Mā ngā waiata o te manu tīoriori, a Toni Huata, e whiti ana ngā rā o te wiki o te reo Māori i tēnei tau.

A te Rātapu nei he rā whakahirahira mō tēnei wahine o Ngāti Kahungunu me Rongowhakaata, i te mea ka tuku atu tōna kōpae waiata tuatoru ki te rohe. Ka orua tēnei whakangahau me Te Wiki o Te Reo Māori.

Mai i ngā karapu pā auahi o Rānana, ki ngā ahurei pūoro o ūropi, ka hoki mai te Kōkā ki Te Whanganui-ā-Tara, ki Te Papa Tongarewa hei tuku i tōna kōpae – Whiti – ki Aotearoa.

Ko Te Papa hoki te wāhi i tuku a Kōkā Toni i tōna kōpae waiata tuatahi – Te Māori E – i ngā tau e iwa kua pahure.

Nā te kaha o tēnei Kōkā ki te tū māia ki runga i te atamira waiata, te whakamahana me te hōhonu o tōna reo waiata i āhei ia ki te tū māia ki Aotearoa, ki tāwāhi hoki. Ko te whakangahau mō tōna kōpae tētahi o ngā mea whakamutunga hei oti i Te Wiki o Te Reo Māori, ā, ko tēnei wiki tēnā.

Ko te tikanga o Whiti, hei tiaho, hei kawe atu te kaiwhakarongo ki runga. “Ko tōku tūmanako mō Whiti, ka hikia i ngā kaiwhakarongo ki runga,” tā Kōkā Toni kī mō tōna kōpae.

Heoi, e kore e riro mā Kōkā Toni noa iho e hari i a koe ki runga i tēnei haerenga pūoro. I te hanga o tēnei kōpae, ka mahi ngātahi ia ki ētahi o ngā tohunga o te ao pūoro Māori. Arā, ko Maaka McGregor e whakaaria i te hanga o Whiti. Nā Gareth Farr i tuku a tōna reo ki te waiata “Taku Tamaiti e” – ko tēnei waiata hoki te hiringa o Whiti. Nā Charles Royal i tito i te waiata “Koa”. Tino āhuareka a Kōkā Toni i te pātai a Te Taite Cooper ki a ia hei waiata i te tino waiata o ngā pūoro Māori a “Te Hokinga Mai”. E rua tekau ngā tau i mua ka tuku atu tēnei waiata ki te rohe. Tautokohia mā runga rakuraku a Karl Teariki mō taua waiata, mō te waiata Soul True hoki. Nā Hira Huata hoki i tautokohia i te Kōkā hei whakanui i te reo o tō rāua whānau o Ngāti Kahungunu.

Ka tau te whakangahau mō te tukunga i tēnei kōpae o Whiti ki te taumata tuawhā o Te Papa, arā, ki te marae, a te Rātapu, te tuatahi o Here-turi-kōkā, a te rua hāora i te ahiahi. Ka taea ki te hoko i te kōpae Whiti huri noa i te motu mai i te rā tuarua o Here-turi-kōkā.

Kaiwaiata: Toni Huata
Kōpae pūoro: Whiti

Tērā pea ka maumahara koe i tēnei manu tīoriori mai i te hōtaka o Homai Te Pakipaki i te tau kua pahure. Engari, inā kāore anō koe kia mātakitaki i taua hōtaka, i tae a Susan ki te pō whakamutunga o taua whakataetae. Nā tērā, i huaina ngā kūaha o te ao pūoro ki a ia. I ngā marama whai atu, ka pukumahi a Susan kia whakataka i tōna kōpae waiata tuatahi i tēnei tau.

He tino ngākau nui a Susan Rose ki tōna kāinga a Mill Pā, Te Kapu (Frasertown), ki Te Wairoa. A ka whakaatu ia i tēnei kōingo mō tōna tūrangawaewae ki roto i te waiata Haukāinga. Ahakoa ōna haerenga ki roto i te ao whānui, kei Te Kapu tōnu tōna manawa. Nā kōnā, he tika tōnu tāna kia whakataka i tana kōpae tuatahi me tētahi konohete ki te tāone o te Wairoa.

Ko Nei Ko Au ­– This is my story te ingoa o te kōpae nei. He wheako whaiaro te āhua o ngā waiata ki runga i tēnei kōpae pūoro. Nā tēnei ka tika tōna tīmatanga me tētahi karakia whakatuwhera, hei whakatau i te hinengaro. Ka whitiwhiti haere ia i ngā reo e rua – arā te reo Māori me te reo Ingarihi.

Ka kōmitimiti a Susan i ngā momo pūoro e tāngia ki tēnei kōpae, pērā ki te āhua bluesy/jazzy o te waiata ‘This is my story’ me te waiata ‘What about our son’ ki te discoey-poppy ‘Mr. Right’, anō hoki te RnB/roots āhua o te waiata ‘Haukāinga’. Heoi, nā te kaha o te hiere o te reo o tēnei wāhine māia, he tino mahana te āhua o tēnei kōpae. Ka rongo hoki te māia, te aroha hoki, i roto i ōna waiata.

Ko tētahi o ngā mea tino pōuri o te kōpae nei ko te waiata o Goodbye. He waiata tangi tēnei ki tōna Pāpā i mate tūkino i te wā he kōtiro tōnu a Susan. Ka waiata ia mō tōna mamae me te mamae o tōna whaea me tōna whānau anō hoki.

Ki ahau nei, ko ngā waiata autaia o tēnei kōpae, ko This is my story, Mr. Right, Goodbye, anō hoki ko Haukainga. Engari, ko tāku he rawe rawa atu te katoa o tēnei kōpae. Anō hoki, te waiata whakamutunga At Last, he tāruaruatanga o te waiata aroha nā Glen Millar mai i te tau 1941.

Kaiwaiata: Susan Rose
Kōpae pūoro: Nei Ko Au—This is my story

Nō ngā tau e whā kua pahure ake nei, kua tū a Peter Karena hei kaitito, kaihautū hoki o te pakipūmeka ‘This Way of Life’, e hāngai pū ki tōna oranga me te oranga o tōna whānau hoki. Me he tangata e mau ana i te mata e pupū nei i te mura o Hollywood, ā, he matatau, koi hoki ki te eke hoiho, ko Peter tēnā. Kāti rā, ka ora ai te toki nei mā te whai i nga uara o te ora me te tika, e ngaro nuitia nei i ēnei ra. Ahakoa no Ūropi te tangata nei, i whāngaitia ia ki tētahi whānau Māori, ā, kua Māori katoatia, i tua atu i tōna kiri. He toki ki te whakawhiti-kōrero ki ngā hoiho, he toki mō te rapu kai, mō te mahi hanga whare, ā, he hoa rangatira, he matua hoki.

