So you think you wanna dance?

I am no aficionado of dance.  By a long stretch.  Or by any stretch.  I don’t really know what krumping is and though (I think) I know what a pirouette looks like, I have no idea what an arabesque is.

I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets.  For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it.  I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose.  Ballet presented me with the same problem.  Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point. 

Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me.  Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety. 

The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch).  Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers! 

SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties.  This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!). 

There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do. 

In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization.  I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing.  They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique.  I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.  

I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance.  I was delighted.  It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television.  And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong). 

 

As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives.  Some of the issues we promoted (family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs.  I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster?  I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance. 

 

In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women.  And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’.  They just wanted to join in.

Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags).  I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside.  I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action.  Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit?  Something in between I suspect.  But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me.  Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.

*Note.  The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point.  We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!

Borrowed time

I originally posted this on 10 December 2009, but deleted it when I changed the theme of this blog.  However, in retrospect, this entry means a lot to me, so I am reposting it. 

Nine years ago someone died. I don’t know how or why. I don’t even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.

My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.

He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete – reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to ‘professional’ as you could get.

So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn’t. For most of my life I had known that – at some point – my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn’t make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.

Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.

His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and ‘Tinkers’ seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.

Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother’s correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away – with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.

After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.

I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.

We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.

We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.

Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.

He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.

Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…

The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.

Coincidentally…

I finally saw the much-lauded Avatar last weekend.  I was blown-away by how far technology has come since I suffered through queasiness and blue and red tinted lens’ for Jaws 3D in 1983.

I have been entertained by the media reports comparing Avatar’s plot to that of Pocahontas as well as the web postings which do a ‘Find / Replace’ from an excerpt of Pocahontas - replacing John Smith with Jake Sully.  Though patting him on the back for his ingenuity, bloggers everywhere are describing Avatar as Pocahontas in Space and wondering if James Cameron merely ‘lifted’ the plot (based on real events anyway!) and added some colour and special effects. 

I recently touched on this idea of ‘everything old is new again’ in a blog I wrote about sampling or remixing old songs into new ones, which gave me a chance to revisit with old faves.

But this is different.  We see our share of remakes.  Some good – Ocean’s Eleven and The Ring come to mind.  And some not-so-good – think Psycho and Planet of the Apes.  But what I wonder, in a world of remakes and trashy reality television about the world’s worst car-crashes is, are we lazy and purposely stealing ideas or have we just run out of new ones? 

I am currently watching two separate television shows, both of which initially had me indignant about the fact that they had seemingly pilfered their storyline from feature films.  I couldn’t believe the audacity and wondered why I hadn’t read about copyright breaches.  But it appears that all is not as it seems….

My first exhibit is the TV show, The Sopranos, which I am watching half-a-dozen years after the rest of the world.  The show has never really appealed to me, but I was in need of something to keep me entertained during the summer off-season here – other than tennis or cricket – so figured 6 seasons of approximately 13 episodes a season would give me 70 hours (give or take) of TV viewing to stave off the boredom. 

I vaguely knew what the show was about (mobsters), but it wasn’t until I watched the first season that I realized how closely it resembled the movie, Analyze This.  Both centre around a mob boss seeking assistance from a psychiatrist and the consequences (good and bad) of this action.  (Of course latter seasons of The Sopranos focus less on this angle, but it plays a pivotal role in the first season.)

I was shocked at the blatant ‘rip-off’ unless of course the show was meant to be a spin off of the movie.  It wasn’t.  Meant to be a spin off that is. And, more interestingly, it was not a rip-off.  Though the series appeared on TV screens in 1999 – the same year the movie was realized – the TV show pilot was actually filmed in 1997.  So, just coincidence apparently.  Two separate individuals had the same idea.  At around the same time.

Then there is a current summer season offering on our TV screens, which I find myself watching though it is a tad trite and obvious.  Accidentally on Purpose sees an older career woman become (accidentally – as if that can happen in this day and age?!) pregnant to a 20-something guy who lives with his always-stoned buddy.  Sound familiar?  If you saw the movie Knocked Up in which Katherine Heigl found herself in a similar state thanks to a drunken one night stand with Seth Rogen, then the plot is WAY too familiar.  And yet, wait for it…  Apparently the TV show has not pilfered the idea from the movie.  Bizarrely the TV show is actually based on a memoir (of the same name).   

