured and amazed that something this good could actually be free.

Thank you for making me believe in humanity again. And love. And life. The gentle spirit with which you extract people's words serves as the perfect counterbalance to the meanness I see inherent in most of the media I consume. And it's not just that. It's the humour with which you do it. It's wicked, sometimes, but it's never done with spite. I'm not sure how you pull it off.

No thanks to you for the increasing number of conversations where I will go "Oh that's exactly like this episode of This American Life when...", swiftly followed by "Oh, it's an amazing radio documentary series, not really just about American stuff, I mean it could just as easily be called 'This Life'... oh, you don't listen to the radio? Well, it's free on ... OK, see you/[get interrupted]/[person looks interested but it's clear they are just being polite]".

In this season where there is so much to be thankful for, a nice radio documentary series seems like an odd thing to put on the list. Somehow though, this radio documentary series and everything it stands for sums up the festive, complicated feelings I have at this time of year, and so it seems apt.

So thank you, thank you. Sorry for the schmaltz, but thank you.

from a happy listener.

---

breakfast:
a swig of Royal Crown Draft Cola, some cherries and a bierstick.

verdict:
not good. I was stressed.

should a punch as part of good wife-ly correction be a criminal offence?*

2009-07-17T23:44:00.005+12:00

I was feeling horrible after The Chaser last night. I was so sick of seeing brutality against women. I mean, that's not what the film was about, but it was a theme that was there, and that really bothered me and seemed to be appearing everywhere. I saw Firaaq earlier in the week and I was trying to understand how wartime atrocities always involved a sort of default of rape and what Jane Campion said about how women gave birth to the whole world, and what hope any civilisation has that treats women this way.

I was suddenly so grateful for Stephen, and this society where I could expect nothing less than an equal relationship - no, maybe not even equal, because I feel cherished, and loved. I feel like a queen, and I have no reason to believe that every woman in this society can't enjoy the same thing. I will never again take for granted this time and place where men who change nappies are simply normal, where I can say and feel and think what I want, where my husband is my best friend, and to have that relationship with him be so expected that it's boring to even talk about it.

And the reason I'm feeling so loved up right now is because I just saw Adventureland in the best seat (middle, back row all to myself) at the Civic, and even though it's a fairly predictable romantic comedy, it was perfectly rendered, and totally what I needed. I walked out in a simpery haze, I even gave the busker another dollar (I'd given him a dollar on the way in) and smiled at strangers. It seemed good and right for the film festival to fix the funk that the film festival had caused - and thus, balance was restored.

breakfast: no breakfast, just lunch at the new cafe under Stephen's office. The chicken and mushroom pie tasted great, though I attribute a lot of that to the company.

*the referendum is stupid, yes. Stephen's take on the ridiculousness of it all...

stocktake 2009

2009-03-22T23:48:00.002+13:00

The word for this year's stocktake is: content. Or in 18 words: content happy where I want to be challenges ahead hardships ahead but what is life without these things?

It's pretty boring but I think it's true.
Physically, I'm where I always thought I would be at this age.
Financially, we're doing better than I thought we would be.
Career-wise I could be doing more, but at the same time it continues to be fulfilling. I realise it's a luxury to be doing passion projects, even though they may be moving along slowly.
Family and friend-wise, I think I'm blessed. I feel connected, supported, loved. This could have something to do with moving closer to town!

It could be hormonal, but right now, today at least, I'm remarkably mellow and content, and I think that's a wonderful thing to be on a birthday. Maybe it's the birthday that causes such contentment, because when I look back at past stocktakes, I feel like I'm repeating myself. Maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever it is, this stocktake, this moment, is another keeper.

A friend who was into astrology told me earlier this week that my saturn was rising, and I didn't quite get it, but apparently every 28 years (give or take a few years) in a person's life, there will be a big shift, a change, something involving life and/or death. I got a little shiver, because he was right - big things are afoot for me, and I feel on the edge of some great happening. It's not a precipice, it's not necessarily threatening or scary, nor is it completely exciting and wonderful. It's all these things and it's such a strange feeling because it is inevitable. This is big picture stuff. This is life. I'm alive, and I think I feel more alive now than I have for a little while.

Another year older, another year on this incredible mortal coil. I'm not a religious gal, but amen to that.

breakfast:
BBQ duck congee from Love-a-Duck

verdict:
mm comfort food.

2009-02-28T11:09:00.006+13:00

Hmm - overdue for a musing. Once I get here I never know what to write though, so this time I'm going to list something easy and utterly mundane over the course of the day, but which will probably be interesting to me (and noone else) in a few years time: what I ate and drank today in boring detail!

1100 - banana and Milo

Just waiting for feedback on the draft (after 3 months of a horrible writing and procrastination spiral - I am finding new and dastardly ways to distract myself) and visited Neil Gaiman's blog for the first time in a while - have decided that the word of the day is peregrination - as in, 'with the inclement weather, peregrinations to the shops are not advised'. It just sounds cool!

1420 - rice and night flower soup - the night flowers came from my Dad's plant, and when there wasn't any chicken or chicken stock in the house, I went out to the local Chinese noodle place and tried to get just plain chicken soup/broth, and after a lot of "no I don't want any corn in it, or egg, or veges, or other meat, I just want the chicken soup", they gave me some but had put cornstarch or something in to thicken it (sigh). How hard is it for a girl to just get a nice clear broth around here? Anyway. Diluting the soup 1: 1.5 parts of water, bringing to the boil, then adding 2 night flowers chopped up and bringing that to the boil.. ahh. Yum.
1 peacharine
1 white flesh nectarine
1 mini moro gold
handful of roasted caramelized almonds
water and ice with Barkers Blackcurrant syrup

a strawberry Freddo (not sure when I ate this - I just saw the wrapper in my bin)

Can I bring myself to watch Kevin Smith's latest film Zac and Miri make a Porno? Seth Rogen is still sort of OK, but I'm getting sick of the Apatow schtick, even if it is done well (and it's increasingly less, of late). If this is Kevin Smith's way of saying 'Well I did it first', then I'm not interested. I just can't get over how shit Clerks 2 was. The Onion AV Club seemed to think Porno was alright but... there's something in me that's leaning toward mainstream fare like Marley and Me, or even the reportedly horrible he's Just not that into you. I'm not really into dogs though. Well, I'm not against dogs, but I'm into cats more. Choices, choices. Maybe I should see the Chinese film on offer, even if it does look cheesy. Watchmen looks like a big style wank off. I am extremely skeptical, even though there's no question about whether I'm going or not.

Amazing how easy it is to burble on about nothing when I haven't sat down to blog about something 'specific'.

1900(ish) - taro and sago pudding from Grand Park - had a massive craving for this pudding, and only Grand Park does it like this. Had to sit in my sandals, shorts and tshirt as a big crowd of Chinese wedding guests filed past and stared at me while I waited for it to be ready, but oh well - it was worth it.
also some of my Dad's beef broth with a spoonful of rice thrown in. Ginger-licious!

2115 already and I haven't had a proper meal - pudding first might have been a mistake.
Just had a small glass of milk

2230 made more flower soup with what was left of the beef broth. Threw some rice in. Yum. Probably a bit late to eat but oh well.

Ended up watching my newly acquired DVD of Dr Horrible's Singalong Blog... ah, bliss.

pointless conversation of the day

2008-12-14T23:53:00.003+13:00

(the phone rings)

me: Hello?

bored sounding dude: Hello, how are you? Is the owner of the phone account there?

m: um... what is this about?

bsd: is the owner of the phone account there?

m: sorry... what's this about?

bsd: this is about saving money on your phone bill.

m: Um... sorry, yeah, not we're not interested.

bsd: so... is the owner of the phone account there?

m: ummm.... no.

bsd: OK, well I'll call back later then.

m: Yeah, but -

(dude hangs up)

breakfast: 2 x NZ apricot and 5 x gingerbread biscuit.
verdict: OK, so it wasn't very nutritious, but it's all I felt like on the run...

four exercises in surreality

2008-09-18T20:50:00.004+12:00

---
The other night, at about 4am, Stephen sits up in the dark, bolt upright. In a loud voice:

S: you're going to snap them!
R: What?
S: You're going to snap them.
R: (shakes his shoulder) Um, I think you should wake up now.
S: Hum. (lies down and turns over).
R: what did you think was going to snap?
S: (snuffle).. fishing rods.
R: what?
S: shut up.

We'd just watched Man VS Wild on TV where this otherwise preppy English dude was surviving with nothing but a knife and a pot in remote jungle by the Amazon. Stephen was amazed by the way this guy fashioned a decent bow and arrow with the knife and killed some piranhas for food. I thought it was great he was having dreams about this now.

Come 6am, when the alarm goes off:

S: (snuffle)
R: hee hee, "you're going to snap them!". Do you remember?
S: shut up.

---

This morning, driving to work, three geese run onto the road just as I am approaching and stretch out their wings at me, like people would run out and hold out their arms to say "STOP!". I managed to brake in time and move slowly past, but something about the looks on their faces made me wonder if this was some kind of early morning goose game they were playing.

---

I got a call from an AD on a film set that a world famous actor (who I don't know at all) wanted to ask me something, and was it OK if she gave him my number. I'm still waiting for the call.

---

Remember the 'timely' audition I mentioned last post, the 'non commercial' one? This was the opening conversation:

A: Hello Roseanne, how are you?
R: Hello, fine thanks.
A: Roseanne is a filmmaker. I loved your film by the way. Take 3.
R: Yes. How ironic is this? (I look down at my schoolgirl outfit)
A: Ahahaha. Ha.

What proceeded to transpire was the single most embarrassing audition I have EVER had the misfortune to remember. I had to learn a song, and like a muppet, I copied and changed some stupid dance choreography I had gleaned off the internet to do with it. If ever there was proof of some kind of cosmic justice - ostensibly for making a film about Chinese actresses who through some kind of internal masochism subject themselves to denigrating auditions - then this was it. I didn't get the part (duh), and now I get frequent and horrible flashbacks whereupon I will suddenly punch the steering wheel or slap my forehead on the nearest wall in a desperate attempt to forget.

Why, why, why?

---

Breakfast:
leftover rice, courgettes and chicken
verdicts:
mm. nice simple ricey leftovers. No fuss.

procrastination report 3

2008-08-09T22:35:00.003+12:00

I was reading Louis Theroux's book Call of the Weird where he followed up on some of the strange people he followed in his Weird Weekends TV series, and there was a section on a kooky ass hypnotist turned life coach who charged gullible losers thousands to 'teach' them to turn their lives around. This guy was called Marshall Sylver, and I'd never heard of him. He seemed like a bit of a dick. Then, when I was tidying Stephen's room, I found a plastic bag full of old cassette tapes - 6 of which were Marshall Sylver tapes on achieving Passion and Power. I glanced at one momentarily - it was about achieving passionate relationships. I mean - I couldn't believe it. Talk about synchronicity.

I didn't really have anything planned for the rest of the year - I'd hoped to get as much writing done as possible, and I was sort of... floating. I was feeling a little lost, but then I was about to start up a couple of spec projects - a personal thing, and a new feature idea - when these phone calls just sort of came along. I was feeling guilty about not pulling my weight financially - then a few freelance edit jobs came along. I was a little despondent about the lack of auditions - then an audition came along, and not a crappy commercial one that I knew I had no chance of getting. I've got a couple of other things that I really have my fingers crossed for, but... it feels like the universe is sort of, well, looking out for me and if things don't really go my way on the surface, then there is a reason for it. Sometimes you just have to sort of go with the flow - I mean, without being lazy about it - but I guess the best sort of journey down a river is a mixture of paddling and just sitting.