Ahakoa ngā piki me ngā heke, e kore rawa a Peter e mate ā-moa, ā, ko tētahi tino tūāhuatanga kua pokea nei i ōna pokohiwi, ko tōna hononga kua roa nei e noho whati ana, ki te hoa rangatira o tōna whaea, e kore rawa e waihotia nei i a ia.

Ko te hoa rangatira o Peter, ko Colleen Karena (nō Ngati Maniapoto), te kaipupuri i ngā taonga tuku iho o tōna whānau. Me he hanga e rite nei ki ngā tūpuna whaea rangatira, ko Colleen tērā e whakarite nei i tōna whānau ki te mea nui o tēnei ao, anō hoki, ko tōna tūranga hei Māma tōna mahi tūturu i roto i tēnei ao. Hei ngā wāhanga whakaotinga o te pakipūmeka, ka kite tātou ko tōna tūāhuatanga noho ngū e taupokitia nei tōna manaakitanga ki ōna tamariki, ā, ka kitea ki roto i te oranga ā-tinana, ā-wairua hoki o ōna tamariki. Tokoono ngā tamariki, anō hoki, e rima tekau ngā hōiho kei te whānau nei. Kei ngā pae maunga o Ruahine, kei tētahi ākau huna e mura ai te ahikā o te whānau Karena. Ki kōnei kite ai ngā whēkau o te whānau, tā rātou hononga ki te Wao-Nui-a-Tane hei kaitiaki, me te aroha nui rawa atu i waenga i a rātou.

Ka pupū ake ngā kare ā-roto i te nui o ngā mahi a te whānau nei, pērā i tō rātou whakapau kaha kia tau te rangimarie i waenga i a Peter rāua ko tōna pāpā; te pāhuatanga o ngā hōiho; me te toronga o tōna hau kāinga te hua noa. Ka whai atu te hunga kaimātakitaki i a rātou nekehanga i tēnei ao hurihuri, i te taiao, i te ngāhere.

I ēnei rā, te āhua nei ko te mea nui e raru ana i a tātou ngā tamariki a Tāne ko tēnei mea e kī ana ko te “Whakamahana o te Ao”. Inaiānei ka tautoko te nuinga o ngā kaipūtaiao te whakaaro nā ngā mahi o te tangata e whakatere ana tēnei wā whakamahana, arā, te climate change. Inā noa nei, kei te āhua pukuriri a Tāwhirimātea – te atua o ngā mea huarere – me te maha, te kaha kino hoki o ngā āwhā e tau nei ki ngā pito o te ao.

E ai ki ngā kaiwhakarite, a Mike Smith rāua ko Hinekaa Mako, ko te hua o tēnei kiriata, He Ao Wera, hei whai mōhio ngā iwi me ngā hapū huri noa i a Aotearoa mō tēnei take tino nui. Hei arahi hoki i ngā rōpū me pēhea kia whakarite i o rātou hapū/whānau/iwi mō ngā hua o te ‘climate change’. Ko Hinekaa te kaikawe kōrero mō tēnei kiriata. Nāna i tuku atu ngā kōrero katoa i roto i te reo Māori, hāunga i ētahi o ngā kōrero patapātai o ētahi o ngā kaipūtaiao.

I roto i te kiriata, ka haere ia ki ngā pitopito o Aotearoa hei whakaatu i ngā mahi o ētahi hapū hei whakarite i tā rātou haukāinga mō tēnei Whakamahana. He take nui mō Ngāi Māori mēnā ka whakamahana te moana, arā, ka tere whakarewa ngā awa kōpaka, i te mea ko te nuinga o ngā haukāinga e tau tata nei ki te tai, ki ngā awa hoki. E kī ana te whakataukī: “Ko te wai te oranga o te tangata”.

Ka rongo tātou mai i ngā tangata whenua o ētahi o ngā haukāinga huri noa i te motu, me pēhea o rātou raruraru, me ngā mahi kua whakarite ētahi rohe hei whakarite mō ngā raruraru ka tae mai nā Te Whakamahana o te Ao. Ko ētahi mahi i roto i tēnei kiriata, he hīkoi atu ki Bridge Pā i te Matau a Māui, ki Parihaka, ki Te Hokianga, ki Te Taitokerau hoki. Ka whakaako hoki mai rātou i ngā raru ka pā i o tātou whanaunga i ngā motu o Te Moana Nui a Kiwa.

E kī ana ngā kaipūtaiao huarere, ka whakamahana te ao, ā, nā tēnei ka waikawā ngā moana. Nā te kawanga i tino raru mō ngā mātaitai pērā ki te kūtai. Arā, ko te hua o tēnei kiriata hei whakaatu ki ngā whānau, hapū, iwi Māori katoa kia whakarite ai o rātou hau kāinga mō tēnei take. He māmā te rere o ngā kōrero hei whakamārama i ngā take o te climate change mō tātou i Aotearoa. Ki ahau nei, he tino pai ki te mātakitaki, he rawe hoki te waiata pātōtō (rap song) i te mutunga.

He Ao Wera
Kaiwhakarite: Mike Smith rāua ko Hinekaa Mako

(Or, In Which I Try Not To Say “Summer Vibes”)

Bethany Cosentino, newfound beach babe, used to be in a band called Pocahaunted. Delving into quarter-hour hypnotic drone jams, she has since moved to greener pastures, in the form of Best Coast. In collaboration with Bobb Bruno, she has been spewing out hazy summer tracks for the best part of the last two years. Now, on the eve of the release of her debut LP Crazy For You, we have a few mumblings from her (and us) about the Best Coast project, and probably a little too much talking about California.

Cosentino loves the beach. The sandy disposition is immediately evident in any of her tracks, from the early blog-hit ‘Sun Was High (So Was I)’ to her album cut ‘Summer Mood’. The sentiments are all Californian palm trees and beach blankets, seeing as she now lives Westside following a stint in New York. But where other summery bands like Ducktails manage to emanate these sunstoned sounds from the faraway reaches of New Jersey, Bethany found creating the music away from the source couldn’t work for her: “When I was living in New York, I really wanted to be playing and writing music—but I just didn’t feel any form of inspiration in terms of music. I went to college out there, for creative writing, and essentially EVERYTHING I wrote was about California—so I guess that is what I was doing there—and this is what I’m doing here. I really truly do feel that I couldn’t be doing this any place other than California, it just doesn’t feel like it would fit… at least not for me.”

