21st Century Thingness

This is a thing of the 21st Century. (Link courtesy the ever-wise Billy.)
I call it art, dammit. But that’s another rant. (Don’t get me started on Jake and Milos Forman.)
In other news, the fabulous Chuck Gillespie lands on Scottish Soil in about a half hour. ‘ray! And I emailed Ella all the suggestions people made, and more besides. Should keep her busy.

Mad Home

Somewhat odd to be on the other side of the world while my home town goes completely wild…
(And if, four years ago, someone told me that in 2003 Seth Green would be hanging out in Lower Hutt but I would be in Edinburgh, I would have thought them a very adventurous sort of psychic.)

‘Love, actually’

Went to see new Brithope ‘Love, Actually’ t’other night. (“Oh no!” readers cry, “he’s reduced to writing about movies already!” Well, shush. I’m going somewhere with this.)

‘Love…’ does what it says on the box – romance, Christmas, snow, public declarations of love, Atkinson Firth Grant Rickman Thompson Lincoln Knightley Neeson etc etc. The bad stuff is also pretty unsurprising – non-white characters are all in marginal roles (London, the whitest most-ethnically-diverse city in the world!), dumb bits with Comedy Americans, a gobsmackingly stupid portrayal of politics that could be overlooked if September 11 wasn’t explicitly referenced in the opening monologue.

But.

‘Love…’ does its po-mo po-faced, with characters taking their love lessons from movies (it ain’t over till its over, it all comes together at the last possible moment, you have to run across town and call out someone’s name before they slip out of your life forever). It even quotes about 10 seconds of ‘Titanic’ full-frame (I had a weird feeling that someone taped over the movie). The ‘Titanic’ riff is calculated. ‘Love, Actually’ has sold itself as the follow-on to ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’ and ‘Notting Hill’, but that’s just to get you in the door. It has set its sights far higher than that. ‘Love, Actually’ is intended as the spiritual successor to ‘Titanic’.

(ASIDE: ‘Titanic’, of course, is the most recent adoptee of the Gone With The Wind Trophy for the Most Romantic Movie Of All Time. It’s also a nice barometer for comprehending movie criticism.

Now, I loved ‘Titanic’. I saw it three times on the big screen. I do not apologise for this. Sure, the characters are two-dimensional. Sure, it’s an unrealistic fairy-tale stapled on to a horrific historical tragedy. Sure. But if you buy into its desperate Mills & Boon-via-Tom Clancy logic, it’s one hell of a tale. And it isn’t that hard to buy in – this was the movie that broke records and made 3-hour films entirely mainstream, remember? (Another of Jim Cameron’s multitiude of sins. But I digress.)

Lots of smart people hated ‘Titanic’ but when they say why they hate it, most of the time at least, I can’t help but conclude they have missed the point. Second point of reference for the same thing: season 1 Dawson’s Creek was one of the best teen-romance tales I’ve ever come across. Lots of people hated the way all the characters talked in thirty-something therapy-speak. These people have missed the point. That’s what Dawson’s Creek is.)

‘Love, Actually’ is for *ahem* grown-ups. It doesn’t have the teen-daydream emotional logic of ‘Dawson’ and ‘Titanic’, but it does have a non-rational story structure where the real world is just a backdrop to the stories of people discovering and committing themselves to emotional truths.

The crux of ‘Love…’ is an idea, repeated over and over again, that Christmas is a time for telling the truth. ‘Telling the truth’, of course, is explicitly developed as code for biting your lip, being brave, and admitting to someone that you fancy them.

And that makes this a fascinating movie. It’s being mass-released all over the world. For every person in the audience who is trying to work up the nerve to tell someone that what they really want for Christmas ‘is you’, it lays down a path, hands over the tools, pats them on the back and makes encouraging noises. It does everything but tip alcohol down their throat and spray on perfume/cologne. This movie is trying to make all those people screw up their courage and go for it.

‘Love…’ is trying to change the world. Movies don’t do this often. Certainly not big, mass-release blockbuster type movies. (‘Fight Club’ and ‘American Beauty’ are the only big examples I can think of in the last few years.) I am somewhat cautious about movies that attempt to prompt real change in their viewers’ lives, but by my lights, the message of ‘Love…’ is a grand one. I hope it works. I hope, all over the world, people who see this movie then get their nerve steadied and tell that special someone how they feel.

The planet would be a better place for it.

(By the way, if you are already hooked up with someone, as I am, there is still great enjoyment to be had from the movie. Well, specifically, from Bill Nighy. And the Andrew Lincoln-Keira Knightley storyline, for that matter. But I’ve written long enough.)

[morgueatlarge] from the morgue – a blog begins

[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent November 2003]

hey everyone!

I’m continuing to wrestle time out of non-time up here in the descending-to-winter-again Edinburghland.
(With Christmas pending, I think I’ve been nominated to turn into a reindeer and draw a sleigh, except (a) wrong ungulate – me am moose, and (b) still can’t draw*.