I've had a lot of my own company this week, but I don't think I've been lonely. There's been quite a lot of sentimental time - in the spare time between appointments, I've been tidying my childhood bedroom that I haven't slept in since I was 15, and a lot of the stuff hasn't been touched since then. Cinema is great at crystallising a feeling, but I don't think a film could really do the 'tidying childhood room'- feeling justice. It's not just a sentimental mood - it's the time and the minutiae. The layers of history, trying to remember every little piece of rubbish which turns out to be an old treasure - a plastic brooch, a special roll of stickers. It's like an archaeological dig of my life - I'm finding thing after little thing, the old neural pathways fire up, and I'm suddenly reminded of things I haven't thought about for over 2 decades. And then suddenly I've been sitting there for hours on end and I'm late for that thing and I have to rush off. I could probably sit there for days. It's a solitary exercise best done by oneself. I make out like it's a bit of chore, but I think I love it.

I had a vivid dream a couple nights ago about driving down a new stretch of wide wide motorway. It was night, but when I reached this stretch of motorway, it was lit up as bright as day. It was lit up so brightly, and the lights seemed so much like the sun that I had to brake in astonishment. It was weird because later, I thought that it might have actually happened - like I discovered that new stretch of motorway from Westgate to the North Shore, and I think the dream sort of looked like that. I'm not sure why this dream sticks in my mind so much, but it has, so I just thought I would mention it.

breakfast:
Milo and the last of S's birthday waffles.

verdict:
We'd bought some Chinese Milo while in the Xinjiang province, and we didn't end up opening it until now. Alas I'm not used to Chinese Milo which is quite different to NZ Milo so I had to throw it all out. Frozen waffles usually toast pretty well, and we had a surplus of about 5 waffles which I've been working slowly through the last couple months, but this last one was a bit off. I mean, I ate it, but I left the last section because I'd had enough. I cooked myself a nice lunch not long after brekka.

procrastination report 2

2008-07-17T02:09:00.005+12:00

Guh. I watched 4 films today. This is a festive season, truly, when I watch films all day and think about glorious filmy stuff and bump into glorious filmy people and have long conversations about glorious film.

I was just reading the Onion AV Club interview with Maggie Gyllenhaal, and what she was saying reminded of something I noticed today in the some of the culty films I saw - Sukiyaki Western Django and Pop Skull for the record - and how the cult oeuvre can really have a misogynistic edge to it. I don't think this is hysterical feminism here - I mean, if noone's going to ask why the pure virgin has to become a whore to get any justice in this town, or why the two women in Pop Skull are a breaker of hearts bitch (who ostensibly gets her comeuppance) and a slutty I'll-come-onto-anyone-even-a-self-absorbed-ugly-whinger girlfriend (and while we're at it, why all the women in The Devil Dared Me To came to very sticky ends) then I think we have a serious problem. Quentin Tarantino and Joss Whedon are constantly asked about their strong heroines, as if they were an anomaly. Maggie's right dammit - women who either just scream, or are traded about like loot aren't very much fun to watch. Quite apart from being insulting and offensive, it's actually boring. We should want more from our screen women.

I did an interview today for Radio New Zealand about my latest short Take 3 - this is one of those moments where you mastermind the perfect soundbite, which would be:

q: is there a message to your film? Something that you were trying to do or say with it?
a: if there was something I was trying to do in the film, it would be allowing the otherwise objectified to have the sense, good humour, and intelligence to address their objectification - which, it turns out, they do.

Does that sound wanky? Yes, yes it does. (but it would have been awesome wankiness!)

I look forward to seeing (and reviewing!) Teeth at the fest.

On a completely different subject, I think the reason why I cried so hard that I actually sobbed in CJ7 is because, while I've been writing for BiaN, I've been thinking about the nature of parental love, and what it means in different cultures. It's so strange about synchronicity - I had bumped into Briar (see what I mean about the festive air of the film festival?) and we ended up talking about how our generation (in New Zealand at least) hasn't suffered any period of great upheaval - no world war, no depression - and how the stakes were so much higher for our parents. And it's so true - a generation ago, the stakes were so high that you invested everything, and I mean everything into your future - your children - that you would do anything - nag, disapprove, cajole - to make their lives better in the long run. My parents did it, and the father in CJ7 did it. Only when he was gone did the little boy realise the true nature of his father's love. Whenever I think of that kid waking up and hugging his dad and promising to be a good boy - I'm tearing up now, jesus - I think, this scene might not ever be in a western liberal film, and maybe that's why so few people turned up to the screening I went to. Maybe that's why the film doesn't do so well outside of Asia, I don't know. For me, it's one of my favourite kid-friendly movies of all time. Seriously.

breakfast:
milo and a flatto peach.

verdict:
I'd forgotten I'd pinched some peaches from home. It was so sweet and juicy.

procrastination report 1

2008-07-03T16:11:00.002+12:00

I just cried over an episode of Buffy (season 5, episode 6) - the one where Tara's family come to Sunnydale and try to claim her back. I looked at the episode breakdown, and was both surprised and not surprised to see that Joss Whedon had written and directed that one. It even had a young Amy Adams in there.

It's so great rediscovering a series that so many people scoff at without actually knowing what they're talking about - if they'd actually watched the thing they would realise just how complex the themes and threads are - religion and patriarchy and familial duty and platonic love and cultural and sexual difference among many other things (the power of true love, of course) - I'd forgotten what a rich and wonderful ride it all was. I cried even more when I realised what was to come in the later episodes - (spoiler ahead) - I remember mourning Tara more than Buffy's mum because there was so much more at stake - Willow and Tara were meant for each other, and the scriptwriters took that away from us, which was, I guess the only way that Willow could become grief-stricken and lose her cool and get all powerful and destructive...

I worked on the script all this morning until about 2pm this arvo, so I felt virtuous enough to watch an episode over lunch. But then, after 2 episodes, I'm here on the blog... hmm. Virtue meter not so hot right now.

At least something's being written around here. Back to the script!

breakfast:
milo and a nectarine.

verdict:
I've been feeling bad about the nectarine, being imported from California and all. It's not supposed to be very good, ecologically speaking. But it was sweet and delicious. Sigh.

Indiana Jones and the Lost Cinema of Old School Stunts

2008-06-22T20:08:00.007+12:00

I've been watching the Indian Jones Making Ofs and mourning what seems to be the dying art of stunt work and spectacle in movies. Watching George Lucas and Steven Spielberg talk about the films, it's obvious what turns their cranks, and their recent work is exactly a predictable trajectory of their 1980s selves - Spielberg still seems to be that wide-eyed kid who marvels in the magic of movie-making with all its problem-solving and craft*, while Lucas is this guy who's basically, well, lazy, for want of a better word (boring? misguided? bat-shit loco?), and is more interested in churning the spectacle out through a series of new-fangled, soul-less, joyless cheats.

I know, I know all of it's cheating, but somehow the magic is gone. When it comes to stunts, visual effects or spectacle, I never ask "how did they do that?" any more because I know they did it with fast cutting, some software and a huge number of bored, underpaid, probably Indian people sitting at computers ruining their backs and eyesight rotoscoping and painting out wires. It doesn't feel special any more, and it's not just because I'm a filmmaker and knowledge of the inner workings have made me jaded. When I see the work in the old Indiana Jones movies, I'm amazed. Real explosions. Real fire. Real stuntmen actually being dragged under cars. These days, I just take it for granted, and to feel like that is just such a shame.

The worst of it is that visual effects are so 'easy' now that filmmakers use it to mask the most banal of things, just to save time. Truck in the background? Paint it out. Light stand in shot? Paint it out. There's no doubt that in the future I'll be the first one to say "fuck it, fix it in post", but by golly I'd better feel ashamed when I do.

I can't remember where I heard it (maybe in a film?) - anyway I think it was a Japanese warrior mourning the dying art of the blade. In the past, only a person of proper training and worth could challenge a warrior. With the invention of the gun, any old commoner could kill anybody. I know it's weird/melodramatic to compare the two, but my feelings around the state of stunts and VFX at the moment is the same. I mean, it's not that I don't appreciate the new age of visual effects, or think it doesn't have any skill or craft - it does, and I know that do be done well takes a great deal of time and talent - but somewhere along the way, something's lost its soul. That's the feeling I get when the compare the old Indianas with the new one, and I suspect it's why I don't want to even think about Episodes 1-3.

I don't think I'm alone. If the biggest selling point of Tony Jaa's movies is the fact that his stunts have not been tinkered with (pity about the crap script, acting and story), then I reckon there's both hope, and an audience that could do with a bit of that ol' school soul.

We'll see.

*it's amazing how old footage of Spielberg makes me appreciate him anew. It's not cool for film students to like his work, and I used to agree that he was a boring old dinosaur, but his enthusiasm circa 1980s really is infectious. I also don't deny he is a master storyteller. Plus I got insanely jealous watching that footage on the mining-car rig on the Temple of Doom. It looks so fricking cool! I want a go!

breakfast:
a HUGE plate of mushrooms, spinach and hash browns at Crucial Traders in Kingsland

verdict:
mushrooms were very nice (maybe a little too much rosemary, but the hint of honey was a nice touch). The hash browns were a bit blech, but I still ate them. The spinach made my teeth squeak, but that's what good spinach does. There was also too much food.

never trust the Rialto when quality projection is on the line

2008-06-18T23:24:00.005+12:00

So I finished Christine Vachon's latest book 'A Killer Life' (which took me all the way through China!) and got all excited because I'm Not There was still showing at the Rialto.

I forgot I'd made a vow never to watch films in Rialto Newmarket's digital projection suites again, possibly because I'd bumped into a resident projectionist there a while ago who assured me that they had improved their system.

So, I'm looking at my I'm Not There ticket and my heart sinks. It's in Cinema 2 (cinema 1 & 2 = digital pain for the same price as a celluloid movie = abomination, now fixed perhance?). It's OK, I think to myself - I'm here now, I paid for the parking (in actuality, I've paid more for parking because of the faulty parking meter, but that's another story), it's not showing anywhere else.

I'm in the cinema and the screen is just as pixellated and rainbow-effecty as it always was, and to add insult to injury, the curtains are not pulled back far enough and the picture is spilling onto them. I calm myself down - I'm here now, parking paid for, just enjoy the movie. This is better than my home system, right?

The lights dim. The picture's not too bad (apart from the pixellation and rainbow effect and the picture on the curtain) - this beats my home system, etc etc. OK. Nice black and white opening sequence. Arty montage, you know. Nice music and sound effects. People moving their mouths, no words, interesting creative choice, but it sets a scene. Mm, a cast to appreciate - Cate Blanchett, Heath Ledger, Christian Bale. Christine Vachon, yay. Todd Haynes, yay. Nice music, still no dialogue, but that's OK.

The final opening credit. Good, we're getting into the movie proper. A scene with a kid getting onto a train... annnd... here's the interesting part - there's the sound of the train, the arty montage is over and the kid's having a conversation with these two bums, but we still can't hear it. Mouths are moving, no words.

And get this... of about 8 cinemagoers in the audience, including myself, noone says anything for a full 30 seconds because they think Todd Haynes was just being arty.

This is a sign. I pick up my bag and stand up.

Me: Um... this isn't right.
others: (silence)
Me: Um... has anyone seen this movie before?
others: (murmurs - no, no)

Another gentleman and I troop down to the Rialto front desk where there is your stereotypical young slacker/underling who slouches into his RT ("uh... yeah, there's no sound in I'm Not... what? ... Oh, yeah, no voices sound. What? Yeah."). When I ask him to start it again he informs me that the movie is not like a tape that you can start from the beginning. Hey man, if it's on DVD I beg to differ, but if I'm going to get my money back I'm not complaining. I get my money back, and a lesson. That's to stick to my vows and never trust Rialto's digital projection ever again. Or any video digital projection for that matter. Apart from IMAX, I'm not giving digital projection one iota of my trust UNTIL IT FRICKIN' PROVES ITSELF.