Jumping from ten-plus minute drone ecstasy in Pocahaunted into 2–3 minute pop songs may come off like an active movement against her old band, or drone music in general, but apparently not. In fact, according to Bethany, Pocahaunted may not even be entirely defunct: “To be honest I’m not 100 per cent sure what is currently up with Pocahaunted. I didn’t start Best Coast to intentionally go against what I was playing in Pocahaunted. Pocahaunted was then. Best Coast is now. I am really happy playing the music I am playing, and I was really happy playing that music at that time. Honestly, it’s a lot easier to play two-minute pop songs than it was to sit on the floor and play 13-minute-long drone jams—but I had fun doing that, and I’m really happy to be doing this now.”

It’s this enjoyment of her current work which seems to have Cosentino on a roll, releasing Where The Boys Are on cassette approximately a year ago, and having it sell out almost immediately. There were a bunch of CD-Rs floating about, but they’ve been snapped up too. The last year has seen a plethora of 7” and 12” releases across labels such as Art Fag, Tightener, PPM (Dean Spunt of No Age’s label), all leading up to the July 27th release of Crazy For You on Mexican Summer. It’s all fairly straightforward, minor chord changes and longing for boys, the beach, or her cat Snacks, who features on the album cover. It’s a simple sound, but one that seems to have found Cosentino and current collaborator Bobb Bruno plenty of fans in the last year or so, fitting in snugly with those who enjoy lo-fi pop, but don’t want to deal with the tinnitus-inducing Wavves.

And now to the aforementioned Bobb Bruno. The partner in shine for the Best Coast tracks, Bruno is a “magically rad-sounding” collaborator, who helps record, produce and perform in Best Coast. If you watch her video for ‘When I’m With You’, you can see him loitering in the background, while Cosentino relaxes on the beach and orders burgers with a copyright-inducing depiction of Ronald McDonald. According to Cosentino, “(He) will say stuff to me like, ‘Okay, let’s do two layers of that vocal track,’ and as soon as I hear it back I’m like ‘FUCK YES!’ (We) just work together so perfectly that I don’t want to really ever add anyone else into the equation! Just two Bs hanging out, and we plan to keep this going for a while, taking it as it comes.”

So good news all round for those who dig the Malibu aesthetic and good feelings that seem inherently associated with California. And what of those who don’t dig her sound so much? It’s fair to say there’s been more than a little hate for the seemingly scrappy lo-fi output over the last two years, and the lack of production quality for much of her material, and in fact the general Best Coast aesthetic of weed / pizza / chords has been more than enough bait for potential detractors of her output.

“I mean, I’m sure there are already haters out there. It’s sooooo crazy to me how people on the internet act. I mean in all honesty, I haven’t had any direct negative feedback—which is nice, but I’m definitely prepared to deal with the haters when they start showing up, haha. I just think that people who sit around on the internet and blog about how much they hate so and so when they don’t even know them, is really childish and kind of pathetic. But there will always be haters no matter what.”

Until the inevitable hate waves hit Best Coast, it seems to be pretty smooth sailing. With internet kudos riding in from many corners of the globe and her Crazy For You set to be released in a mere fortnight, it seems she can look forward to a pretty stellar 2010. CFY itself is a continuation of what’s come before, albeit with much better production, allowing for vocal audibility, and therefore a chance to showcase her songwriting, without it being buried under fuzz. It’s good lyricism too, extremely self-aware and filled with wry humour about boredom and boys. And yes, the beach. It’s probably about time we had a moratorium on beach-blanket stoner pop (it’s all about Witch House now anyway, duh), so let’s hope that CFY is the last release of this type we have for a while.

In any case, babin’ Bethany looks set to move from blog fame (woooooo) into bigger things with her next single: in a true what-the-fuck move, she has collaborated with members of Vampire Weekend and Kid Cudi. From the beach to the big time, all the way.

Crazy For You is out digitally July 27th on Mexican Summer.

Widely touted as the “Citizen Kane of bad movies”, Tommy Wiseau’s The Room has become an instant cult classic—if not for all the wrong reasons. Offensively bad dialogue, outrageously discontinuous plotlines that appear and disappear with little logic, and some of the most terribly memorable one-liners of all-time make this a film not to miss at this year’s International Film Festival.

The Room is set in San Francisco and follows a bizarre love triangle between central character Johnny (Wiseau), his friend Mark and his fiancée Lisa, who is having embarrassingly unsexy sex with the two of them. Add to this a handful of inappropriately cast and melodramatic sideline actors who tackle heavy issues such as drug use, adoption and cancer, and you get a spectacularly terrifying effort that, as one Boston fan convincingly puts it, is “so bad it’s awesome”.

The film itself is a $6 million (US) vanity blow-out by the eccentric writer, director, producer and star Wiseau, who purportedly funded the film with money made importing leather jackets from Korea. Although that may be a rumour, it’s really just an example of the mystique that surrounds this bizarre cinematic experience. Following its abysmally bad initial reception, Wiseau has since turned to marketing his hopelessly amateur and narcissistic efforts as a ‘black-comedy’ after it became a cult-classic in the mold of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Expect some golden cinematic moments which include the particularly (un)convincing ‘flower shop’ and ‘rooftop’ scenes, inexplicable framed prints of plastic cutlery, and some stunningly terrible dialogue including the line “I definitely have breast cancer” as a casual off-hander during one onscreen conversation.

The verdict: definitely worth an hour and a half of your Saturday.

Screening as part of the New Zealand International Film Festival—July 24 (Paramount)

See the AV Club for a viewer’s guide to appropriate The Room watching etiquiette!

The Room:
Directed, produced, written by and starring Tommy Wiseau

In an age of starchitecture with the likes of Zaha Hadid and Jean Nouvel pumping out sleek, headline-grabbing cultural icons like Justin Bieber singles, little attention is often given to the unsung heroes of the architectural world.

Samuel Wainwright Douglas’ new documentary offering, Citizen Architect: Samuel Mockbee and the Spirit of the Rural Studio, charts the life and influence of hero-architect Samuel Mockbee and his brainchild Rural Studio—a design/build practice focused on providing better housing and civic structures to some of the poorer rural communities of Alabama.