Anyway. David in his great love for all humankind set up a blog for me and said ‘go’. So, I did. It’s here:
http://www.additiverich.com/morgue/ [EDIT: THIS LINK IS LONG DEAD OF COURSE, AND IT LINKS TO THE VERY BLOG YOU’RE READING BECAUSE I COPIED ALL THE POSTS HERE, OKAY THANKS – MORGUE IN 2024]

I still haven’t quite figured how I’m gonna use it, but to start off I have a BURNING QUESTION to ask everyone from NZ. I DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP.

Also, to draw in reluctant souls, I offer a free gift and a photo of me in my famous orange kathmandu jacket. Go and enjoy! And help! And enjoy!

~`morgue

* except for the surrey I drew when I was seven, with a fringe on the top, like that song in Oklahoma, ‘The Surrey With The Fringe On The Top’. That was One Fine-lookin’ Surrey, Let Me Tell You What.

I need your help.

Just over a year ago I was travelling through Portugal and Spain with Canadian smilewright Ella Munro, everyone’s favourite multi-lingual Winnipeger. Good times and a new friend, plus highlight after highlight as we wandered Iberia.
Now – one year later – Ella is coming to Aotearoa.
As you can imagine, I have talked up this fine country of ours, but sadly I won’t be there to help make it live up to the hype. So I’m calling on you, ye readers – those of you who are familiar with New Zealand, at least – what would you recommend to a traveller spending December in the land of the long white cloud?
Anything that jazzes you. Hidden corners that won’t be found in a Lonely Planet, as well as obvious places that just should not be missed! (She should have access to a car at some point, so out of the way is fine.)
Share your favourite places. Even better if you say why they are special, like Karen does in the September 19 entry here.
Go on, click ‘Comments’ and write. Make me a happy morgue.

Beginning to Exist

Well, okay. I think I’m here now. And in the process of figuring how this will fit in with other means of communication.
BLOG OPENING SPECIAL! I have typed up a first draft of a horror movie screenplay called ‘Cold Night’. I will email it FREE to anyone who asks! JUST BECAUSE I CAN!
It ain’t finished – the ending is rushed, it has a saggy middle, and I’m starting to suspect it ain’t scary – but I’m still sorta happy with it.
So, yeah. Here I am. Now, you speak.

a soundtrack

RUNAWAY by Del Shannon
As I walk along I wonder a-what went wrong
With our love, a love that was so strong
And as I still walk on, I think of the things we’ve done
Together, a-while our hearts were young
I’m a-walkin’ in the rain
Tears are fallin’ and I feel the pain
Wishin’ you were here by me
To end this misery
And I wonder
I wa-wa-wa-wa-wonder
Why
Ah-why-why-why-why-why she ran away
And I wonder where she will stay
My little runaway, run-run-run-run-runaway
—— Musitron solo ——
I’m a-walkin’ in the rain
Tears are fallin’ and I feel the pain
Wishin’ you were here by me
To end this misery
And I wonder
I wa-wa-wa-wa-wonder
Why
Ah-why-why-why-why-why she ran away
And I wonder where she will stay
My little runaway, run-run-run-run-runaway
A-run-run-run-run-runaway

already in motion

and through came the noise, through the wall of wax, whistle-thin, pointed. Brushing someone else’s hair off my page so I can write, thick weeping willows of hair rich in aroma.
mirror writing, despite or because of the noise. I step through and see what I have written from beneath. These are my mirrored words:
“if you mess with this, the karma pigs will oink against your soul”

[morgueatlarge] Final Fest

[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent November 2003]

We’d almost missed a whole festival. The Edinburgh Film Fest is a short one, two weeks in length and packed to the brim with screenings. Almost every single screening is followed by a question and answer session with the director or star or both. It’s astonishing. And I managed to get to one film. Just barely.

Thursday 21 August we went, to Potestad, a film about Argentinian political disappearances in the 1970s, or more thematically, about the way making compromise in the face of corruption leads to loss and despair. It was a fascinating film. I think my favourite thing about it was the use of the main actor, Eduardo Pavlóvsky, throughout, despite the fact that much of the film takes place in flashback to when he was a young man. It works surprisingly well, much better than you’d expect if I just described scenes of an old man wearing a rugby jersey and running downfield with his young teammates. The film was based on a stage play, written and performed by Pavlóvsky, but you’d need to look harder than I did to see where that has limited things. Stunning. I wish we could have stayed for more of the director’s discussion afterwards, but no, we had to race across town for a very important show…

…the arrival of Lucy! Yes indeed, we were finally to enjoy guests taking advantage of the floorspace to see the festival. Lucy bounced off the train, tilting her head side to side as she does and grinning hugely as she also does, and proceeded to be a wonderful guest indeed.