I'll rent I'm Not There on DVD in a year or so I guess.

I fled to the St Lukes multiplex (which, for all my griping, has never let me down projection-wise) and watched The Incredible Hulk and Sex and the City to stop sulking.

I have to say that I was one of those who didn't mind the Ang Lee Hulk. This one was apparently more of a crowd pleaser, and I definitely thought the screen chemistry between Ed Norton and Liv Tyler was more compelling. The set pieces were executed with the usual pizazz and style that I've come to expect from these recent Marvel epics (an expectation that Indiana Jones' latest crummy effects failed terribly with its uneven virutal lighting and 'vaseline' glow to mask bad keys or something), and the story was OK. Not great, but passable.

The theatre for Sex and the City was filled with appreciative women/fans, so when I wanted to yell at Sarah Jessica Parker to get over herself, I managed to restrain myself. There were some great one liners (mostly delivered by Kim Cattrall in that does-she-actually-speak-like-a-phone-sex-line-all-the-time? voice) - but mostly, the film was a thinly veiled fashion show and high-pitched hymn to the rampant religion of Materialism, engineered by corporations to fuel the idealogy of Consumption.

As you can probably tell, I've been watching: http://storyofstuff.com/

It's a good watch. Is it as riveting a watch as 3 and 2/132th movies in two days? Definitely. I should probably turn off my computer before I go to bed. But not before I put down:

Breakfast:
Rice and leftovers (tomato and egg, Chinese style!), Milo

Verdict:
Ya can't beat leftovers!

back home

2008-06-15T15:55:00.002+12:00

//lazy sunday dvd player instructions

if ((stephen in bed == 1) && (roseanne in bed == 1)){
playDVD("Weeds");
}
else if ((stephen in bed == 1) && (roseanne in bed == 0)){
playDVD("Lost Season 4");
}
else if ((stephen in bed == 0) && (roseanne in bed == 1)){
playDVD("Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 4" || "30 Rock");
}
else{
stopDVD();
}

Got back from China 4 days ago. It was amazing. There's far too much to be able to jot down in a blog...

breakfast:
mum's stewed beef and pan-fried squid with rice.

verdict:
I love travelling. It's also good to be home. :)

ode to my friends

2008-03-26T23:51:00.004+13:00

this is how a perfect evening goes:
extractor fan, glowing red coals
good conversation
incredible company
Soju and bulgogi
spicy tofu soup
a present to treasure forever
Wang city big mart and a red bean iceblock
sing star
birthdays which last a fortnight

as you can tell, I am still basking in the warming glowing warm glow of soju. But really... I love you guys.

breakfast:
watermelon, peacherine and orange

verdict:
definitely what I felt like in the morning, but got quite hungry around 9am. Which makes sense since I got up at 5am.

stock taking 2008

2008-03-22T23:16:00.003+13:00

arrgh! I have an 8am calltime, and I'm not in bed yet! Sigh!

Um, quick quick... life still pretty good, stock is OK. This age not so bad, but I might start pausing longer when people ask my age and consider not answering at all and cultivating a mysterious, youthful raise of the eyebrow.

Ummm... worked all today, still working. This birthday lasts all the rest of the month!

I like vietnamese takeaways.

breakfast:
Ummmm... watermelon and milo!

verdict:
not very birthday-ey, but I liked it. Stephen was too sick at 8am, didn't want to force him to make me french toast. Seemed cruel. Another time.

5.15am - 5.23am

2008-03-21T05:15:00.002+13:00

Before I go to sleep (hopefully) I would like to dedicate a wee post to my husband. This man suffered last-minute-cake-getting-stress, a really bad flu, a general boredom of parties and pathological fear of Karaoke for me.

When I sang him those two incredibly cheesy love songs ("Dream a little Dream of Me" and "Crazy For You" for the record), I meant every word. Seriously.

4.20am - 5.14am

2008-03-21T04:20:00.005+13:00

I can't sleep. Just got settled at home after my birthday party, which I had been worrying about. I've always wondered what makes a good party after all the party elitism of Berlin, and I really don't know about organising them. Why can't I just sit back and enjoy them? At my wedding, I was stressing the whole time, worrying about whether there was enough food (there wasn't), whether or not the little gingerbread man favours had been put out (they hadn't), etc etc, and only later when people remembered the thing with such fondness did I realise that it was actually a pretty good party.

I was doing the same again tonight, wondering constantly if it was a cool party or not, could I have done it better, was Karaoke the right choice, was there enough food and drink, why didn't people turn up on time, and why did some leave early... I'm still not sure now and I got home a little wound up and I sat and read the cards and... then had nothing but gratitude and joy that I have such people whom I can call friends. This is the time for stock taking, and the thing is, I know some awesome people, and.. you know, I think they might like me back.

I'm not sure about whether I'm a very good party planner (note to self: karaoke is a bold choice!), but I was in a room with some of my favourite people in the whole world. And there will be many good times ahead with them all, milestone or no. Do I need an excuse to spend time with these people? I shouldn't have to have one, I know, but any excuse is a good one.

It's not so profound, but it bears remembering.

breakfast:
milo and congee made with leftover duck and chicken bones.

verdict:
mmm. I really love congee, but something you have to watch is that it might mean you're full for less time and need to eat more sooner. I guess it's all that water.

Feminism is dead. Or at least a real loser.

2008-03-11T21:09:00.004+13:00

Just stumbled onto Rock of Love on C4, and it's like watching a car crash. I can't stop watching. Why? Why? This sad old insecure man gets a harem of young women to bitch and catfight with each other over him, jump to his beck and call, do his bidding, and the prize is what? A date with him. A no-strings attached date. This .. this.. is horrible. The man is.. disgusting.

"The sexy six. The sexy six" (ad infinitum)
"Dress warm and sexy. I want a layer of sex"

Who talks like this? Who? Whoooooo?

The only thing that makes me feel better about this is the news that the winner of season 1 didn't want him in the end. Take that, yukky woman-objectifying man! Hahahaaa!

(OMG.. just watched the credits and the production company is called 'Mindless Entertainment'. They actually celebrate this? How can they live with themselves? How can I live with myself that I watched a whole episode of this? Must... self-flagellate... purge.. purge...)

breakfast:
Lemon and Honey, 2 vit C tablets and a nectarine. Followed up on set with a Panadol, pseudoefedrine tablet and half a cheese toasty.

verdict:
I'm sick. I blame my cold-addled brain for wanting to watch baaaaaaaad eviiillllll TV.

this sucks

2008-01-24T10:55:00.000+13:00

This is one of those things that when anyone asks "when did you hear about it", I'll remember where I was.

I was sitting talking with Li Ming, just before going into 'Lust, Caution' (mm Tony Leung... but scary Tony Leung, really), and I checked a text on my phone... the text was from Marc, and it said "Heath Ledger died from a drug overdose. What is up?!".

And it really clocked me for 6. I'm not sure why, and I'm actually a little ashamed about how much this has affected me. First there was denial, that it was some kind of bad taste publicity stunt. Then there was a pall cast over the whole day, every now and again I'd think of it and feel... just more disbelief I guess, kept checking the news sites, reading post after post of people feeling the same way - oh it's so sad, think of this kid, think of his ex, think of (trust AV clubbers to say this one) Terry Gilliam - and it's spilled over to today, still checking the news - I just want to know what happened, what the fuck happened?!

It's not even as if I really liked him - in that fan-girl way, I mean - I just thought he was a great actor, and he had a wonderful career both behind and in front of him. I couldn't wait to see what he did next, and when I saw the prologue of the next Batman at the IMax theatre, my mouth was literally open with the genius of his Joker. And now there will be no more Joker, and watching Batman won't be the joyous experience it could have been, because he's gone. There will be no more anything from this amazing presence, and it really sucks.

That's the only way I can articulate it.

Breakfast:
a milo and a peach.

verdict:
still bummed.

on appropriate hangovers

2007-12-31T10:00:00.000+13:00

and so it always happens this time of year that I get a bee in my bonnet about how I want to feel about New Years. Either it's carefully cultivated indifference ("oh, I dunno. Whatever, no big deal"), or a desperate need for the big-kiss-at-the-end-of-the-countdown cheese, as seen in romantic comedies. This year I'm getting a feeling for the latter plus a new desire to just... well.. sort of get shitfaced in some way or other. And nurture a hangover maybe.

Whenever I express this desire to others, this is how the conversation goes:

them: why on earth would you want to do that?

me: because I've never had a hangover before, and I thought this was a good occasion to do it.

t: well you've never jumped off the Harbour Bridge before either.

m: yes, but that's terminal. People have hangovers all the time and I want to know what that's
like. Also, I've never been vomity drunk before.

t: why the fuck would you want to feel like that?

m: because people are always going on about how wasted they were/are and I just want to know what they're talking about. It's like a need for empathy.

t: you don't need any empathy! It's a horrible feeling!

m: well you do it all the time.

t: yes, but it's awful.

m: so why do you do it?

t: I don't do it to get a hangover or vomit!

m: yes but you still drink with the knowledge that you'll probably get a hangover and possibly get drunk. If it's so awful why don't you just not drink?

t: shut up, dick!

OK, so they don't end it like that. But I had to end the script somewhere.

What irritates me is the patronising "oh, I've been there, and you don't want to do that, little one" tone that seems to permeate this conversation. Drinking and getting shitfaced is, from what I've seen, a large part of this culture, and what confounds me is the cultivation of the idea of "accidental" shitfacery, when, quite clearly, in this town at least, the act of drinking is a deliberate stepping stone to shitfacery. So it's OK for the drinker to decide to get shit-faced while drinking, under the pretence of "accidental shitfacery", but not OK for me to decide to get shitfaced to see what a hangover is like?

Maybe the hangover curiosity stems from the one (and last, he vows) time that Stephen got shitfaced - on the night before the day before our wedding. I'd had a rather pleasant hen's night bowling while he played poker and drank Soju in the wedding marquee until he fell off his chair multiple times and vomited in the garden. The next morning, when we were due to complete a not entirely small amount of gardening to get the grounds ready for everything, his brother answered the phone blearily and told me that Stephen wasn't going to make it to the phone. My dependable, always there Stephen, not coming to phone when there was a heap of sweaty labour to be done? I had never experienced a hangover so first hand before. By afternoon, I still hadn't seen my groom-to-be and I was miserable. I remember sitting in the grass with a trowel in one hand and 20 little pots of pink flowers to be planted on the ground next to me, and crying. All because of Stephen's Hangover.

Later, when I asked why he couldn't physically have dragged himself out of bed and helped me, he told me that having a hangover felt like death. I don't know how that feels and I guess ever since then I've wanted some kind of empathy. I could have just gotten shitfaced a few days after when the wedding madness was over, but it would have seemed... unpoetic. I could have got shitfaced last New Years, but... to be honest, I can't actually remember what I did last New Years, which is just my point. I want to remember my New Years. And ironically, forgetting it in a drunken stupor would actually be more memorable than what I did last year. Which isn't to say that last New Year's was crap, I'm sure it was pleasant, but it was so pleasant that I forgot it. Maybe a bit of debauchery this year will mark the occasion in a more appropriate fashion.

We'll see.

(and it's not lost on me that I'm extremely privileged this is my only New Year concern)

breakfast:
rice and left over scallops, finished with a plate of cherries. I am so lucky to live here.

moving on...

2007-12-06T01:30:00.000+13:00

nothing really to say really. Not sure why I had the urge to blog, but then I managed to get onto one of the hostel's two 'free' internet stations, and felt I needed to use the time well. This travel head space is taking a little while to get used to.. having internet and hearing news from home (just got the news our cat is getting a little stressed in the new cattery :( ) makes the transition better in some ways, but not so good in others because the tethers to home are still there, and in some ways it's better not to be missing and worrying about the things back home...