Rural Studio was founded in 1993 at Auburn University in Alabama as an architectural programme that required students to live with and get to know their ‘clients’ before designing (and constructing) life-changing buildings out of locally available materials, and in the vernacular tradition. Until his death in late 2001, at age of 57, Mockbee created some 25 buildings with the Rural Studio programme from materials as diverse as hay bales, old car tires and automobile windscreens.

In opposition to some of the loftier architectural socialists such as LeCorbusier, who had little regard for existing conditions, Mockbee’s regard for the local cultures and traditions provides a refreshing antidote. Having been brought up in the rural South of the US, Mockbee witnessed the ravages of poverty and segregation firsthand, eventually devoting himself to architecture as a means to promote an idealist approach that emphasises community involvement from those around him.

For fans of architecture, this documentary may not present enough of those stoic camera angles, and high-end sterile interiors more typical of the genre, but Mockbee’s treatment of architecture as a ’messy’ and collaborative art is excellent for a bit of cultural uplift and inspiration.

Screening as part of the New Zealand International Film Festival

Citizen Architect: Samuel Mockbee and the Spirit of Rural Studio
Director: Samuel Wainwright Douglas

The Young and Hungry Festival of New Work has been running for 16 years and it’s stronger than ever. It was not long ago that it was the unerring trend of Young and Hungry for there to be one terrible play, one great play and one okay play. Usually in that order. Last year broke that cycle with three solid, watchable and very well-made works. The same can be said of this year. It’s great to see three good shows by young people, for young people. There is no real dud in this bunch, so season tickets are a must.

Song of Four (6.30pm)

In a worn-out day-after-tomorrow, the human race has lost the ability to reproduce. The dysfunctional group who hold the key to continuing the human race realise that the supposedly alturistic people who brought them together have a much more sinister agenda in mind. Old lovers with a lost child in their past are reunited.

While the points of comparison number about the same as the differences, Song of Four clearly owes a lot to Alfonso Cuaron’s tour-de-force film Children of Men. Starting with very similar concepts, where they differ is in the execution. While Men was harsh and immediate, Song is icy and distant. Men focuses very much on the philosophical implications of a world with no future, Song has a character that reads a book about philosophy. Men rushes forward all full of momentum, Song gets lost in uninteresting side plots and droops noticeably in the middle. Men reveals the unspoken past through glimpses and whispers, making its audience work to understand the world they’re meeting and the people they’re encountering. Song of Four foregoes such subtlety and gives everyone a good whopper of a speech or two to explain rather directly and clearly to the audience what is going on, what they feel about it and why they feel such feelings. In a play which should be about questions there are far too many answers.

This is not to say that Song of Four’s lack of depth is crippling. Many of its high points are when it throws itself whole heartedly into its broad strokes. The expositional news broadcasts are a particular delight, with actors Oscar Shaw and Alice Pearce giving marvellous and hilariously dedicated performances. The rest of the cast all acquit themselves admirably. Although the four leads, the four remaining fertile people in the world, do have an annoying tendency of falling into the same rhythm in all the scenes they share. Also, Vicki (Miranda Webster) has a propensity to yell at the top of her lungs, which becomes, at points, physically painful to hear.

Song of Four is far from a failure. It succeeds on its own terms, which is all you can really ask of art these days, but you have to wonder if its goal posts are set too low. Song of Four has an air of unearned self-importance. Its failure to explore or develop any real ideas more than hey wouldn’t it be funny for people to have sex on stage, drags it at points into self-indulgence. The wildly unneeded and mawkish (if very well executed) AV sequence compounds this even more.

Song of Four is well designed. You’re never bored and the people involved are clearly enjoying themselves and developing as theatre-makers. It just doesn’t have the guts to address itself on any worthwhile terms, and when you refer so heavily to a work that succeeds on just those terms like Children of Men, you’d have thought they’d have stopped screwing around and put some feeling into it.

Sick! (8pm)

Hannah (Alice Varcoe) is the Queen Bee at her school. Her posse is composed of the streetwise chessmaster ‘T’ (Acushla-Tara Sutton) and the recovering bulimic wannabe model Fleur (Emma Hayward). Together they take massive amounts of pleasure in tormenting their supposed friend Nalini (Anisha Parshottam), until the remarkably exotic Kilmineny (Lauren Gibson) shows up. Kilmineny is a master manipulator (part of me really wants her to take on Bond), and before the 50 minutes of Sick! is over, she has taken everyone for a ride.

Writers Ban Abdul and Antonia Bale have sewn together a pacey and loud explosion of a play. Paul McLaughlin’s tight direction means the energy drops and the focus never floats. Every note of the play is twanged to the highest pitch. Which is fine. Because Sick! is mental. Like crazy mental. Its characters talk in a jargon so crude and obtuse that it turns into poetry.

All five members of the cast have razor-sharp comic timing. You are too busy laughing at the joke-packed performance to really notice the pedestrian plot. Sick!’s only real problem sits in the moments when it tries to be more serious. When, rarely, it takes the mood down to lightly brush past some issue or other, it all falls apart a little. You have no sympathy for any of these characters, and why would you? They’re all, with the exception of the meek Nalini, clearly monomaniacal sociopaths. But since we don’t care about them, it is hard to take them seriously. Which is all fine, when so much of the play is there very much to entertain. But when it aims for somewhat loftier goals, when it asks us to care for them, it fails. The one exception to this being the scene shared between Nalini and her mother (Sutton), which is charming and endearing, if over long.

Sick! is slight. Some may even call it vacuous, but it moves at such a pace and the jokes have such a high hit rate that it’s easy not to care and just enjoy the ride.

Addendum—Many of my female friends who have seen Sick! have commented on how uneasy it made them due to how accurately it represented the all-girls high school environment. Which, put bluntly, makes me concerned for the psyche of most females.

Thinning (9.30pm)

Thinning tells the story of six friends who have just graduated high school and are celebrating by holidaying apple thinning in Nelson. Playing very much on the cusp between childhood and adulthood, this group of friends faces their collective (and individual) future.

Thinning comes from the highly acclaimed pen of Eli Kent—he wrote The Intricate Art of Actually Caring don’t you know, it’s kinda a big deal these days—and to be honest it does not really stand up to his wider body of work. His trademark ear for the music of modern speech is present, but often plays a little too loud with characters occasionally sounding as if they are trying and failing to do Eli impressions. The play begins with a promise to be messy, to reflect the mishmash of beginnings, endings and unanswered questions that this time of life brings. It, however, fails to hold itself to that gesture, wrapping itself up a little too easily for my taste.