Thanks to Jenna Elfman and the dry accented wit of Ugly Betty’s Ashley Jensen the show is watchable. Even if full of clichés. 

And, speaking of Ugly Betty, though seemingly a product of the success of the feature film, The Devil Wears Prada, the concept was in fact developed in Colombia as Yo soy Betty, la fea (I am Betty, the ugly) in 1999.  Again – apparently just a similar idea manifesting itself in the written word and celluloid in different countries.  Perhaps that explains the spate of vampire movies, TV shows and novels raining down upon us?

So, it seems, we are not stealing ideas from others.  Nor are we lazy.  But, have we run out of new ideas? Are there, I wonder, a finite number of ideas floating about in the ether, and have we plucked them all out?

Hopefully not.  Occasionally, amid the sea of formulaic offerings about cops, lawyers and doctors, there are glimpses of creative brilliance.  Current fodder such as the serial-killing Dexter, raunchy 30 Rock and Entourage and polygamist world of Big Love offer a  glimmer of originality amidst the Battlestar Gallactica and Stargate remakes and lazy low-cost reality television shows.

I am (admittedly) a fan of the quirky, such as Joss Whedon and Bryan Fuller and their shows: Firefly, Buffy, Pushing Daisies and Dead Like  Me to name a few.  However, many of these shows which have piqued my interest did not garner sufficient interest to fend off axe-weilding TV Execs, which makes me all-the-more passionate about supporting new and unusual offerings. 

So, as I settle down to Season 4 of The Sopranos and await new seasons of Dexter and  Entourage I will continue to hold out some hope for what the year ahead may have to offer.

(Alternate) Reality TV

The television show, Fringe, takes its name from its focus on (the edgy) ‘fringe’ science and though I have only watched Season One, it seems to be heading in the direction that postulates the existence of an alternate reality.  Of course the underlying premise may end up being something different*, but I think that is what Aussie expat Anna Torv, Joshua Jackson, John Noble and Leonard Nimoy are all about at the moment, as they investigate a ‘pattern’ of events and unexplainable phenomena. 

Though I watch, and am devoted to, my share of the fantastical (Buffy, Firefly and Pushing Daisies to name but a few) the concept of an alternate reality is not something in which I believe – though the movie, What The Bleep Do We Know certainly confused the hell out of me and caused me to ponder on the notion for a minute or two! 

This idea of us co-existing in a parallel universe is not new to cinema or television.  In Me Myself I, single career-oriented Rachel Griffiths got a glimpse of an alternate life as a wife and mother; and in Sliding Doors, Gwyneth Paltrow’s world split before our eyes as she lived two lives but ended up at the same place.

So, while I don’t believe there is another ‘me’ living in some other realm, I have often pondered those “Sliding Door” moments in my life when I could (or should) have followed one path rather than another: decisions about whether or not to pursue a relationship;  decisions about what to study at University.  Interestingly for me, most of these occurred when I was younger and are probably decisions which could have taken my life in an entirely different direction.  The choices I have made over the last 10 – 15 years, though important, have not been as pivotal (literally). I recently wrote (elsewhere) about wanting a “Do-over” to go back to my youth and start again.  To not make the same mistakes; to take more chances and risks; and to make different decisions.

Sadly, this wish has not been granted.  And there is no alternate reality.  Or if there is and my life there is a more fulfilling one, I will never know (unless that ‘two worlds colliding’ thing really does happen!).   But, as a New Year dawns, we all have the opportunity to make new resolutions, set new goals and ponder our decisions more carefully.   Maybe a change in direction lies before us, or passion pursued.  A deliberate Sliding Door moment in this reality perhaps… 

* Though it took me a while to settle into Fringe, I ended up enjoying the show immensely.  Despite being a natural cynic, I found myself accepting the storyline on the screen before me, going with the flow and opening my mind to the world being offered.  Having said that, I read an interview with creator, JJ Abrams, as he discussed the potential ‘direction’ he envisaged the show taking.  As someone who believes that Lost got WAY lost I hope he doesn’t ‘try’ quite SO hard (to make it different or interesting or unpredictable) this time around.

