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Eat French Bread - August 2006

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

August 31st 2006 06:23
In Australia for the first time since it’s controversial release in 1968, French New Wave filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard’s documentation of late 60s counter-culture, Sympathy for the Devil (aka One Plus One), should not be missed.

Following the process of creating the revolutionary Rolling Stones single about the Devil’s take on the history of civilisation, it is fascinating to watch it slowly develop into the rambling tempest.

Way back in a time when Keith Richards could string a sentence together, the footage of the Stones in a London recording studio captures a creativity and spirit that is entrancing, and would be worth seeing alone. But to do so would be to miss the point. And that point? That there is no point. The film is a collage of music documentary and political commentary. Song; image; literature; philosophy; poetry; lurid pulp fiction read aloud; and slogans spray-painted on walls, are stylistically layered, to see what one brings out of the next.

While the music has retained its brilliance, time has not been as kind on the political rants. These tangents of the film have been criticised as monotonous and artless didacticism, especially since it’s re-release. Indeed, some of the sketches are shot in a tedious and pretentious way, but it is an incredible documentation of an era that had such a definitive spirit. The innovative structure and brilliant cinematography, especially the very long and beautifully executed tracking one-takes, make it well worth seeing.

If that’s not enough, we all know there’s nothing like a bit of controversy to make a film more sought-after. Godard was so angered at his producer for re-cutting the footage without his permission that he got up on stage during the London Film Festival premiere, punched him, and urged the audience to leave the venue for a nearby screening of his own version. He was particularly infuriated at the producer for renaming the film after the Stones song, for commercial appeal (Godard’s version has the original title One Plus One and is less focused on footage of the band). He also disapproved of having the final version of the track played at the end of the film, because he hadn’t envisaged a neat, chronological story that would be summed up in the final credits. Just as the shots of the character painting political slogans on various surfaces are always cut away before the messages are completed, Godard believed the audience should not have things spelt out to them.

Although the recording studio burnt down and Brian Jones was arrested for cannabis possession during production, details like these are absent. Everything is shown rather than told and the understated style detaches the film from such real-life events, so that the art of it is in the unsaid.

Godard at work (photograph by David Horvitz)


A Quote From Jean-Luc Godard:

"To be or not to be. That's not really a question."















Image: wikipedia
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On The Market

August 29th 2006 13:49
What endless types of humans there are at Sydney’s Rozelle markets on a Sunday morning: tiny old ladies on their way home from church carrying shopping bags; perfumed Balmain women with big streaked hair and probably big cars walking their big dogs; a surely adolescent with pimples, perpetually eye rolling, worrying he might be seen in public with his mother; unwashed thinkers with facial hair and hats and journals and thick-rimmed glasses; ravishing brunettes in tight fitting skirts and stockings, fishing through their handbags; blond schoolboys with packets on their way to extracurricular weekend classes; hungover groovers in meticulously mismatched oversized cardies and skinny jeans; a Chinese-looking child in tears because she is lost or maybe has seen something she wants but doesn’t have; serious young lovers in scarves; sweating morning-power-walkers with water bottles who don’t want to make eye contact; lonely old smoking Italian men with ciabattas in paper bags who make too much eye contact; a lovely redhead whistling, with a motorcycle helmet in her hand.

Extra cash being quite welcome in my life at this stage (I’ve given up on the muse idea for now), I had a market stall on the weekend, selling all the stuff I have but don’t need to have.

It’s amazing what people will buy - I sold crappy promotional cds, stockings, used body lotions, ugly clothes … and walked away with a couple of hundred dollars. It’s also amazing what people won’t buy – someone sees a shirt they like and I say they can have it for $10, they’ll hold on to it for fifteen minutes while they look around, carefully examining it, then they’ll come back and offer me $2 (!). If I don’t really like them I’ll say “$2 from $10? No, it’s $10, that’s a good price.” But if I like the look of them I’ll take anything, I really don’t care.

It was a fun day, especially after the packed picnic of Lebanese bread, fetta cheese, tabouleh and red wine. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank: the stall that sold the carrot cake that was just the way carrot cake should be; beautiful James for helping me pack up after; the guy at the stand next door who wasn’t an asshole when my clothes rack fell on his table and who helped me pick it up each time; the sweet old lady for looking so joyed when she bought my old-lady cardigan; Kate for providing entertainment by layering on all the random clothes she could find and rain-maker dancing while telling customers that things they were about to buy were ugly.

No thanks to: that guy who asked me a hundred questions about the Playstation with three games (for $10) and didn’t buy it; the stallholders who were selling better stuff than me; the woman who STOLE an old pair of corduroy trousers (seriously, just walked away – hilarious … maybe she should be under ‘thanks’); all my friends who said they would come and visit and didn’t; the 6am start; my hangover; the carrot cake for making me feel sick after I ate it, the way carrot cake always does.




Quote for the day:

“Anyone who lives within their means suffers a lack of imagination”
Oscar Wild
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THE MAN-HATER

August 28th 2006 12:27
A song by Henry Carey (1687 - 1743)

I
What's Man, but a perfidious Creature,
Of an inconstant, fickle Nature,
Deceitful, and Conceited too,
Boasting of more than he can do?