The next day her other half John materialised, and that evening I joined the group to make a quartet ready to enjoy some great entertainment. By this stage of the fest word of mouth had been getting around, and tonight was a double-helping of good word. First up was ‘Ladies & Gents’, a grimy
Glasgow-set underworld thriller performed in a public toilet. They split the audience in half, and one half headed into the dimly lit Ladies, the other half was led into the Gents. Both groups, each about 20-strong, were carefully placed against the walls of the bathrooms and told not to move even a step… and then the music started playing, and the show was on. A nasty, bitter piece tasting of revenge and murder, you watched events unfold in your bathroom, occasionally hearing loud noises from the other one. And then, at the end of the scene, reeling from what you’ve just seen, you’re herded back outside again, past the other set, and into the other bathroom. Then you see the other side of the story, and only when you’ve seen both sides through does it all fall into place.

Beautiful. And it gains immense style points for being performed in a public loo.

Buzzing from that odd, but good, experience, we wandered the evening for a while and gravitated towards our other word-of-mouth special selection: Kiwi geniuses Jermaine and Brett, Flight of the Conchords. I’d relented my point of view that I could see them anytime in Wellington – they were setting the fest on fire and it seemed foolish to miss out on supporting my countrymen at the same time as having a sure ticket to the folked-up land of funny. As it happened, moments before Cal bought the ticket the Perrier nominations were announced, with Conchords included, and the price for tickets jumped by
half; but it made for a hell of a sold-out show.

And yes, they were good. They were as good as anything over here. They deserved that nomination, and the kudos it has brought them. (I didn’t see eventual winner Dmitri Martin, but if the reviews were accurate then that man deserved to win. His set sounded insanely good.) See these guys when
they come your way. To do so is wise.

Saturday 23 August – the final weekend of the fringe festival! Flyer hawkers were in a frenzy handing out paper to anyone in range, the bars were full of jaded semi-conscious comedians, the running jokes of the festival were well-established (Aaron Barschak). Lucy and John picked the show, and they picked a doozy. It was called The Return, by a small Australian company, and it was set on a late-night train ride from Perth to Fremantle. Basic plot: two yobs alone in a train car. Vulnerable young woman gets on and sits down. Go. Crikey, I don’t think I’ve been nearer the edge of my seat for years – the tension was incredible, and the humour when it came would have been funny even if it wasn’t a relief. Another victim of theatrical-plot syndrome, but as I’ve said before, it comes with the territory. Hell, it was brilliant. I think it ranks as the highlight of my entire festival. Outstanding.

Late night funny stuff to follow. We checked out Dwight Slade, an American comedian who was friends with Bill Hicks (if you know who he is, you’ll understand). Sadly, he never quite got the crowd working – his humour wasn’t the political viciousness that Hicks-hungry punters were hoping for, and while he certainly didn’t bomb, the show didn’t explode either. Not bad, not bad.

Criminy! Sunday 24 August! Only one show – the comedic stylings of John Oliver, getting talked up as the new Ben Elton. It was good stuff, with a very funny bit at the end about anti-war protests that recruited a bunch of other comedians playing the same venue as placard-carrying cameo artists, with a line or two each.

Unfortunately for Oliver, seeing as it was the last night of the show, the comedians decided to completely sabotage this sequence. They substituted all manner of nonsense for the scripted lines and the bit culminated in hugely popular comedian Daniel Kitson dancing around the stage grinning for a while in a spectacular coup-de-grace that Oliver handled with admirable aplomb.

Great fun, really, and a nice way to end the festival.

John and Lucy jetted away the next day (I shan’t clutter up the email telling you about them, but it’s worth pointing out they’re Very Nice People) and Cal and I hunkered back into normal life, after a fashion. The
International Festival was still going on and a few late Fringe events were still occurring, but most of the crowds were gone and the furious pace was letting up. I was looking forward to a final Fringe event: Spearhead were playing on Thursday August 28. Spearhead and frontman Michael Franti are a San Francisco socially conscious music outfit that just happens to make the best damn sounds I’ve ever heard. My favourite band, I’ve only seen them twice since they formed in 1994. I was really looking forward to time number 3. Their gig was the first thing I booked for the fest. I’d been ready for a month.

Naturally I got sick.

Brad and Willy went in mine and Cal’s stead, and I have heard from them and other acquaintances that it was a damn good show. I heard “best gig I have ever experienced” more than once. And I feel damn good that some good came from my tickets. Yeah.

Saturday night was the grand finale. August 30 and the fireworks display over the castle. It’s renowned by fireworks nuts throughout the world. It deserves its reputation. A little over a year ago I sent a morgue-at-large email that spoke excitedly of the fireworks at the Thames Festival in London. Here in Edinburgh I met their grander, snazzier, bigger older brother.

And I felt fine.

—-

Here endeth the account of Edinburgh Festival 2003.

Enjoy your early November!

~`morgue