Morning Pages and Basketball Shots

My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know.  We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course.  While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength.  She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au).

Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path. 

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do.  In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises.  I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit.  I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort.  However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.

A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages.  I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates.  I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do.  But the Morning Pages I found quite useful.  Eventually.  That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.

The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning.  Long-hand.  A brain-dump as such.  To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron. 

Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me.  I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations. 

But I soon came to learn the difference.  When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop.  With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages.  Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.

So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall.  One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun.  I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’.  I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child.  Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest. 

Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager.  The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop. 

So, the homework exercise should have been easy.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me.  Or something.

Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework.  Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.

But…  Perhaps it is not too late.  A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20.  I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed). 

Another few weeks passed.  But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking – about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court.  Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful.  I had no ball control.  My shooting action felt ugly.  But… no one else was around to see.  I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free.  Free to play. 

I have been twice since.  My ball control still sucks.  I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills.   But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.

I hope to continue going.  Once or twice a week would be fine.  Soon I will feel more confident.  I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line.  But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do.  It will just be about ‘doing’.  About ‘being’.

And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again.  Work through it.  Do what I like.  Skip over what I don’t.  Who knows what will come next?

Everything old….

I discovered something about myself this morning….  I am a sucker for a sample, as in the type that is mixed into another song.  Perhaps I am living in the rose-coloured-glassy past (like my father who believes that footballers today don’t measure up to footballers of yesteryear!).  Or perhaps it is just some longing for the familiar; but it occurred to me that I have spent many an hour searching out an original song which has been mixed into something new. 

Last weekend I was at my niece’s ballet concert and there was an up-tempo dance set to a mix of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.  As it started I was reminded of how much I liked the song “When I Get You Alone”, by Robin Thicke, when it came out in the early 2000s and featured a sample of the mix (yes, I have truly pathetic taste in music!).  Similarly, I love love lurved Alicia Keys’ 2005 release, “Karma” which sampled Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and was reminded of this today as I was watching RAGE and an old clip of Stevie appeared before my eyes.  I recalled (after hearing “Karma” and its addictive beat) going online to buy and download the original 30 years after its release.

A year or so ago I remember being entranced by Craig David (and not just cos he suddenly looked less like a boy band member and very sex and buff!) sampling David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” in a song-that-went-nowhere-but-was-very-boppy, “Hot Stuff”.  And, though I am no huge fan of rap, I have found myself appreciating everything from Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby” mixed with “Under Pressure”; to 2Pac’s “Ghetto Gospel” and “Changes”; to Nas – a huge fan of the why-reinvent-the-wheel, mixing “Carmina Burana” and Beethoven into his music.  And finally, cos I am a sucker for the clichéd and love the original, another favourite of mine is Coolio’s “I’ll C U When U Get There”, featuring Pachelbel’s Canon.

 Everything old is new again, it seems.

The Grand Gesture

Starved of anything better to do on a recent Monday night, I found myself watching the romantic comedy, Must Love Dogs. A movie I vaguely recalled seeing previously and, while I wasn’t glued to the screen, it kept me entertained in between channel surfing for something better.

I mostly enjoyed the movie as I am a huge Diane Lane fan, but found myself cringing at the end of the movie. Having decided that she really did ‘want’ John Cusack’s character (Jake), Diane Lane’s character (Sarah) goes to find him and discovers him to be out on his boat. Not content to merely wait on the dock for his return, she is apparently so desperate to see him that she hails a passing rowing crew to take her into the middle of the river to find him. Then, rather than paddling up to him, she leaps from the boat (along with the aforementioned and obligatory dog) and swims over to him. I could barely watch the scene as it was SO cheesy and (frankly) embarrassing to all concerned.

As I lay in bed later I found myself wondering why Directors or Writers feel compelled to include such scenes in an otherwise watchable movie, often destroying any credibility the film had engendered. As I pondered on this some other examples came to mind.

In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (a very ordinary movie made bearable only by the eye candy care of Matthew McConaughey), the guy (on his motorbike) goes chasing after the girl (in a taxi) amidst traffic on some bridge somewhere. Accompanied, I am sure, by appropriately poignant music. Again, a scene which (to me, anyway) was so over-the-top I could only bear to watch through squinted eyes.