The cast all do solid (if uninspired) work. The female cast especially struggle slightly to differentiate their characters from each other, which is not helped by them not really having much difference in how they are written. I honestly would have to spend the first few moments of each scene working out which girl was which. Jack Shadbolt does marvellous work as Isaac, the joker with daddy issues, but of course he would. He’s won a Chapman Tripp. What he’s doing in a Young and Hungry play is anybody’s guess.

Rachel Lenart’s direction is clean and lucid. She has clearly done a lot of work with the actors on the atmosphere of the work, and it has really paid off. Some oddly stilted blocking does mar some scenes, however.

The design is beautiful but seems to ignore the fact that there are people sitting in the first few rows of the audience, who, in some scenes, will get a severely restricted view. This is unfair on the audience members who sit there. There should be no “cheap seats” at BATS.

It seems like I’m being unduly harsh. So let me get one thing clear. Thinning is very good. Very, very good. You really should go. You’ll really like it. But both Kent and Lenart have done much better work elsewhere. Thinning does not meet the expectations that the names attached to it generate.

Song of Four
wri. & dir. Sarah Delahunty
perf. Miranda Webster, Oliver Humphries, Taylor Frost, Ana Harris, Charlotte Pleasants, Alex Rabina, Gabrilelle Berran, Oscar Shaw, Alice Pearce, Hannah Hollamey and Adam Goodall

At BATS theatre
8 – 24 July 2010
book@bats.co.nz or (04) 802 4175

/\/\ /\ y /\ (or MAYA) is M.I.A. post-‘Paper Planes’ and living in America, trying to reconcile her indie-cred with her newfound mainstream-pop fame. She reaches to dancehall, old-school punk and dubstep for sonic inspiration, but what prevails here is the “digital ruckus”: the clicks, the beeps, the tapping of keyboards, the sound of internet connections that abound on the record. The opening lines “Google connected to the Government” are laughable rather than her usually thought-provoking commentary. (Maybe her album’s spelt like that so the CIA can’t Google her!) I’d like to think she’s more intelligent than this, and it feels like she’s been forced into a corner of being ‘political’.

Sometimes this works, like when she describes the mindset that can lead to terrorism on ‘Lovalot’: “I won’t turn my cheek like I’m Ghandi/ I fight the ones that fight me”. Sometimes it doesn’t, like the uncreative use of a Sleigh Bells sample on ‘Meds and Feds’, where she repeatedly shouts “I just give a damn!” There are still some good tunes though—‘Steppin Up’ sees Maya doing her usual call to arms opening track, following in the spirit of ‘Pull up the People’ and ‘Bamboo Banga’. “You know who I am, I run this fucking club” she repeats over an actual chainsaw and metal guitar chugs. On ‘Space’ she finally unplugs the cords that inhabit the rest of the album, for MAYA’s most serene moment. “My lines are down, you can’t call me”. It’s relief, not frustration she feels. For someone so attached to their Twitter account, she could probably use more of these moments.

Despite plenty of good material, it’s a tad disappointing that little here sounds as vital as her previous albums. But even though her paranoid rants and, at times, messy and unfinished sound doesn’t equal her greatest work, this music is still much more colourful than most mainstream pop. Here’s to hoping for a little more focus next time round.

Artist: M.I.A.
Album: /\/\ /\ Y /\
Label: XL

I’ve always known Toy Story. Woody, Buzz and the gang have been permanent fixtures in my life for as long as I can remember. The film that lodged Pixar firmly in the public subconscious in 1995 is also the film that won over the hearts of millions of then-children, and for many of us, they’re yet to be dislodged from that spot. And that’s not likely to happen any time soon, as Toy Story 3 is a suitably excellent end to the talking toy trilogy, as well as a bittersweet goodbye to characters we’ve grown up with, played with, known as intimately as one can know figures on a screen.

Toy Story 3’s narrative starts with grown-up college-bound Andy, the boy whose toy collection was always more interesting and expansive than ours, realising that something has to be done with the diminished population of toys. So when the toys, after a set of crazy random happenstances, are donated to the cheery Sunnyside Daycare Centre, they finally think they’ve stumbled upon a goldmine—always to be played with, never developing emotional connections with those playing with them, never getting hurt.

But, as is want to happen, Sunnyside is not all it seems, and the film’s subsequent riffing on prison break movies like The Great Escape and The Shawshank Redemption provides a thrilling step up from the derivative, repetitive storytelling of Toy Story 2. However, where Toy Story 3 really excels is as a character piece, developing the leads and their family dynamic more effectively and realistically than any live-action film released this winter. Toy Story 3 also complements the series’ typical hilarity and pure entertainment value with some surprisingly poignant, daring comments on growing up, moving on and remembering those connections we make along the way—indeed, the final fifteen minutes offer up both riotous laughs and devastating emotion in equal amounts. Toy Story 3 is the perfect way to end the series, and 2010’s best film thus far.

Toy Story 3
Director: Lee Unkrich

In Get Him to the Greek, Russell Brand reprises his hilarious role as rock star Aldous Snow from the excellent Forgetting Sarah Marshall. The once sober Snow has a relapse after his activist anthem ‘African Child’ turns out to be a critical and commercial flop and is branded “the worst thing to happen to Africa since Apartheid”. Record company worker Aaron (Jonah Hill) is sent by his boss Sergio (Sean ‘Puff Daddy’ Combs) to escort the self-destructing Snow from his native London to the Greek theatre in Los Angeles for a comeback gig. As is often the case, things aren’t as simple as they seem.

For the most part, the film is a very funny one. Brand alone is sufficient to provide the laughs. His pretentious rocker has many of the film’s best lines as he keeps a mostly cool demeanour in the face of a series of escalating incidents fuelled by levels of drugs and alcohol impressive even by Timaru standards. But the true star of the film is Combs; he steals every scene he is in, demonstrating a talent for comedy I had no idea he possessed.

It is, however, a very flawed film. The scenes that focus on Hill’s protagonist and his bumpy relationship lag, especially when Brand and Combs are absent. We have no reason to care as these seem redundant in plot terms and Hill is simply not funny enough to make them work. Judd Apatow films are usually notable for the beating heart that lies beneath their comedy, but in this case the heart is absent, scenes that try to add dramatic value seem awkward and the film is never more than a series of very funny set pieces. Finally, I have always been slightly uncomfortable about the way that Apatow lets his male characters away with more than his female ones. I am not saying this film is misogynist, but it does fall into these traps. Don’t feel too bad if you wait to watch it on DVD.