II
Beware, ye heedless Nymphs, beware,
For Men will Lye, and Fawn, and Swear;
But, when they once have gain'd the Prize,
Good Heav'ns! How they will Tyranize!
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This curry is easy and lick-the-bowl yummy. Traditionally served with basmati, I like to use brown rice, but whatever tickles your fanny. This is a lot of food but everyone wants seconds and it also makes great leftovers because it gets better with time in the fridge. Serve with nann bread from the local Indian take-away shop because I don’t know how to make it and it takes it to a new level.



Shopping list

800 g diced chicken breast
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 white onion, finely chopped
1 handful grated ginger
3 birds eye chillies
400g tomato paste
200g cream
200g yoghurt
1 tbsp turmeric
1 tbsp cayenne chilli
1 tbsp gram masala
1 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp curry paste
100g butter
1 cauliflower
800g eggplant
3 cups rice
1 handful cashew nuts
I bunch fresh coriander, finely chopped
Yoghurt to serve



1. Marinate chicken in garlic, onion, ginger, tomato paste, cream, yoghurt and sugar in the fridge for a few hours (or overnight if you’re that organised).







2. Remove from fridge and put in a big saucepan. Add butter, curry paste and spices and place on stovetop, lowest heat setting.











3. Meanwhile, chop the cauliflower and eggplant into bite-size pieces and add to the big pot. Leave on the lowest heat with the lid on for 40-60 mins. The slower cooked the better.




















4. Prepare rice according to instructions the pack.


















5. Add cashews nuts and stir through before serving.











6. Serve with chopped coriander and yoghurt.









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MY LATEST INFATUATION: AIRPORTS

August 21st 2006 19:18
A few months ago I was watching a Channel 9 programme, Hello Goodbye. A series about people in airports, I was instantly sceptical, assuming like other reality TV shows, it would insult the public sensibility. “That’s the whole idea? People in airports? How depressing,” I said out loud. But to my surprise and slight disappointment, I had to withdraw that statement because I realised it was a fantastic idea for a series and wished I’d thought of it.

Airports are bizarre clusters of security, shopping, customs, travel, business, hotels, heightened emotions, banality, reuniting lovers, people on the run, anticipation, drug busts, distorted senses of time and place and being, sad goodbyes, missed flights, lost luggage...

The first airports exclusively serviced the elite but today anyone with a Visa can fly and the airport is an increasingly mass-market product. They form a surreal ever-expanding network straddling the globe and when you sit in a lounge waiting for your boarding call, looking out to landings and take-offs, there are millions of out-lookers in thousands of other lounge areas around the world, seeing the same scenes.


I spent my 21st birthday in Amsterdam and I fell in love with the flea markets where I bought loads of crazy get-up. I didn’t have anything to put it all in so I bought a ragged brown leather suitcase from an antique store with holes and frays in it, no handle and a broken rusted lock. I thought it was charming. I had to tie it up with a piece of brown string and carry it with both hands, but I was determined to get it home. At Schiphol airport the guy at the check-in counter started laughing at me when I plonked the sorry old thing on the baggage belt, and I started laughing too. Then I couldn’t stop, just like I hadn’t been able too for the whole weekend. (Funny how that city has that effect on you...)

Anyway, after too-many hours on a too-crowded flight I arrive at Narita, Tokyo in a state of delusion. Some airport staff find me at the luggage pick-up to tell me in Engrish; sorry, my luggage had not been on the flight and yes, they did not know where it is, sorry. They were so sweet and polite I didn’t want to make a fuss, and my own difficulties in being coherent were adding to our communication problems. I tried my best to describe that tired old suitcase to them, and then wondered around the terminal alone trying to find a way out into the real world.

That was when I noticed how fascinating the airport can be.

I love the random bleary-eyed conversations you have with strangers at 5am stopovers with 3 hours to kill. I love the arrival and departure screens with exotic city names like Manila, Mexico City, Miami, Moscow, Madrid, Mumbai, Montreal, Minneapolis, Minsk and Montgomery listed side by side. I love the cross-section of people; watching them and imagining what their stories could be.

Airports are designed for the flow of goods and people. They are not real places, and you cannot say you’ve “been to Germany” if you had a stopover in Frankfurt. They pretend to be like a real city with shops and restaurants but they can’t go so far as to have a swimming pool or cinema or live entertainment, because then people would miss their flights. Nobody lives there, nobody hangs out there for fun, everyone is working or departing or arriving or dropping-off or picking-up. It has to be one of the most tightly controlled and contrived environments possible.

And yet it is at the airport that I’ve experienced some of the most intense states of emotion. Sure I’ve been bored rigid but I’ve also cried inconsolably in some and felt the greatest jubilation in others. The word ecstasy (“ex-stasis”) tells us our highest moments come when we’re standing outside ourselves, when we are not stationary. And it’s impossible to be stationary at the airport.



Quote of the day:

“A man never goes so far as when he does not know where he is going”

Oliver Cromwell



Image taken from Wickipedia
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