In Pretty Woman, Richard Gere braved the dodgy part of town – and the height of the fire escape – to declare his undying love for his hooker. In Sweet Home Alabama, Reece Witherspoon tracks down (the again very gorgeous) Josh Lucas amidst a storm and lightning conductors. Hugh Grant bumbles through a race-across-town and braves public humiliation to declare his love to Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. And who can forget Bridget Jones, clad in only a coat and her underwear, chasing after her man in the snow; Meg Ryan rushing to the top of the Empire State Building in Sleepless in Seattle; or her cohort Billy Crystal racing through busy streets to seek her out in When Harry Met Sally.

I sense a theme. So, I ask, what is it about the grand gesture and romantic comedies? Is the grand gesture a pre-requisite for any ‘romcom’ or chick-flick? Does it guarantee a box office hit? These questions and more were enough to occupy my busy little mind for a spell and I found myself mulling over the genre and what it has to offer.

The basic plot of a romantic comedy, or indeed, even a straight romance generally involves our two protagonists (usually a man and a woman in mainstream cinema) meeting, then separating (due to a fight or problem of some kind) before ultimately reuniting. That is it in a nutshell. Romantic comedy 101. Of course there are a few laughs or weepy moments along the way. And, as evidenced by my top-of-the-head list, the reunion is often preceded by some spectacular show of affection. A grand gesture of sorts. It seems to be rare that happily-ever-after comes without the grand gesture, but it is my opinion that the conclusion is often more palatable when the film remains gesture-less. The recent Sex and the City movie didn’t involve anyone racing through the streets, but rather the (other oft-used) accidental meeting of the former lovers. Interestingly they were still able to declare their undying love and we were able to believe it – even without the fireworks and near-misses. An old favourite of mine, About Last Night, comes to mind as well, the protagonists meeting at the end and deciding to start anew. To me, simple and believable. Completely believable.

Perhaps I lead a sheltered life but – to the best of my knowledge – none of my friends or their acquaintances has had to embark on a car chase or throw themselves out of a boat to declare their love for another.

I realise we are living in an age where we demand more escapist themes from our films and literature. But while I am happy to watch and read about wizards and vampires, I want the stories that are supposed to be believable, to actually BE believable and not sufficiently cringe-worthy to make me regret the previous two hours. Is that too much to ask?

Reading Jane

Locked away for a period of a month recently I realized I wouldn’t be able to read in my normal manner – in which I can easily read a book a night.  With my luggage space and weight limited I decided, therefore, to take with me a book I was given about 10 years ago but had been afforded no more than a quick glance in that time.

The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels.  Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.).  The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.

Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen?  I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen.  Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor).  Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be.  Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully.  I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare.  Nor do I want them to.

But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined.  She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing.  Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!). 

What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs.  The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit.  I skim-read.  I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically.  As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers.  This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me.  I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker.  I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them.  I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason – just to get to the ‘action’.  (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not.  I mean the next phase of the plot.)

I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here.  Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work.  Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like. 

Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak.  Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent.  But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female.  Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.

Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her.  She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice.  Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly.  Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.

Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism.  It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory.  Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.  

I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style.  As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….”  As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along. 

Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending.  As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after.  This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.

Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels.  Perhaps she just got bored with her characters.  Who knows?  What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old – so I will forgive her that one).

The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work.  Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.  

I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era.  Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts. 

Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817.  My age.  And that makes me sad.  For her and for me.  Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely.  And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?

Addiction

I am, as it happens, obsessive by nature.  My addictions come and go and range from the unhealthy – champagne, red wine, caramel filling, chocolate, to the healthier – watching episode upon episode of my latest favourite TV show, or reading book after book. 

There are some things of which I cannot get enough.  For a while (on the healthy side of the scale) I read incessantly.  I inhaled novel after novel.  Some good, some not-so-good and some pretty crappy.  (I do however have SOME standards, so there were a few returned to the library unread!)

The Twilight series I found bizarrely addictive; the simplistic style of writing inviting me in so I needed to know more.  Needed to know what happened next.  I also have a habit of reading and re-reading my ‘comfort’ novels and I use them in the same way I use ‘comfort’ movies or TV shows, or ‘comfort’ food.