Get Him to the Greek
Director: Nicholas Stoller

This is a Pakistani novel and it’s also a new release. That makes it a relevancy score for me, and a cultural high five for you. Set from the early 80s–2000, the story is one of family and philosophy, unfolding against a backdrop of religious fundamentalism, political unrest, and war. It’s one of those books where the foreigners are relatable because they actually speak English. It also makes you feel a bit racist once you realise how impressed you are that second-worlders are intellectual too.

But no matter. The Geometry of God reinforces as many stereotypes as it quashes, weaving in and out of three narrators’ minds as they describe their relationships with each other and the fourth main character with unique inflections. Amal, the elder granddaughter, budding palaeontologist and Eurhythmics lover, is a headstrong rebel who inherits her grandfather’s curiosity and is shunned for it. The younger granddaughter Mehwish is heartbreaking. Blinded through the negligence of a nanny, she learns the language of the sighted and sets the scene from her own uncorrupted, surprisingly astute perspective. Zahoor, their granddad, is the Pakistani Atticus Finch, only old and scientific. As a palaeontologist, heretical philosopher and lecturer, Zahoor’s magnetic intellect attracts freethinking Noman, the son of a reactionary Islamist leader whose political party makes it their mission to get Zahoor imprisoned for bastardising their religion.

Over the next twenty years the four try to protect each other from the thought police and the real police, finding love and lust along the way. It’s excellently written. Khan makes memories sound elegant, but honest, and she gives us just enough material to tread the waters of the human condition without drowning. That said, it isn’t the easiest read, and if you’re not good with conceptual undertones and non-linear narrative then maybe give this one a miss.

The Geometry of God
Author: Uzma Aslam Khan

If there is one exhibition that should entice city dwellers to make the trip out to TheNewDowse, it should be Goldenage: Andréa du Chatenier. Greek and Roman mythology spoke of an era of peace and prosperity in which people lived in blissful happiness amidst nature, and Chatenier has taken this legend of a golden age and moulded it into a futuristic vision of glitter, polystyrene, and high-heeled shoes. Chatenier cleverly quotes famous works from the history of art and given them a twist in order to fit with the 21st century. The ancient Venus of Willendorf has been inflated to a life-sized sculpture and kitted out with a pair of fake Jimmy Choo high-heels. Facing off with the voluptuous Venus is a reclining sculpture of America’s Next Top Model dressed in a slinky golden sequined outfit.

Automatically the viewer realises that there is something not quite right about these figures. It quickly becomes apparent that these sculptures of perceived glamour and feminine beauty are made from cheap and highly disposable materials such as polystyrene. The contrast between the image and the material draws attention to Chatenier’s sceptical view of the consumer paradise in which society finds itself.

Chatenier’s works also denote society’s views on the issue of female beauty. In the past the voluptuous barefooted figure of the Venus of Willendorf was seen at the pinnacle of female attractiveness. However, staring her down now is the waif-like long-limbed figure of a participant in the reality television show America’s Next Top Model. It is a skilful piece of juxtaposition, and clearly shows that Chatenier’s works have multiple layers of meaning.

If I have one negative comment about this exhibition it is that there are too few of Chatenier’s sculptures on display. TheNewDowse needed to allocate more of its wide gallery spaces to Chatenier so that viewers could enjoy more of her savvy and unique artworks.

Goldenage: Andrea du Chatenier
15 May – 19 September,
TheNewDowse

Red Dead: Redemption is the latest from Rockstar Games, the studio responsible for the Grand Theft Audio series. And wow, does it show. This isn’t a bad thing—having played well over 30 hours of GTA IV I appreciated a familiar (read: identical) control scheme. Red Dead builds on that which made GTA so successful and enjoyable, and goes steps further in its implementation of minigames and sidequests.

If you needed any more conviction that Rockstar knows how to make good looking games, Red Dead should provide it. This is without a doubt the best looking game that you’ll have seen on a console (with the possible exception of Heavy Rain). Not just from a graphical standpoint either. The American West of 1911 is a harshly beautiful place, filled with violent weather, violent animals and violent outlaws. It’s entirely possible to spend hours exploring the world without even touching the core story, breaking wild horses and meting out vigilante justice as you see fit.

The real triumph of Red Dead’s distractions and side missions is that (unlike GTA) all of them are optional and none feel like filler. There is just so much to do in the environment that in the week I spent with the game I felt I’d barely scratched the surface. Blowing a vulture out of the sky might trigger a quest to kill nine more to improve your skill with a rifle. Ride your horse over to the bird’s carcass and you’ll be given the option to skin it for saleable goods—the rewards for which increase the more you sell.

Character development is presented in a very dynamic way, with NPCs responding to you based on your ‘Honor’. This is multiplied by your ‘Fame’ (which is gained by performing noteworthy deeds). These factors affect everything from what activities you’re able to perform to who will buy and sell to you. Slaughtering a township doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be chased across the country by posses of lawmen appearing out of nowhere either—you can simply bribe or execute any eyewitnesses to wash your hands of the deed.

With a game of this scope it’s reasonable to expect a few bugs. Fortunately, Red Dead manages to be relatively glitch-free. Those that made it to the final pressing tend to be more funny than irritating (homing dynamite, carts without horses, hilarious physics jerkery) and shouldn’t ruin your immersion too much thanks to a fairly forgiving autosave system. Take note, Heavy Rain.

If you liked GTA IV, it’s impossible for you not to enjoy Red Dead: Redemption. There’s enough familiarity there for you to be able to pick up and play, and a gorgeous setting with a compelling story and characters. Like GTA, this is the sort of game you’ll be digging out of your collection two years later and still be able to marvel at the breadth of the game world—and most of all, have a great time doing it.

While the debut solo album from Bloc Party frontman Kele Okereke will inevitably draw many comparisons to his previous work with the band (currently on hiatus), The Boxer is a whole new animal for Okereke. The album is a synth-heavy electronic project which Okereke admits was a bit of an experiment, building up songs around programmed drum beats—something he’d never done before. Rather than sounding like a collection of Bloc Party b-sides there is a freshness to the album and the charm of tentatively matched synths and samples.

Okereke’s distinctive vocal style is used to full strength on The Boxer, playing up to what is arguably his most important instrument. From the upbeat, rippling chant of ‘Walk Tall’, the smooth rumblings of first single ‘Tenderoni’, to the gusty passion of ‘Everything You Wanted’, there seem to be no bounds to Okereke’s voice and he’s not afraid of trying different settings for each song, knowing exactly when to throw it into another gear.