Things done in BA:

Tango show
La Boca (it's a tourist trap!)
Puerto Madro
Ummm.... lolly and iceblock stores, which are everywhere! On every block! My dentist is going to kill me...

Onward to Cordoba tonight on an 11 hour bus ride, but apaprently, it's like business class on a plane with very reclinable seats and fold down TV screens... sweeeeet

breakfast:
nothing yet, but about to have toast with jam and butter. Stephen says it reminds him of home...

free internet at the hostel = no

2007-12-03T02:41:00.000+13:00

the reality of our addiction to the internet is apparent when we get grumpy and start sniping at each other, just because it´s been too long between hits. The hostel boasted ´free internet´, which actually meant 2 internet stations, one of which was bung (and the other of which is also occasionally bung) which means that there´s always a young and bouncy backpacker sitting there.

Since when did I get so old that young and bouncy backpackers irritate me just by their enthusiasm for beer and extreme sport? Maybe it´s their hair fudge and cut off tees that just rub me up the wrong way. Grump grump.

Anyway, it´s nice to get our hit here in an extremely cheap internet cafe... noone speaks english, but it´s cool, they seem friendly enough. Swelteringly hot outside, but looking forward to the antique market today - Stephen is off with Jason to the Science Museum (ha ha nerds!).

Have visited:
The Evita Museum
Evita´s tomb in the Recoleta Cemetery
The huuuge Recoleta market
The Obelisco
The city cathedral

Market shopping really is done best by oneself. Signing off!

Breakfast:
cornflakes. Provided free by the hostel ( the bakery around the corner was closed but if it had been open I would have got a sweet croissant)

awake in argentina - day one

2007-11-30T20:29:00.000+13:00

I thought about writing this down old school styles in a journal, but with the computers at this Buenos Aires San Telmo hostel (Tango City Hostel!!! Party!!!!) finally free at 4am and coinciding with my profound lack of sleepiness, the temptation to blog was too great.

It´s weird how I always seem to manage to get busy just before I go away, so that the reality only hits when I´m sitting on the plane thinking ' man I´m bored. Why aren´t I doing something?´. It doesn´t help when the bloody queue at Auckland airport took over 90 minutes - I mean no wonder they tell you 3 hours, with shitty check'in systems like that. I forget how much waiting is involved with travel, and after having comfort and efficiency down to a tee at home in my oh-so-busy life, this sudden waste of time is as much a shock as landing in a place where your sister told you that most people will be able to speak English, but in reality, when you get there and trot out feeble ´habla englees´´s hither and thither, most people shake their heads and put their thumb and forefinger together and go ¨un poco¨, which means ¨well I´ll try, but not too hard, noob¨.

Highlight so far on day one include:
- the very laidback service on the flight to BA - we gamely put on the wee service signal in the ¨airconditioned¨, sweltering plane ride, having sucked the water out of us and our single water bottle.. after a couple hours we realised that they weren´t coming, so I ventured to the back of the plane where I found our two wayward flight attendants gossiping atop food boxes. When I asked if I could have some water, one of them, vaguely distracted, waved in the general direction of a counter laden with drinks and snacks, then turned back to the interesting story she was listening to. I helped myself, and on return to my seat was asked by another passenger - no doubt flummoxed by the lack of attendants - where I got all my snacky booty from. I told her, and slowly word began to spread around the cabin. One hour later, when Stephen ventured to the back for more ¨cereal bar¨, a small crowd had apparently developed there.

- dinner. The hostel lady recommended a meat eatery nearby, so we gamely went there.. after the usual sign language and bemused looks from waiter staff, we sat down, and ordered this famous steak that everyone had been telling us about, as well as a Spanish tortilla. Wrong thing number 1 - we ordered the steak rare. It was rare alright. Thick (like, 7 cm thick), tasty, yes... raw, basically still mooing (yes, Renee, we learned our lesson, we took the Lonely Planet´s word over yours, it shall never happen again). Wrong thing number 2 - do not order Sapnish tortilla in Argentina. It was basically a big dinner plate sized slab of fries held together by lots of barely cooked egg, and not slated or seasoned at all. Worst Spanish tortilla ever.

Otherwise all is well - the people are brusque, but good natured. The surrounds are completely different which is kind of what I wanted.. it´s so easy to settle into griping about this and that, but really there is a sort of joy about getting out of your element...

Breakfast:
on the plane, two cold croissants and tea and chemically tasting ornage juice. Ah, plane food...

on taking the 'shits' and 'fucks' out of the NZ Music Awards

2007-10-19T19:52:00.001+13:00

Just spent the day editing the naughty words out of the New Zealand Music Awards... it really is a pointless exercise as noone really cares and any kid with half a brain would know what they're saying anyway. Ah, the rabid right, ay? Paying my bills. Bless em.

I would also like to announce that as a result I have a (completely innocent, married-woman) crush on the drummer of the Mint Chicks. He is so cuuute! And when he twirls his sticks in between the rolls, my heart is gay! Here is a cute wee picture of him!

He's the cute one. On the left. With the glasses.

It'll pass.

Breakfast:
milo, some dried apple, and a breadstick.
Verdict:
I was in a rush.

on drooling, writing, star-struckery and pyjamas

2007-10-17T13:15:00.000+13:00

So it's been a while, etc etc. Things of note that have happened since I last blogged:

1) I made, and have almost completed a new dramatic short film! 12 mins on 35mm. Wowee. It was one of the most wonderful and positive filmmaking experiences to date. I was sitting there on set thinking 'Man, I could actually do with another 5 weeks of this'. It was that much fun. Whether or not the film was any good is up to the selection committees of the A-List film festivals around the world. I'm not going to say what I think of it in public because I'm tremendously superstitious and wary of The Fates who don't take too kindly to arrogant or self-congratulatory people. Hmm, that gives it away doesn't it. OK, just for the record, I think it's OK. Just OK. OK?

2) The above is where I sound mixed and finished the film. Park Road Post (insert sounds of heavenly angels). No, we weren't mixing Oliphants, but hey. Droooool-tastic. Plus the people there were absolutely lovely. Style, quality, and nice people? It does exist!

3) The feature script has been progressing. No more on that, or the Fates will intervene.

4) Funding has been given for a pan-Asian comedy sketch-show I've been involved in! Hurrah! More writing has been happening, and I've been part of a 6 person collective, which is nice. Having wing-people is very nice. We'll be shooting early next year.

Now.. what other things were there to blog about. Oh yes, I am well and truly over the whole Richard E. Grant thing, though my problem with being star-struck is still around (I saw Anika Moa in a cafe yesterday, and I got all nervous and tried to look anywhere but in her direction. I'm sure she would prefer to just be treated normally. Or she didn't care anyway, which is fine also). Anyway, I saw REG's debut feature film, Wah-Wah, and I really, really didn't like it. I didn't like it so much that I couldn't actually finish watching it. The reading of the 'making of' book was infinitely more agreeable (my god, how on earth did his terrible producer Marie-Castille Mention-Schaar (jesus, what a crazy name!) manage to get work after that? I can't help but think this is but one side of the story), but I still couldn't really get over the bad taste of the actual film, so ... ah well. It was a fun read anyway.

I was reading a Willem Dafoe interview on the Onion AV Club, and he mentioned that he doesn't really talk about his private life because the more one knows about an actor's private life, the more it bleeds into opinions on the work they they do. It's a pity how that happens - though I have to say as a bit of a 'star-strucker' I'm a sucker for it. Which reminds me. As a complete side note, due to my starry-eyed tendencies, I had started to call myself a 'star-fucker', but a couple of director friends said this wasn't a good term to use because a 'star-fucker' wanted to be close and personal with stars, which wasn't the case with me because I clearly wasn't a 'ho-bag' (their words, which I love). I settled on 'star-strucker' just now, but maybe I should change it to 'star-sucker'? Which has many different meanings? Well, at least 2 anyway. One not so good.

Anyway, Mr Dafoe has a point. I have to say I don't really like Bobby Lee any more, ever since I saw this Youtube video. I would like to have given him the benefit of the doubt, but I simply can't get past the things he said, or see how this could be a fake. Even if it is a put-on, it's in extremely poor taste. Actually, the things he said just make me sad. As if Bitter Asian Men needed any more dickhead role models.

On another completely unrelated note, I saw some pink girls' pyjamas at the Warehouse the other day with the picture of a cat, and the words 'Perfect Pussy' next to it. Is this a really bad joke, or is my mind disgusting? The answer of course is yes, but even so, I'm not going to be the first to think of the most obvious double entendre. These are girls' pyjamas, for goodness' sake! next time I go past, I might take a picture, to make sure I wasn't imagining it...

Breakfast:
Rice with egg & crayfish, Chinese marrow (don't know the English name, but in Cantonese, is phonetically spelt 'jeet gua'). Hand squeezed orange juice!

Verdict:
velly güd. Something satisfying about squeezing your own orange juice.

on immortality, journals and Richard E. Grant

2007-06-15T22:01:00.000+12:00

The urge to write in this diary of sorts so often dissipates when I get here - the difference between this and something more private is that I think I feel the need to perform no matter how unselfconscious i want to appear - were it not for my 'readers', I wouldn't need to go back and check what I'd written or correct those awful times I'd used 'your' instead of 'you're' (not that I would).

In the end I guess it comes down to the old idea that most of us artists do what we do because we want to be immortal - I mean, I think it was Robert Mckee who first spelled it out for me in one of his famous workshops - I read it later in his love-it-hate-it scriptwriting bible, 'Story'. The way I understand it, all art is created as a legacy of our being here - basically, it can all be reduced to various forms of 'I woz 'ere'.

In some ways I subscribe to that. I think I do this diary thing here on the mighty web because part of me believes it'll still be around in the lifetimes after I'm gone - if indeed humanity survives, let alone the internet. I think Jochen told me, to my horror (and, I'll admit, amazement) that a very very old blog entry about my burgeoning sexuality was still floating somewhere around the ether of the net, even after I'd deleted all the files of the site on my computer. As those cheesy US commercials say - think before you post.

Eh.

I also 'blog' and diarise (is that a word?) for my benefit as well. I want to remember what life was like when I lived it. Things change so fast, and my memory is so bad that I can take immense pleasure from reading old letters or notes to myself, or notes people have written me, or photos I don't remember taking, but am so thankful for when I find them in a corner of debris I haven't touched in what seems like decades. I love that feeling of reading through it all, and I get scared when I think what I might have lost had someone cleared it all away, or a fire had started. In many ways I'm keeping future writings here so I don't have to dig through the debris to get to them. Still, there's something to be said for paper.

It was at the Auckland Readers and Writers Festival a month ago that I was all aflutter over Richard E. Grant's eloquent and good-natured session - he mentioned that he had written something in a journal (which is so much more dignified than 'diary', don't you think?) every day since... well I forget when, but he had boxes of the stuff. I wonder if I should do that now. Maybe not here.. but.. maybe? I sometimes wonder whether Neil Gaiman does his blog for his benefit or for his fans'? I suspect it's a bit of both, but perhaps more for one than the other, with the answering of questions and news of readings and signings? Hell, I don't mind - after not being able to bring myself to speak to Richard E Grant, I've since embraced my tendency for being a giggling hopeless fangirl. But back to the journal thing. Hmm.. shall it be a mid-winter resolution, a new year's one, or a 30th birthday one? I always find reasons for me to procrastinate, as I am doing now when I should be writing my goddam script.

At least something's being written around here (nope, I haven't tired of that joke yet).

Breakfast:
leftover steamed salmon fishheads, cucumber with Japanese sesame dressing, and rice.
Verdict:
one day, I dream of Stephen being able to appreciate fishheads. But oh well.

the vicious circle

2007-05-31T15:22:00.000+12:00

OK, so here's another post about hate mail - it's something that appears to be rearing its ugly head every now and again, the more exposure my film gets. As some people keep telling me "well you should have though of that before you made the film!". Way to help, dicks.