So, for I while I was reading between 7 and 10 novels a week.  And working fulltime.  I ignored favourite TV shows, scorned movies and DVDs or outings in general.  It was all about reading.

But more recently it has been TV that has taken my fancy.  Or more specifically, TV on DVD.  That way I don’t have to worry about pesky advertisements AND like all good addicts, instant gratification is mine as I don’t have to wait a week for the next installment. 

I have been working through TV series on DVD for some time.  Some out of boredom while others have become an addiction and I cannot get enough of them. 

I have recently discovered Dexter; Mad Men; True Blood, Firefly; Dead Like Me; and  Pushing Daisies this way. 

Even more fulfilling to someone like me is when I discover something years after it actually commenced, which was the case when I stumbled across Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2000.  Five seasons into its filming.  With (mostly) 22 episodes each season, I had hours of ready-made viewing at my beck and call and had to work out in advance how many hours I could possibly watch in a night; or over a weekend. 

Of course this addiction – like so many others – does carry some risks.  Too many episodes without a break and you find yourself in West Wing dreams.  Or when you find yourself conversing in Buffy-speak (and people don’t know what you mean when you say you déjà-ed that vu!) you know that you have been ridiculously entrenched in the celluloid world of your own choosing.

My latest discovery is Entourage.  Though I had heard of it and its success, I hadn’t been tempted until I stumbled across the pilot episode on SBS (TV in Australia) recently.  

Though I actively pursued Dexter Season 3 and will watch Mad Men Season 2 when it returns to my video store, I cannot get enough of Entourage.  Like Buffy or West Wing, I cannot wait for my next hit.  I have watched three seasons of the show in one week.  I would have watched more but some pesky customer has borrowed Season 4 and I am waitlisted. 

I already know I have to buy it.  And I am – despite all accounts – fussy about the TV series in which I invest, having only procured Buffy; Sex and the City; West Wing; and Firefly to date.

Some shows I love – Dexter and Mad Men – but I know I won’t watch them again.  And again.  Entourage I will.  I already know this.  Though the storyline interests me, knowing what is coming won’t prevent me from re-watching.  Like Buffy and West Wing, it is the characters and the dialogue which draw me in and spit me back out.  Sated but ready and willing to take more. 

Meanwhile, as I wait for Season 4 of Entourage to find its way back to the video store, I realise I need to start pacing myself.  Season 5 has only just been released and Season 6 is currently screening in the USA.  Soon I am going to have to wait.  Delay gratification.  Or just find my next drug of choice…..

Lollipop-heads and trout-pouts

Half a dozen or so years ago, the term lollipop-head was coined to describe the actresses and the A, B (and D) listers who became so thin that their heads looked disproportionately large compared to their bodies. It described the then-fashionable wafer-thin Sarah Michelle Geller, Olsen twin and Nicole Richie, amongst others.

Despite the continuing swarm of chupa-chup starlets (the chicks from the new Beverly Hills 90210 and The Hills whose names I refuse to learn; and the likes of yo-yoing Lindsay Lohan) we don’t hear the term as much. But as I watch a rather-thin Miley Cyrus gyrating around on television, I can’t help wondering how their scrawny necks cope with the mountain of hair they carry upon their seemingly-large chupa-chup heads.

The thinness thing is not new, nor does it seem that it will ever get ‘old’. Weight (loss and gain) remains the fodder of women’s magazines which guilelessly feature articles on excessive thinness and eating disorders beside those on how to lose 20kgs in a week.

Given my recent predilection for TV on DVD and the ability to watch months of television productions over a weekend, I am finding myself intrigued with those actresses who become thinner as the show progresses. I suspect the change is more evident when – like me – you watch the series in one fell-swoop, rather than from week to week where the difference is more subtle.

You read about the ‘peer pressure’ on set when everyone else is thin. But the phenomenon that also interests me is the change between the ‘pilot’ and the rest of the season. Presumably Directors and Producers select actors who impress them – for whatever reason (talent, looks etc). So it is interesting that the timelapse – however long – between the filming of a pilot and the rest of the first season can bring about dramatic changes and I wonder why the actresses feel this need to ‘streamline’.