Lyrically the songs seem more introspective and evolved since his Bloc Party days. On ‘New Rules’ Okereke confesses “I’m learning to be laid back about certain things,” and judging from the sounds of things—on this song in particular—he’s not lying. Despite the synths and electronic experiment, The Boxer does have a pleasant, laid back atmosphere to it. The ponderous, soul-baring lyrics make the album as a whole seem more honest and personal than a lot of his previous work.

While The Boxer is a buoyant, optimistic and, for the most part, enjoyable album, it does at times err dangerously close to self-indulgence. A few tracks start to drag and get repetitive towards the ends. The burgeoning beauty of the aforementioned ‘New Rules’ is damn near ruined by a looping message-service sample. Luckily for Kele he shuts it up just before it can become a total deal breaker. Though this chip off the old Bloc may not please all, its diversity and integrity will appeal to many.

Glass Vaults are a Newtown-based duo comprised of Richard Larsen and Rowan Pierce, and have been making quite the buzz around Wellington with their excellent live set over the last few months. With the release of their excellent self-titled debut EP they’re proving that the attention, which is rapidly spreading throughout the interwebs, has been more than justified.

The website for Sonorous Circle, the artist’s collective which released Glass Vaults, describes the EP as “a cloud-dwelling pop delight”. It’s a description so apt that I won’t bother to attempt to top it. Producer Bevan Smith (of Signer fame) will inevitably receive much of the credit for his spacious and airy mix, which makes Glass Vaults perhaps the most impressively recorded local release I’ve heard in some time. Crucially though, Glass Vaults take full advantage, blending together an impeccably arranged array of guitars, synths and delicate falsetto vocals into a set of tracks that cover the spectrum from ambient mood pieces (opener ‘They Will Grow’) to Sigur-Rosian epics (‘Set Sail’, ‘Forget Me Not’). And while much of the album is relatively accessible, the third track, ‘New Space’, also demonstrates a pleasing experimental bent, with its jittery percussion and reverb-heavy vocals reminiscent of the better work of Christchurch’s Mount Pleasant (which these pages praised so effusively last year).

For such a short release—Glass Vaults clocks in at just under 25 minutes—the band manage to weave in an enormous variety of sounds, bending genres at will, and generally coming across as original and underivative. There’s plenty to praise here, but I think I’ll settle on two qualities in particular. The first is Larsen’s high-pitched vocals, which manage to convey plenty of emotion without ever sounding overly affected or shrill. Given the risks inherent in such an unrestrained style of delivery, this is quite the achievement. But perhaps even more impressive is the band’s approach to percussion. Simply put, the drums on Glass Vaults sound fucking immense. Mixing both acoustic and digital percussion, the drums are usually juxtaposed against the ambient backdrops, and the result is a spine that is both powerful and dynamic.

All up, Glass Vaults is a truly remarkable debut, and given that the band sounds at home in its more drawn out moments, it also bodes well for any future transition to the long player format. Oh yeah, and did I mention that it’s free? Just fire up Google…

This week Mark Twain and Me in Maoriland, the latest work from Taki Rua productions, opens at Downstage after great success in the International Festival. It comes just on the crest of a mini-wave of Maori theatre in Wellington with He Reo Aroha in Circa Two and Te Kaupoi at BATS. All sit rather cleanly within the genre of Maori theatre, if it could ever really be reductively termed as such. They all have the combination of Western theatrical forms with the oral tradition of Te Reo. They all have the troubled family relationships. They all have the struggle for identity. They are, however, three very different works of very varying quality. Mark Twain is a masterpiece in a confused structure, and the biggest allure of the Downstage return season is to see just how far the play has come since its premiere. He Reo Aroha is a beautiful, if slight, gesture of emotion. Te Kaupoi is simply a dud.

Originally a performance space called the Depot before becoming a roaming theatrical production company spreading their own inspirational and inspired form of Maori theatre around the country, Taki Rua are renowned as masters of their form, and for very good reason. Their work is, almost without exception, poetic, powerful, moving and profoundly political. Taki Rua know what they are doing and for 27 years their shadow has hung long. The hard shine of the Taki Rua eclipse was cast very long across both Aroha and Kaupoi, both of which where directed by Taki Rua alumni. He Reo Aroha, by Hone Kouka, writer of some of Taki Rua’s most famous and powerful works. Te Kaupoi, by Nancy Brunning, a powerful actress whose profound capacity for emotion defined what some are calling Taki Rua’s golden years.

Both shows have, at their centre, a love story. In He Reo Aroha, we see the story of Kaia (Kali Kopae) and Pascoe (Jamie McCaskill), a seemingly perfect couple who seem just to never find the circumstances to properly reconcile after a number of misunderstandings and arguments. Te Kaupoi gives us Zeke (Jason Te Kare) and Sarah (Kay Smith), who seem to get together for no apparent reason just to give the plot something to do as it lazily dribbles from beginning to end. The difference that, as an audience member, you cared about Kaia and Pascoe. You wanted them together. You didn’t give two tosses about Zeke and Sarah. They might as well have burbled like babies for the overlong 90 minutes of Te Kaupoi for all we cared about them.

Both shows strived for the lyricism and inherent poetry of Taki Rua’s work. Again He Reo Aroha succeeds where Kaupoi fails. Not only in its charming songs but in the quiet domestic dialogue of the small town, Aroha manages to eek as much emotion out of its words than out of its story. Kaupoi is filled with cringe-inducing attempts at the same thing. Mere (Tina Cook), Zeke’s kinda estranged mother, fixes his shirt and all he can manage to gurn out is the groan-inducing “If only everything was fixed with a needle and thread.”

Te Kaupoi’s biggest flaw sits not in the shouty performances or the shunting, erratic emotional arc—which is not so much an arc as EVERYONE FIGHTING ALL THE TIME—but in just how blatant it is. Set in the near future, after the removal of the Maori seats caused massive civil unrest, every Maori person is assumed to be a terrorist and the Resistance is inspired by the mysterious pirate radio DJ Te Kaupoi. With only one male in the cast, the shock reveal that Zeke is Te Kaupoi is not so much a twist as a limp head-tilt. This concept has much promise and there is a lot to be explored in it. It just isn’t. Te Kaupoi manages to be simultaneously too oblique and too obvious to pay attention to. One of the twists, the big final reveal in fact, is so obvious from about five minutes in that it actually becomes rather comic that the characters haven’t worked it out as well. Taki Rua has set the bar extremely high when it comes to the Maori political theatre. Throughout their work they manage to be both wide-ranging and subtle. They let the audience work it out for themselves. Te Kaupoi seems to have no trust in its audience’s intelligence, as characters time after time after time monologue, unironically explicitly stating the morals of the play. Te Kaupoi doesn’t only make a point, it shoves it like a javelin into your bemused face.