Truth is I didn't think about it, and no I don't mean to take it back. I just wish I had known before it started happening. I've had to start a 'hate mail' folder to archive the rantings of the couple of psychos who've mailed me, and the psychos to come, I guess - standard procedure for the police, etc. I never anticipated this, and it's sad to have to do that.

What's most worrying about this is that for all my personal belief about pacifism and dearly wanting to believe that people are nice unless proven hateful, the fact that I am now a target is turning me into one of them.

I want to hurt them back. I want them to squirm and feel shit like they've made me feel shit. I want them shamed in front of their aunties, I want their friends to call them names. I want to castrate them and put their bits in the waste disposal while they watch. Or maybe not. Maybe a middle ground, like a brazilian wax in front of their aunties, hair by curly hair.

Seriously, I find myself hardening to all and sundry. I catch myself scowling at random people on the street. If someone looks at me funny, I have to fight myself not to go apeshit at them. I'm less tolerant of bad drivers. I feel like being mean.

It doesn't help when people say "oh, but if you let them get to you, they're winning". I mean, how the fuck is that meant to help? Is that meant to make me feel better? Saying something like that basically invalidates what I'm feeling. Yeah yeah, boo hoo me - what are you going to do about it? Fact is, I feel this way, and just saying "oh, well don't" isn't going to make it go away. This whole 'winning' thing is crap as far as I'm concerned - I mean, it's not a competition, is it? What is the competition? Make a random person feel like shit competition? Spread the hate around competition? I wasn't even aware I was playing! Do I get not to play? What does the victor get? I'm not going to win anyway!

So, note to self:
1) get thicker skin
2) live well
3) learn a no-macho-bullshit martial art and get in touch with my inner chi so I can hurt them if I ever meet them (and no, Wing Chun is not the right one, I went to their premises, and it was still macho bullshit).

This 'being above it all' thing is going to take time.

Breakfast:
10ml of cough syrup, and a glass of water.
Verdict:
Sometimes you just don't feel like it. Damn cold. Then I went to my mum's place and had a wonderful home-cooked lunch. Best cure in the world.

grandchildrens' mysterious powers and a burgling puzzle

2007-04-29T20:57:00.000+12:00

I was just putting on my shoes, about to leave my parent's house after a Sunday lunch, and I saw my little nephew, Marcus, run giggling past a doorway, followed not long after by my dad, making monster noises with a cushion balanced on his head.

I was suddenly reminded me of the scene in The Godfather when Vito Corleone chases his little grandson through the tomato patch - not because of what happened after, but because here before my eyes this stern patriarch was transformed into putty - a plaything at the mercy of a mischievous two-year-old. This perfect moment was rendered and sealed so exquisitely in a movie older than I am - and I can't explain why this makes me so... full of wonderment. Is that the word? I don't know, but it's the best one I can think of right now. I think it reminds me again of why I'm so in love with the movies, and more importantly, why I want to make them. Cinema is life distilled and preserved onto celluloid. It picks out all its meanings with its highs and lows and complexities, and gifts all the best parts to anyone watching it.

And here comes the obligatory 'excuse my sentimentality' comment - only that I don't really feel like apologising for being dewy-eyed this time. So there.

... so ...

this is completely unrelated, but on my mind, so:

Here's a conundrum that I'd welcome opinions on: when we got burgled the other week, the thieves took a big fat drawer of about 100 spare miscellaneous cables, at least 10kg, including 4-5 heavy old transformers that correspond to appliances or hardware that we can't remember having, but still can't bear to chuck the power sources for. They didn't take any boxed CDs or DVDs, but they did take these cables, and no matter how I think about it, it's a mystery.

Explanations offered have been along the lines of:
1) they took a video camera, and decided to empty out the cables just in case they were needed for the camera.
I don't buy this because the camera bag itself had a power cable and batteries in it. Besides, if they were so keen to get all the possible cables for the camera, why didn't they rip the cords from the adjacent computer? And why did they leave the clearly labelled Sony battery charger which was just lying there on the floor for all would-be burglars to see?
2) they had a warehouse full of other stolen hi-fi that needed cables to work.
If they were that organised, how come they left all our hi-fi and DVD players untouched? And if you did steal these things, why wouldn't you grab and RCAs and antennae cables and power cables that were connected to the things anyway? Either way, it still doesn't make any sense.

I wonder if this will ever be solved. I'm almost hoping that when/if these guys get done, they'll have to undergo some 12-step rehabilitation programme where they have to confront their 'victims', just so I can sort this weirdness out.

Breakfast:
Congee with leftovers.
Verdict:
Don't mean to divulge too much, but this is the best thing for sore, sensitive intestines.

meanderings of self-help

2007-04-14T10:56:00.001+12:00

Ostensibly, things are going well. But I've had a really unpleasant foreboding feeling for about 2 weeks now. It manifests as an irritability, a grumpiness and over-sensitiveness to things which may or may not be there. Sometimes it's a melancholy more than an anger. I think I hold it responsible for my utter distractibility when I'm supposed to be writing. Or the fact that I don't like what I'm writing, and end up not writing anything at all.

I think I'm increasingly aware of a jadedness that creeps up a few years after the end of film school. There's been a few knock-downs, there's been a few assholes, and you get to this point where everything you do is terrifying. You're terrified of what they might think, you're terrified that you'll fail, you're terrified that even if you do get somewhere, someone will look at what you've made and say "why the hell did they get funding for that stinking heap of crap?".

I attended a screening for a film production club at uni, and I was confronted by an enthusiasm and unconditional love of film that I'd almost forgotten. It was almost an epiphany, seeing all these open, excited faces who didn't seem to care if they made stuff worthy of Ed Wood or Martin Scorsese, so long as they were making film. I mean, it's not as if I know more about this stuff than they do (which I don't), but if there was one thing I was almost jealous of, that I really thought I should learn from them... it was their plain-and-simple, unadulterated, unfettered passion for the whole damn thing. All this crap about doing well, or making something critically acclaimed, whatever self-conscious insecurity I'd wrapped around myself, was just put into stark perspective. I don't think I've ever really lost that idea of passion, or why I'm here in the first place, but sometimes the crap just clouds everything up, and essentially, that crap doesn't matter.

I guess it just comes down to personal conviction. I think I've been letting the opinions of other people influence me too much, and my wanting to please them is just.. well, sad. I think maybe that's always been my problem, I desperately want people to like me, even strangers, and I'm prepared to make myself a fool for their good graces, which ultimately, is unattractive and conducive to them liking me less.

I remember my sister telling me all this dating advice she'd had from friends - 'treat them mean, keep 'em keen, don't call until the 3rd day after' - type shit, and me thinking that it was a stupid game, why wouldn't you just lay your cards on the table and say "here I am. If you don't like it, oh well, nice knowing you"? The difference as I see it: the first technique is about pretending not to care, when in fact you might care a lot, so it's a lot about deception and inscrutability; the second technique is just about being honest. I mean, what is so wrong about someone saying "actually, I know we've only been on one date, but I really like you. I just wanted to say that, and if you don't feel the same, I'm sorry, but I'll learn to live with it"? I think I would find it brave and charming, not to mention fresh and disarming (woops, I didn't mean to rhyme, but there it is). Sure, being rejected might take chunks out of your self-esteem, but I think being direct first-off would save a lot of hard feelings in the future around unreturned calls, 'hints' and the ironic term 'letting them off lightly'.

I think being honest is the hardest, and yet most admirable and healthiest thing to be. I know it sounds easy for me to say when I'm in a stable relationship, but even a stable relationship has its instabilities, and (without wanting to sound smug) being honest hasn't steered us wrong once. Touch wood. I guess I just don't see how avoiding the issue, or ignoring an issue, or calling it an imagined issue can help an issue at all. I mean, even if it is imagined, it's still there, so it doesn't make it less real.

Anyway, I think I digress. Or not. Because I think the goodness of honesty applies to all relationships, romantic or otherwise. I guess I'm a simple soul, I like honesty in other people, and I want to keep it around me. I think I have to keep saying to myself that I can't help what other people think and how they choose to interact with me. With this realisation, I can stop letting it effect me so much. I can find honest people and engage with them. And there's really no point trying to encourage honesty when it's not forthcoming, so I can simply disengage and should stop worrying about it. When and if it comes, goody. Until then, I guess I'll learn to live with it.

Breakfast:
rice with a dried scallop omelette thing my mum made for me to take home yesterday
Verdict:
That's more like it! If I had a lettuce or bean sprouts, I'd have cooked some to have with it...

cognitive shortcuts, and then some

2007-04-01T10:13:00.000+12:00

"Stereotypes are in fact cognitive shortcuts... the reality is that the social world is pretty bloody complex, and we can't process everything that's going on at one time."

This quote came from political psychologist Marc Wilson in an article I was interviewed for.

It makes a lot of sense to me. Prejudice and assumptions about certain groups of people are... well, laziness. A natural laziness, yes, but laziness nonetheless, with all of its pejorative connotations well-deserved. This is something we are all guilty of, including myself.

However, I never really realised how deep and disturbed this systematic laziness could go until I started receiving negative feedback regarding my most recent film, Banana in a Nutshell. I'm lucky that I can still count the totality of these responses on one hand, but three, count them - three of them are from Chinese men who accuse me of being part of a western conspiracy to stomp on Chinese men by making 'white' men look good.

First of all, just because I love Stephen, and Stephen happens to be 'white', doesn't mean I hate all other men of other colours. The only Chinese guy in the film is my Dad, and who doesn't have problems with their fathers? I've said it before, and I'll say it one more time - I love my Dad, and in hindsight, I think what he requested of me and Stephen was very wise. I don't know how much more clear I can make this. And I don't understand how people can take offense for the entire subset of Chinese men from this damn film, unless they already have a big fucking chip on their shoulder about it. Go figure.

Secondly, let me explain why I've recently felt the need to put quotes around the term 'white' and 'Asian'. There has been plenty of discourse in the circles I hang around in about the problemmatic term of 'Asian', and how it homogenises a diverse range of countries and cultures into one big lump. These usually 'Asian' commentators will then turn around and use the term 'white' with absolutely no qualms, without realising that 'white' is a problemmatic term for exactly the same reasons.

So, this from the most recent email, naming me as part of the western 'assault' on Chinese men -

"Asian men are the most marginalized maligned group in the anglosphere... The only news that is printed about China, about Chinese and indeed asians in general is negative. Media and film portrayals are overwhelmingly negative. We are the victims of a vicious propaganda campaign waged by white people."

I'm not about to dismiss this completely out of hand. He may have a point, albeit a slightly hysterical one. The thing is, you find examples for whatever you're looking for. I can name some examples to the contrary - sexy, charismatic 'Asian' hero types in the western limelight - the winner of 'Survivor', Yul Kwon, John Cho in his comedy and theatre work, Masi Oka in 'Heroes' and Bobby Lee of MadTV. Yes, I think Bobby Lee is sexy. I don't know what it is... but let's move on, shall we?

I mean, I have a personal bee in my bonnet about 'Asian' women being portrayed as whores in western media, being these little dolls who sit around and do nothing but provide sexual favours on demand for big, strong, non-'Asian' sugar daddies. I saw The Quiet American the other day, on someone else's recommendation, and I was completely gobsmacked at the utter two-dimensionality of the Vietnamese female character, who somehow led an elderly journalist and a young CIA operative around by their dicks the whole movie by making puppy eyes, speaking in very high, breathy, supposedly stilted English, and handing out, as far as I could tell, excellent sex.