I have just finished watching the first series of the 2003 show, Dead Like Me. Foisted upon me by the helpful assistant at my local Blockbuster video store, I find myself entranced by the show centred around a bunch of grim-reapers.

The actress playing the lead role, Ellen Muth, isn’t your typical starlet. Not stereotypically beautiful, Muth playing misfit George (who is killed by a falling toilet from a Russian Space Station) is perfectly cast as the apathetic 18-year old and delivers her deadpan lines in her own alluring way.

I noticed nothing unusual about her as the series commenced, but she became noticeably thinner as the season progressed. I wondered then, when she had started to change and if her twig-like body had previously been hidden because of its vanishing girth. With a naturally round face, the lollipop-head phrase could have been coined with Muth in mind. Mid season she bares her arms and I could ‘barely’ look. Her forearms were actually larger than her biceps and so thin that an ever-present large vein looked like a tattooed racing stripe on her upper arm. I cringed every time I looked.

But, as I was loving the show, I squinted through the remainder of episodes. In fact I liked the show so much I went online after I had finished watching Season 1, to get information about the second (and final) Season. I am not sure why it is I keep discovering shows on DVD which were axed years before – Firefly, Pushing Daisies, now Dead Like Me. If I was more self-obsessed I would think there was some cause and effect thing happening and it was all about me….?!

My extensive research (hurrah for Google) also uncovered a made-for-DVD movie of the show, filmed only this year. Interested, I clicked on the link to take me to the movie’s website and that was my moment of disappointment.

The website featured an interview with star of the show and (new) movie, Ellen Muth. Now 5-6 years since the Season 1, Muth (who purportedly is a member of Mensa, so should not be unduly influenced by inane Hollywood fads) has done the unthinkable. She has (hmm….how to put it politely….?) “had some work done”. In fact, it almost certainly appeared that she now has the apt-phrased ‘trout-pout’. Already blessed with full lips, Muth’s mouth is now over-inflated and ridiculously caricature-like on her face.

I don’t understand it. I am not generally opposed to plastic surgery (as long as one admits to it – cos otherwise it is basically lying. I often fantasise about botox but know I would feel obliged to admit it to anyone who asked. Or even anyone who didn’t! And, my upper lip is a tad thin, so sure a bit of inflation would be great – but I wouldn’t dare go there as we have oft-seen the disastrous results).

I – like most of those on this orb-we-call-earth – was a huge Meg Ryan fan. Until the plastic surgery debacle that resulted in her cute impish beauty becoming the inscrutable mask, which has seen most of her recent movies tank in a big way. I recall the release of Kate & Leopold (possibly the beginning of the end), and everyone’s horror at what she had done to herself – and her career. I can’t help wonder if Nicole Kidman’s current fascination for smooth skin will also see the demise of her career.

While the plastic surgery horror-stories are many, what intrigues me are those who don’t seem to realise how ridiculous they look. When it first aired, I was a fan of TV show, Cold Case. I recall much of Australia was smitten with Kathryn Morris – she of the barely-pinned-up hair, fragile features and porcelain skin. I wasn’t actually smitten, but I could see why people thought she was attractive. And then, somewhere along the line something happened. I cannot pinpoint exactly when, but when a new season of Cold Case started I innocently tuned in, only to be horrified by the TV-cop who was once a favourite. She was all lips. I couldn’t focus on anything else. Kathryn Morris’s face barely moved – there were no expressions, just these swollen things in the middle of her head pouting and slapping together. I haven’t been able to watch the show since.

Perhaps there is some scientific basis to it all. I wonder if the whole inflated-lips thing helps the lollipop-heads’ balance, or reduces the pressure on their tiny necks? Akin to a helium balloon on a piece of string? Hmmm…. something to ponder.

But for now, I am flummoxed. Having recently discovered Dead Like Me, I can’t help wondering when Hollywood’s obsession with homogenization resulted in the lead actor, Ellen Muth’s decision to go-the-way-of-others-before-her and adopt the trout-pout. I hope I can at least get through Season 2 before I am distracted by her oversized choppers! From all accounts the movie is a bit of a dud anyway!