I'm not exaggerating here. There's a scene where the Michael Caine and Brendon Fraser characters are in a tight spot, and they get through it by imagining what the common object of their affection is doing right now - eyes glazed over, Michael Caine talks of her going to meet her friends for the latest gossip, looking at magazines, dancing around in her room to Bach, which he introduced her to, because apparently she is incapable of being a superficial girly girl who wants nothing more than to fuck, dance and gossip. I mean, she wasn't even a character, she was a prop, a trophy, a prize for the two men to fight over. The writer obviously wanted these men to have a strong reason to want to undermine each other, in addition to the political intrigue, so he stuck this Vietnamese ex-prostitute in the picture, and seeing as we all know about the exotic allure of these sexy play-things, he didn't feel the need to give her an actual character. And I don't want to hear about how 'she represented innocence, something that both men wanted to protect'. They said she was an ex-hostess, they made it very clear that the price for sex, for both men, was a ticket out of Vietnam. I see these examples in innumerable films, TV programmes, music videos, and it makes my blood boil.

But the thing is, I'm being a little frothy at the mouth myself because there are plenty of examples to the contrary - strong, vocal 'Asian' women characters in western media. For instance, kick-ass females in Kill Bill, Charlie's Angels, or Tomorrow Never Dies (it's either whores or kung fu babes, I hear my inner feminist cry). Maybe so, but anything that Sandra Oh has done in the last few years - Grey's Anatomy, Sideways, Under the Tuscan Sun - is exemplary stuff. These characters have strong points of view that are neither 'good' nor 'bad' - they are real, complex, three-dimensional and wonderfully realised by an extremely talented actress. The examples against might outweigh the examples for, but multiculturalism is still a pretty new thing. I'm not excusing it, but there are positives to look for as well as negatives.

The thing is, there's no convincing some people. The three Chinese men who have accused me and the film of being hegemony's bitch are so far into operating in cognitive shortcuts that NONE OF THEM have actually seen the film. Why? Because I believe they are too proud. I believe that they see what they want to see. I believe they are playing a blame game to somehow make them feel better about past greivances in their lives. It's petty, and misguided, and I really doubt that it makes them feel better about anything in their supposedly shitty lives.

"We are discriminated against in the dating scene - often by asian women."

Believe me, if a cute Chinese guy had actually asked me out before Stephen did, I would have jumped at the chance. Noone had EVER so much as asked me out before Stephen did. In fact, my sisters had to pull in a favour with a Chinese friend of theirs to go with my 16-year-old self to the ball, and he ditched me before the afterball. I have Chinese guy friends who have penchants for dating blonde girls. If I didn't have Stephen, I could well be wondering why I've been discriminated against - often by Asian men. These days I'm as likely to swoon for Tony Leung and John Cho as I am for Christian Bale (though I stand guilty of over-exposing the whole Bale thing in this blog). What I want to know is what business a Chinese guy has of accusing a stranger, probably half-way around the world, who made a niche documentary on her own dollar, for hindering his love-life? How on earth does someone make a leap of logic like this? So you have a stink love life. Join the queue, buddy boy. Blaming me for making this doco is misguided, and... well, sad. Ach, I'm repeating myself.

Oh. My. God.

I just this moment got a reply email from this guy, and he has shown himself to be a complete psycho. After using a number of ill-picked 'historic' examples to back his original treatise, threatening me, and insulting me (apparently my face is stupid and vacuous), here's his last words:

"The hatred that I and many of my brothers have for you is absolutely indescribable.

It is white hot fury. It is a fury and hatred that is absolutely illimitable and could light up a thousand night skies. But more importantly it is an indignant and righteous fury."

Riiight. Now I really know I'm wasting my time even dealing with this issue. Why is it only crazies and fundamentalists who have time on their hands to trawl the net for films like mine? Is it because they're bums? Bums with no girlfriends or boyfriends? I pray to god that they aren't the majority. Though, with the way the world is today, who fucking knows. The more I think about it, the more I get angry and/or despair.

There is so much 'us'-ing and 'them'-ing that has become apparent to me through this madness, and it makes me sick to my stomach. Apparently as a Chinese woman, I'm the property of Chinese, or at least 'Asian' men, and to go to any other man is some sort of betrayal. Making a film about it is beyond betrayal, it's... treason? Or something. On the flip side, my 'white' man is the property of 'white' women, and for him to go to any other woman is another betrayal. Why? Because, apparently, we are on the brink of losing ancient cultures that have survived centuries, and by the mere act of being with each other, we are destroying these cultures, seemingly singlehandedly.

Someone, please tell me this isn't the way that most people think. My god, I need some sort of assurance that the ideals I grew up with about peace and love and getting on, and valuing our common humanity aren't some misguided pipe dream invented by corporations to sell greeting cards. Every time I get an email like this, I'm reminded that hate-filled people like this actually exist, that some people actually want to see war and famine and destruction, and humanity trampled on and destroyed for no good reason. And then, I despair. I really despair because I there's so much I don't know about, and worst of all, it seems there is nothing I can say or do about it.

It seems that way, and yet I think I have to keep trying. I'm not trying to be melodramatic, lord knows I'm aware how cheesy that last sentence sounds. I just trying to find a way to deal with this really shitty realisation.

Breakfast:
A peacherine. Cross between a nectarine and peach, in synergistic deliciousness.
Verdict:
I had more to eat later. It was just what I felt like at the time.

stock-taking

2007-03-22T09:18:00.000+12:00

At this age, birthdays are generally bittersweet - gone are the days of eating jellybeans with potato chips and playing the chocolate game (which is a damned good game btw - maybe I'll play it on my 30th birthday as a sort of regression therapy - though maybe I should subsititute the chocolate with something healthy? Hmm. The tofu game doesn't have the same allure somehow...). Sugar-crazed romps have been replaced with the rather more morose sitting around by yourself and taking stock of your life - where you thought you would be at this age, where others are at this age, why you're not where they're at... and so on. I distinctly remember in my early twenties, one goal was to have made my first critically acclaimed feature by 25, because Orson Welles was 25 when he made Citizen Kane, which is still regarded by most critical polls as the best film of all time - I mean, I don't see it myself, but that's irrelevant. Here I am, yet to even crack a script someone wants to make, and 25 is long, long, looong gone.

I was thinking about this stuff the other night, eating dinner with Stephen, and we were talking about retirement and where we saw ourselves at 70, and I suddenly had this image of me at 70, on set. Quite unexpectedly, an indescribable wave of excitement and well-being washed over me.

See, this filmmaking malarkey, this stuff I'm doing right now, is what I want to do until I grow old and die. I don't want to retire, I don't want to do something else, I'm not trying to make money now so I can relax later, this is what I want to do until I draw last breath. And for a moment I felt like I did when I was like 22 - my whole life was ahead of me, and it always would be, and it didn't feel like 'shit what do I have to show for myself now I'm old', it was like 'shit, I can't wait to do more of this stuff as I get older!'. It's been a long time since I've felt excited like this. Sure, stuff happens, stuff changes, and who knows how I'm actually going to feel as the years go by, but right now, I don't see myself wanting to do anything else - more than that, I see myself wanting to do this in old age, which for me, is a wonderfully warming thought.

This is how I want to die: I want to be over 80 at least, and I want to be on the set of my, say, 30th film. I want it to be the martini shot of the whole damn film. Maybe we've done this take 17 times or something, and I'm frustrated, everybody's frustrated, it's been a long day, and something's missing. I talk quietly to the actors, I don't know who comes up with the something missing - maybe me, maybe them. They do it again. This time, the crew become suddenly still as the actors completely nail it. It's perfection. I call cut, and it's a wrap. The AD thanks everybody, and I thank my DOP, and my editor is standing by, and we have a small chat, and I know we completely see eye to eye on this film. That night, on the way home, during a wee kip in the shuttle, I slide gently off this mortal coil.

Don't laugh! Of all days, today I'm allowed my indulgences!

So, stock-taking. I'm sitting here at my desk in our little house 2Kms from a wild, stormy beach (we can't see it), in my pyjamas. The PJ top has a little cat on it, and the text underneath it reads "...Purrrfect...". It's 10.02am. Stephen is on his way to work in the city - this morning, he cooked me a hot breakfast, and it was delicious. I don't have any really pressing business today, so options include blobbing in bed and watching the DVDs I really need to return to Marc because I've kept them for so long; scanning articles for skiting in my website; and writing. The writing is probably the most important thing, but I'm procrastinating. I want to bask in the honeymoon glow of the good feedback we got for our treatment before embarking on the next painful, yet worthy leg of this trip. This evening I'm seeing family, and all my little nephews. It's going to be good. And messy. And loud. Funtime!

Things are pretty good. And not so good as well. Our most-probably terminal cat, which I got last birthday, is sleeping on our bed. It's going to be so hard to say goodbye. I'm looong past 25, and I haven't made anything close to Citizen Kane. Will I ever? Time will tell. We have a big fat mortgage, and I feel guilty I'm not earning at least as much as Stephen. There's war, and inequality, and general lack of basic humanity in the world the likes of which I can't comprehend, much less do something about. I saw Miyazaki's The Grave of the Fireflies last night, and I cried bitterly. I felt so awful, in my comfortable home in the bush, plenty of food in my fridge.

This is my life, this stock-taking day of 2007 - the last in my 20s. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Breakfast:
French toast, free-range bacon (go freedom farms!), grilled banana with maple syrup.

Verdict:
Wonderfully delicious. The secret ingredient was love. No sniggering!

Batman, Nolan, Bale and Gyllenhaal - a prayer to thee.

2007-03-11T17:02:00.000+13:00

OMG OMG OMG

I just read that Maggie Gyllenhaal is going to be in the next Batman, and my heart started thumping like a lovestruck teeanager... it's happening again dammit, I'm starting to care about the new Batman sequel too damn much. My cinema heart is setting itself up for a fall the likes of The Phantom Menace and Matrix Reloaded, and I'm not sure if it can take it again...

But they can't screw it up! They just can't! Christopher Nolan? Christian Bale? Maggie Gyllenhaal? There's no way! This is a director who has never failed! These are actors I am completely infatuated with! It's true, I haven't seen everything they've done (you couldn't pay me, Mona Lisa Smile), but I have seen what they can do and by golly, there's no way this can go wrong! Touch wood! Touch wood dammit!

I so excited I could pee my pants.

In addition to the whole Christian Bale and Maggie Gyllenhaal thing, I have to confess that Batman is my first comic-book love. His chronicles were the first things I read cover to cover in my cousin's house (that and Bloom County), and Arkham Asylum the first comic to open my eyes to the profound artistic and literary integrity they could hold. Batman's the real deal, with no superpowers but money, grits and a heart of imperfect gold. He's deep and dark, complex and compelling, and I believe the modern world's most relevant comic-book hero.

Batman Begins was the very first satisfying audio-visual treatment of the myth, despite a long (and mostly awful) history in film and television. I think I'll start praying to the Gods of Cinema on this one. Maybe - just maybe, this one could be a keeper.

Breakfast:
Milo and cereal (Tasti Tropicana)
Verdict:
Boring, I know. Sometimes you just want not to think.

whinging and whining

2007-03-08T10:31:00.000+13:00

Whilst tidying up my old study, I happened across some journals I'd kept when I was a teenager. With my corroded memory banks, I'd forgotten I'd actually kept these things, let along what it was like to be 15 - but by all accounts, it was a pretty bleak existence.

It was as if, when I was 15, I had this personal biosphere of hell wrapped around my head, and this tiny space was my everything. Everyone hated me, I hated them back, and getting marks below 85% made me suicidal. I kid you not - there is a suicide note in there, though the reason seems to be a combination of 'bad' marks and something about how everyone else is a lemming and has trodden me down, even though I have heaps of potential. When I was reading it, I think I had a new kind of grimace on my face - an amalgamation of mirth and utter embarrassment. Actually no, I take that back - that's quite a common grimace. But I digress.

I think there's two lessons to be learnt from reading old journals.

1) be more charitable to teenagers - they're having a rough time of it.
2) don't whine about getting older every birthday because lord knows you're actually happier for it!

And on a complete non-sequitur:

I am seriously considering boycotting the Newmarket Rialto cinemas altogether. I'm already actively avoiding their digital cinemas, which at standard ticket prices is fraud as far as I'm concerned. They don't seem to give a shit about the correct aspect ratio, shelling out for good projectors that don't have the rainbow effect and that don't freeze on a frame for minutes on end. I am so mad that 'Brick' was showing at the 'evil corporation' multiplex on a pristine 35mm print, and I opted to watch it at 'the home of arthouse cinema' crap-arse cheap-as Rialto on shitty lo-res, hi-contrast FREEZE FRAMING DVD. I AM RAGE! RAAAAAGE I SAY!!! Anyway, not only am I never, EVER setting foot into Cinema 1 or 2 until they clean up their act, I saw 'Shortbus' on print the other day, and the sound popped ALL THE WAY THROUGH. Which reminded me that a print of 'Good Night and Good Luck' way back when the cinema opened after 'refurbishment' was OUT OF SYNC for assorted periods of the film!

The thing is, when I do complain about aspect ratio and bad sync - things that to me, as a filmmaker, are the basic requirements of a cinema experience - I'm met with belligerent staff and confused managers who tell me I'm the first to complain about such things. I was even told one time that my problem with an incorrect aspect ratio was 'in my head', and the filmmaker had intended it to be that way. BULL CRAP. 3 years in post-production means that I know an incorrect aspect ratio when I see one - and that brings me to another gripe - how on earth do people with wide-screen TVs suffer an incorrect aspect ratio just so that there aren't any black lines on the side? One TV seller told me that black lines on the widescreen TV was bad for the screen. I think my jaw dropped and I just looked at him for a full 30 seconds. The screen is RUINED, JUST BY WANTING THE CORRECT ASPECT RATIO??? It BOGGLES THE MIND. Why would they make wide-screen TVs for the benefit of the AV-phile if the AV-phile couldn't watch TV as it was intended as well? And if the people who buy these widescreen TVs are such AV-philes and care about their widescreen movies, surely they would care about their goddam 4:3 TV as well? Apparently not. More than once, I've encountered idiot people who go ON AND ON about their FABULOUS widescreen, and then watch 4:3 TV on stretched widescreen, as if that would make their AV experience better. DOLTS! STUPID-HEADS! I AM EMBARRASSED BY THEIR IDIOCY! Anyway, I digress again.

Anyway, back to the rude cinema staff who told me I was imagining an incorrect aspect ratio. As a filmmaker hearing this utter 'it ain't my fault an you crazy' crap, I am mortified. Sure, the multiplexes may be evil, but at least they seem to care about the quality of the cinema-going experience. I'm not sure what it's going to take to restore my faith in the Rialto, but I sure as hell know it's not going to take a lot to completely shatter my confidence in them for the next very long while.

Am I being picky and neurotic? Hell yes. I'm a filmmaker, so I'm going to gosh-darn-well represent, dammit!

Hmm, recalling what I said about my whinging, bitter, 15-year-old self... I'm starting to believe that some things never change.

Breakfast:
Milo and Peanut Butter Toast
Verdict:
Passable. I'm dreaming of congee, actually, but lack foresight enough to make it for breakfast. When I do make it, I end up scoffing it all before breakfast. Ah well.

I, cinema hermit.

2007-01-17T11:39:00.000+13:00

I'm not sure how it happened, but I've become one of those people who tell other people off. Or at least get pissed with other strangers for doing small, yet intensely irritating things. How did I get like this?

I think the 'inciting incident' (film wank terms abound - what do you expect?) was when I went to a movie with Marc and Sasha (who isn't a native NZer), and some teenagers kept talking loudly well into the opening sequence. Sasha, quite casually, told them to please shut up... and lo and behold, they did! And for the whole session, as quiet as leetle meeces! I was amazed, and quite frankly a little envious that I didn't have Sasha's chutzpah. Noone - and I mean noone - does this here. New Zealanders tend not to want to rock any sort of boat, we're so scared of having to connect to strangers, we'd rather suffer and try and bear most things for 'a little while'.

Case in point a few years later when the much awaited sequel to The Matrix came out - some friends, Stephen and I had managed to get tickets to the sold-out midnight session at the huge IMAX screen, the kind of screen you have to turn your head to see from corner to corner, eagerly waiting with hundreds of other people for the utter disappointment that was Matrix Reloaded. Sigh. Let's not speak of that again. Anyway, some COMPLETE PRICK had brought a laser pointer, and started circling Carrie Ann Moss's boobies and Keanu's butt cheeks (and let's face it, it was a him - girls don't find utterly unfunny shit like that funny. What's funny is that some misguided folk accuse women of having no sense of humour. Go figure). It was like some horror version of the Seinfeld episode, I heard some other BUM-SHITS laughing (probably his FART-AIR-HEADED friends), and it made my blood boil. Pretty soon I wasn't watching the movie, I was steeling myself and clenching my fists in readiness for the next time DICKFACE-COCK-WANKER deemed it time for yet another puerile laser light show, willing myself not to charge through the cinema helter skelter, screaming "DO THAT ONE MORE TIME, AND I SHOVE THIS STRAW DOWN YOUR URETHRA!". By the end of the film, I was shattered. Shaking with anger, I think Stephen had to murmur 'calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean' into my ear as he gently chaperoned me out.

From that moment on, I made a pact to myself. The next time anybody impinged on my cinema experience like that, by golly I was going to do something about it. Stephen said something like "What good will that do? What if they don't stop?". I think I screamed back "Well at least I'd have bloody tried! Nobody else did a fucking thing, did they! Stupid New Zealanders!".

And I think that's what got to me. In an audience of 800 or more, noone told BABOON-REAR-PIMPLE-ASS to can it. I was sure I wasn't the only person getting pissed off at this - some friends on the other side of the theatre said they got annoyed, but like me, they didn't do anything about it. Never again. I squinted my eyes and growled it. Never again.

So I waited. I watched, and I waited. Next time anybody even dared to snigger to their friends about something, I was ready. It started extending to cellphones - idiot hair-flicky girls checking their messages every 2 minutes, the cellphone screen light blinding my peripheral vision. People crackling their popcorn bags. The disgusting sound of saliva shucking around their mouths as they chewed gummy lollies. I was there - oh yes, I was there. I was there to shoot them evil glances down the row. I was there to tell them to please put their cellphones away (YOU SUPERFICIAL AIRHEAD, WHY EVEN COME INTO THE MOVIE IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WATCH IT???). I was miss cinema crabby and boy did I have attitude enough.

One fateful day it was the advertisements before Russian vampire flick NightWatch and I was talking to Vishakan. He looked at the screen and made a face. "Oh no, laser pointer". I bristled. What? A laser pointer? I looked at the darkening screen. Sure enough, there was a little dancing red dot. Aha! Here was my chance to rectify the exact same offence that had so irritated me so many years ago! Yes! Redress at last! All I had to do was wait... and if they dared do it again.... I cleared my throat...

"Could whoever's doing that please stop?"

Silence. Then sniggers from the front. Giggles rippled through the audience and turned into a few brays of laughter. I froze. I looked closely at the screen... and then I wanted a hole in my plush seat to open up and swallow me.

The dancing red light was part of the fucking film. That's right. Some sadistic Russian dude had actually made little fly demons in his opening sequence look exactly like a dick in the audience with a laser pointer. I mean, what kind of sick person does that? Seriously? Who? WHOOO!!? The whole movie was ruined because I felt like such an idiot. I sunk low in my seat when the lights came up so nobody would 'recognise' me. Pity that my friends were there with me and will never let me live it down.

Anyway, since then, I've tried to mellow a bit. Or something. What I've really done is find some non-intrusive defence mechanisms to employ when another cinema goer is bugging me.

Problem: bright in-movie cell-phone usage?
Solution: identify location of airhead dick or dickess, and move to different row.

Problem: noisy crinkly snack food wrappers?
Solution: bring own crinkly bag 'o' snacks (this is a recent discovery, and works suprisingly well! Not for a crinkly-noise-making competition, but for bearing the other crinkly noises. Somehow I don't care as much when I'm munching on my own snacks! Try it! It works!)

Problem: talking peeps?
Solution: identify location of blabbermouths, and move far away. If they don't stop, tell them to politely shut their fat stinking gobs.

Problem: laser light show?
Solution: Make sure it's a laser pointer, and not some idiot Russian vampire effect. Identify location of POO-FOR-BRAINS, and if they do it again, put on latex gloves and shove straw down urethra. Drink may have to be subsequently drunk without straw, but it's a price one has to pay.

Perfection? That rare occasion when you are the only patron in the theatre. Ahhh, bliss. I think I've always cherished this. One of my film tutors once said that he actually seeks out full house sessions because he enjoys 'feeling the audience reaction'. I think he's mad, but then again, I'm a crotchety old cinema hermit. Bah humbug.

Breakfast:
Milo and my brother-in-law's home-made muesli with organic full-cream milk.

Verdict:
Lovely stuff. I actually think I could get used to it, but the muesli often runs out too quickly. And oh, I don't care if nobody cares what I have for breakfast, I care. Raspberries and "go aways" to them 'nobody's'.

I no slow!

2007-01-06T21:41:00.000+13:00

I went to see The Lake House a few months ago with my friends, and when we came out, I was roundly ridiculed for not realising that the guy who died in the middle of the movie was Keanu Reeves. If you haven't seen the movie, then I apologise for the spoiler, but apparently it was transparent to everyone except me, so now you can feel good that when and if you see the film, you definitely won't feel dumb like I did (not that you would have anyway, because it's so obvious, stupid).

The genre of movie with the huge-profound-secret-that-isn't-revealed-until-the-big-finale (let's call it a 'puzzle film') works on me because I'm a bit slow. OK? Fine, I admit it. There's a certain film nerd machismo about seeing these films, knowing there's a secret, and working it out before the film decides to spell it out for you. I tried with The 6th Sense. I didn't make it. Obviously The Lake House was a bust, though I wasn't really looking for one. I tried with Fight Club. Now there was a hard one. The person who saw that coming is either lying or has insomnia that manifests as (among other things) an anarchistic imaginary friend. Who may or may not look like Brad Pitt. We should all be so lucky. Or not, on second thoughts.

Anyway, I tried with Memento. No dice.

And I just saw The Prestige.

Dear Mr Nolan, thank you for making me feel I no slow. I saw it coming a mile away! I watched it inch towards me, and I yawned in exhilaration! Hah! Never before have I felt such film nerdy happiness, and with the added bonus of Christian Bale... times two! Swoon! Swoon again!

By the way, I have thought about the possibility that maybe The Prestige was a film that hid its secret poorly. I don't agree. Even if the secret was obvious, it had extra layers to it that made it rich. Christopher Nolan is still a king of puzzle films in my book, and I didn't care that I saw it coming, it was still a fine film. If you don't believe me, ask the reviewers at The Onion, whose opinion I will always trust. And if you think I'm biased because of the Bale factor, you'd be wrong. One shit film can destroy any solid crush forever - it's happened before, and it'll happen again. (Please not to him though).

Breakfast:
Milo and Peanut Butter Toast.

Verdict:
I think this is my standard breakfast. It's alright - it's still not what I'm really into, but most days, it'll do. Milo, though not the most fancy drink in the world, tastes good to me for sentimental reasons.

devoid of all cynicism - one day only!

2006-12-29T00:51:00.000+13:00

Hee hee!

I love how every day these days feels like a weekend.
I love how you can buy a 1kg bag of plums for $1 on the side of the road around here, and every single one will be sweet and juicy, and you'll eat until your tummy is bloated, and you still have a huge collander filled with them.
I love how I can have a nap at 9.30pm, wake at 10.30pm, and have dinner.
I love waking up to a text saying that the New Zealand Herald film reviewer has listed your film amongst the top 5 documentaries of 2006.

I also know it can only go down from here, but this entry is just to mark that today I counted my blessings, despite my 'bah humbuged-ness' about these things.

Also, I gave finally gave MySpace the final raspberry. Which felt good.

Breakfast:
1 Milo
Verdict:
I was pretty hungry. But there were no staples in the house, and we were about to go out to spend our Xmas cash and stock up on groceries. Which took 5 hours. But then we ate like kings.

catch up and merry Funtime

2006-12-23T23:36:00.000+13:00

I guess when I called this blog 'the occasional musings' I kinda knew that after the first burst of enthusiasm I might fall behind. It's not like I need to answer to anybody - I'm not entirely sure anyone reads this blog, and funnily enough, I don't really care that much - but I guess for me to remember, it's good to post as often as care to.

Something about me I've realised - I have the worst memory. Often friends will say to me "don't you remember?" or "how could you not remember?". A few years ago, this dude came up to me in a video store and was like "hey! I used to be your statistics tutor", and I was like "yeah, um, that wasn't me" (scoffing to myself "man, these whiteys think we all look the same")... an hour later I suddenly remembered that he was a guy who tutored me in Stats for like 2-3 years in the final years of school. Years. I mean, talk about scatty.

Anyway, the point of all this is a simple one - I think that subconsciously, maybe I've become a filmmaker because of my bad memory. I have this strange compulsion to make a record of things, to keep them for later. I thought about whether this might be the age old thing of wanting to make your mark, wanting to be immortal in some or any way shape or form, but that isn't the full reason I think - I think I keep all this stuff because I don't trust myself to remember it. And the past is always important - always. Not just the happy times - the bad times as well and most of all, the mundane times. The everyday things and the way everyday changes. So maybe I'm who I am because of how I am. Filmmaking for me isn't just a career, it's a way of being. It sounds a little wanky, but for my self-discovery, it's rather profound.

So it's been a really interesting month since the last entry. Something I really wanted to blog about stemmed from my experiences in Singapore at the Asian Festival of 1st Films. Being a festival for 1st-time filmmakers, lots of advice and support was offered and among the wisdoms imparted to us was the idea that as a filmmaker who had had a small degree of early success, I needed to promote myself, get myself out there, get myself onto the next level and network like crazy.

Now, in theory, I don't have a problem with this. It makes perfect sense, and I don't really mind doing the whole PR thing so far - interviews can actually be rather wonderful experiences, as was the one with Radio New Zealand that translated, apparently, into a very compelling interview. I like people who ask you questions and are actually interested in the answer.

Networking, I've discovered, is about, among other things, having a thick skin. Being able to talk yourself up to people who might not have been that interested in you in the first place. It's advertising, plain and simple, trying to conince people who didn't need you to begin with that they can't do without you.

I don't like networking. There, I've said it. If people aren't interested in me or what I have to say, then I'd rather not talk to them. And vice versa too, I'm not a social sadist or masochist. What I can't stand are people who are only interested in you for as long as they think you might be useful to them. Who care so little about people as to literally change their demeanour towards you within seconds once they've "sussed" you out. I am appalled by people like this, and I'm also appalled that so many of these people seem to get into places of power while being like this. There is no excuse for rudeness. None, ever. And I don't want to work in any space, for any amount of time during which I have to deal with these kinds of people. I've managed OK so far without having to suffer pricks, so I'll just keep trucking that way. Whatever happens happens. At least I'll be sans pricks. It's worth it.

Don't get me wrong. There were heaps of lovely, genuine, warm people there, and I loved the experience because of them. The last thing I would want is to seem ungrateful. Man, this year, I've been flown to Melbourne, Tokyo and Singapore, and I am so, so very lucky. I'm learning, and I'm up for any lessons this ride has to teach me. I'm constantly in wonder at how this career has fulfilled me in so many ways. But I'm an artist (and god, the wankiness of that statement isn't lost on me) - so the bottom line? Money and success is not what is driving me here. Sure, I want people to see my films, but I'm not going to try and get as many people as possible to see my films because first and foremost, I need to want to see my films. Furthermore, I'm convinced that other people respond to truth, and I can't be truthful when I'm thinking about money. Thems the breaks.

Anyway. Pricks aside, it was overall a really positive experience. Winning the award was a real highpoint. Extra yays for that!

And of course, it wouldn't be right not to wish everyone a Merry Funtime. It's my own secular greeting - do you like it? I know it needs work, but it was the best I could come up with right now.

Breakfast:
a Ferrero Rocher. (what? It's Christmas... err, I mean, Funtime!)

farewell, O hallowed gold card

2006-11-26T15:20:00.000+13:00

Last year about this time, I received the most wonderful prize package a nerd like me could ever wish for - it was the SPADA new filmmaker of the year award, and it came with a whole bunch of stuff - cash, 10K of post, 10K of film hireage, travel. But by far the most hallowed prize of all was from Skycity Village Cinemas - a beautiful shiny Gold Card that promised free movies for a whole year (except after 5pm on Saturdays).

This wonderful, wonderful prize expires on December 10 - a date that I've been dreading since, like, July. No more will I be able to flash the card, and have the staff peer at it suspiciously, and talk in whispered tones into their walky talkies. No more will I be able to chose any crap film at will, watch it to pass the time, and wander out half way through to get to another meeting (yes, Underworld 2, I'm talking about you). No more looking at the film timetable and feeling that rare and satisfying pleasure of having seen all the good ones. No more, sweet gold card, no more.

I feel the need to sing a requiem:
(to the tune of Sinatra's It was a very good year)
When I was twenty-eight, it was a very good year
It was a very good year for B-grade trash and fairly good flicks
I'd skank extra tickets for of-like-mind mates
When I was twenty-eight.

Yes, yes, I would keep the day job, if I actually had one.

Breakfast:
one milo, with melted Dark Ghana (70%) chocolate
Verdict: yes, that was all, I was baking at the time, and had to rush off to a yum cha, so it wasn't like I was going to be hungry long... not too sure about Dark Ghana, think I'm too much of a sugar freak. Dark Block feels just right to me.

breakfast of note

2006-11-12T22:40:00.000+13:00

Nothing of real excitingness to comment on here, just thought my breakfast might be of note:

Breakfast:
Rice and Squid
1 grapefruit
1 small sliver of chocolate cake
Verdict: pretty weird, but then again, it was kind of all there was.

objects in the rear view mirror...

2006-11-11T01:45:00.000+13:00

I just made an alarming discovery while driving home along the dark country road... when I look at myself in the rear view mirror with my headlights as the only light source... I look a bit like the scary blue lady from The Grudge!!!

I completely freaked myself out!

About that time, I also passed an abandoned car along the dark country road... then like 30 seconds later, passed a solitary hunched figure trudging in the dark. Being alone, and recently freaked out, I didn't stop. Later, I felt really bad about it - maybe the person really needed just a lift or a phone call. But I was alone, and it was past midnight... what do you do? From way back, my Dad would make sure I knew all the horror stories about people who stopped to help injured people on the road, then were murdered by enterprising villains who preyed on peoples' goodwill. As a result, I've become paranoid and suspicious of everyone. So much for giving people the benefit of the doubt. This saddens me because I think paranoia and suspicion contributes to the general badness in the world. If I was stuck on the country road with no transport and no communication, I would want help. I wouldn't start trudging down the road by myself in the dark, that's for sure, but I would want help.

Sigh.

And now for something completely without meaning!

Breakfast:
2 boiled eggs, dipped in a sprinkle of salt (I finally learnt how to boil eggs! This is not what you may think - I actually do the bulk of cooking here, including eggs - scrambled, fried, poached - just never boiled! Until now! Thank you eHow!)
A mug of ginger beer
Verdict: I was proud about the boiled eggs. They were mighty fine fresh from the pot. But all in all, a pretty weird breakfast. Wouldn't do it again. Ginger beer first thing makes my tummy a bit funny.

midnight toilet

2006-11-04T12:09:00.000+13:00

Goddamn it if The Grudge 2 didn't get to me. It was such a shitty film, especially the eye candy school girls who must have been given direction like "act really shit so that when you die, the audience will actually cheer". On second thoughts, everybody must have been given the 'act really shit' direction, because I couldn't actually tell if Amber Tamblyn had acting ability, or whether she just looked really good next to everybody she was working with (save Sarah Michelle Gellar of course. That lady can do no wrong!).

Anyway, home I went, scoffing all the way, had dinner, watched TV, what have you. The moment I got into bed and turned out the lights, the spectre of wide-eyed, open mouthed blue lady kept flashing on the inside of my eyelids. Stupid B-grade damn j-horror crap!

The first few nights after seeing the film when I woke up needing to pee, somehow I forced myself back to sleep. Finally, one night when I couldn't stand the pressure (damn soup!), I got up, turned on every light, shut the door, and did my thing with my eyes closed.

That's one thing I'm going to think about next time I choose a house - the aspect of the toilet. Our toilet is such that when you're sitting and the door is open, you're looking straight out into a corridor. When you're half asleep and it's the middle of the night, usually you just pee in the dark with the door open (don't act like you don't know what I mean)! I swear my dream-laced mind takes advantage of my short-sightedness and imagines all sorts of horrible apparitions peeking around the side of the door frame and grinning at me. It doesn't help that Abe the cat sometimes ninjas his way into the toilet and sits there purring at me. I swear one time I just blinked and he appeared there. I almost screamed. I suppose I should be sort of grateful that The Grudge 2 has replaced the usual clowns with the blue lady.

Two things come to mind when I think about the TV series of It (well, apart from being the site of my screaming clown phobia) - the first is sadness about Jonathan Brandis, and how he ended up, and the second is the irrational thought that if I carry my asthma inhaler everywhere with me, then I can vanquish clowns at all times. On second thoughts, no. I want the clowns back. Because what the fuck do I do with the grudge lady? Out stare her? Paint myself blue and put my face millimetres from hers? Hmm. Need to think about this one.

Breakfast:
1 Milo a la Roseanne (ie. very sweet)
half a home grown cherimoya (it was chilled and delicious)
2 meal mates (poppy and sesame seed crackers)
Verdict: not sure about the nutritional value, but I'm continuing digging poppy seeds. And fruit, always fruit.

testing...

2006-10-31T11:41:00.000+13:00

I caved into mySpace a few months ago because I missed having a blog, then got a slew of messages from people who wanted to be my 'friend', but who actually just wanted to sell me stuff. I must admit I was flattered to have been invited to the "Styling Models Online" or "Hot girls" group, but alas, my naked air-brushed pictures could never compare.

I'm still supposed to be writing, which explains why I'm trawling the net trying to start another, more satisfying blog that doesn't ply me with false promises of new friends. My old friends told me so. I stand corrected.

Speaking of friends, I shall take this opportunity to post pictures of the most amazing paella that Marc made a few weeks ago, atop a wee charcoal BBQ on Joc's back porch, no less:

click to embiggen!

And we ate until our bellies were big, and slept like babies.

Well, in actuality we over-strained our already strained tummies with laughing at our lame-ass film school films that we hadn't seen in a few years. Then we toddled home and slept, rubbing our paella babies in contentment.

Good food, good company. Yay.

Hmm, I should end a blog with a 'thing', right? In homage to Jane Espenson's excellent blog on screenwriting, I'll put what I had for breakfast, because after 9 months of independent living I still haven't found my breakfast groove.

Breakfast:
1 milo (4 heaped teaspoons milo, 1 teaspoon brown sugar, splash of milk)
1 peanut butter toast (Freya's mixed grain)
verdict: OK I guess. I like the poppyseeds in the toast.