He Reo Aroha’s success lies in its delicacy, in its small scale. It didn’t feel the need to be broad. They know, as Taki Rua does, that the more specific a story is, the more people can relate. It is the detail that draws us in. The delightful portrait that the two actors paint of the small Northland fishing town where the majority of the action takes place is so detailed that you cannot help but feel you have visited it.

Where Te Kaupoi tries for Taki Rua’s scale and fails, He Reo Aroha aims for their intimacy and more than succeeds.

He Reo Aroha
wri. Miria George and Jamie McCaskill
comp. Hone Hurihanganui, Kali Kopae and Jamie McCaskill
dir. Hone Kouka
perf. Kali Kopae and Jamie McCaskill
at Circa Two, 16 – 26 June 2010

Te Kaupoi
wri. Whiti Hereaka
dir. Nancy Brunning
perf. Kay Smith, Jason Te Kare and Tina Cook
at BATS theatre, 10 ­– 26 June 2010

Mark Twain and Me in Maoriland
wri. David Geary and the Company
dir. John Bolton
perf. Maaka Pohatu, Stephen Papps, Ngapaki Emery, Aaron Cortesi and Allan Henry
at Downstage, 14 – 24 July 2010, book at www.downstage.co.nz

Waste Land is a documentary study of ‘pickers’, people who live off the waste of others by sifting through landfills seeking recyclable materials to sell. Jardim Gramacho is Rio de Janeiro’s biggest landfill. Much of the surrounding area is plagued by the drug trade, and it is no coincidence that many pickers are the victims of addiction. 50% of what goes into the landfill can be recycled, and demand for materials is dictated by recycling wholesalers. Each day, pickers take out 200 tons of recyclable materials from the landfill, and can make around US$20-25. This is equivalent to the rubbish produced by a city of 400,000 people. Hence, the pickers are crucial to the landfill’s capacity.

There is a strong sense of community existing within the pickers, and an association called ACAMJG has been established to promote their rights. Since its conception, it has successfully campaigned to have a sewage system set up for the pickers’ shantytown residence. The people work together, exemplified by Irma, who recovers unspoilt food from the waste and cooks it to feed fellow workers, while Zumbi unearths books to set up a local community library.

The film centers on Vik Muniz, who left an impoverished life in Brazil to seek opportunity in New York in 1983, where he eventually became an established artist. Muniz’s artwork involved photographing the pickers, making a collage of their portrait using items collected from the landfill, and shooting the resulting image to make an enlarged print. He then exhibited the images in New York’s Museum of Modern Art, with some reaching US$50,000. In a life-changing act, the proceeds are then given back to the pickers.

In the course of the documentary Walker goes back to Rio to take a closer look at the subject’s personal lives. The optimism and pride that these people hold on to, despite their scorned-upon status, is remarkable. The reality of their situation is exaggerated by the sheer magnitude of waste in the area they inhabit. A close up shot of rubbish zooms out to encompass hundreds of specks representing the people picking among the waste. Waste Land is a haunting reminder of the privileged people who carelessly consume and create waste, while the destitute are ultimately left to clean up the mess.

Screening as part of the New Zealand International Film Festival:

Saturday 17th July, 1.45pm—Paramount.
Wednesday 21th July, 6.15pm—Paramount.
Monday 26th July, 11:15pm—Paramount.

Gasland is a doco that tackles a pressing environmental issue and condemns the Bush/Cheney government. Sound familiar? What makes Gasland so good is the fact it never becomes preachy or pushes a political agenda. Josh Fox deserves a lot of credit for making one of the most interesting and harrowing documentaries of recent years.

The doco starts with Fox receiving a letter outlining how a company wishes to purchase his property to drill for natural gas. Curious about what drilling for natural gas entails, Fox makes some phonecalls and picks up his videocamera to search for answers. What he finds is disturbing. In 2005 the federal government passed a bill that allowed natural gas companies to ignore any environmental damage caused by their drilling procedure known as hydraulic fracturing or hydrofracking. The result of this hydraulic fracturing is thousands of chemicals seeping into water supplies and polluting rivers across America.

The human and environmental toll of hydrofracking is heartbreaking. Interviewees tell of ongoing illnesses and health problems caused by their polluted water supplies. Horses and cats are shown losing their hair. In one memorable scene an interviewee holds a lighter to a tap connected to a local water supply. Within seconds the water from the tap bursts into flames. Rivers are polluted and devoid of life. Thousands of drilling rigs mar the beautiful landscape of rural America. But there is no one to hold accountable for the environmental damage and health problems. All the gas companies are protected by the law.

Gasland’s editing is brilliant. The short shots are essential in maintaining the film’s rapid pace. Unfortunately, several shots in the film are used more than once, detracting from the overall experience as it destroys the grip Fox and editor Matthew Sanchez hold you in. Gasland is personal filmmaking at its best, the sort of filmmaking that is one of the only good things to come out of cinema’s digital revolution. Tragic, empowering and beautiful, Gasland succeeds in championing its environmental cause while being thoroughly enjoyable.

Screening as part of the New Zealand International Film Festival:

Wednesday 28th July, 12.15pm—Paramount.
Saturday 31th July, 3.45pm—Film Archive.
Sunday 1st August, 1:30pm—Te Papa.

If the director’s name hasn’t already rung bells for you, you may recognise Adrian Grenier as the lead actor in HBO’s hit series Entourage, where he plays rising Hollywood star Vincent Chase. And in the opening of his new documentary Teenage Paparazzo, he details how these two lives—his onscreen character’s life and his own—have begun to blur. Rising to fame in the same fashion as his character, he clearly knows dealing with the ups and downs of being in the spotlight, and having his everyday life documented. This unusual position makes Grenier as competent a narrator/director as any to delve into the mechanics of celebrity culture, as his television role constructs the very identity he is a victim of.

But the subject of the documentary is not himself, but precocious 13-year-old paparazzo Austin Visschedyk and the world of the paparazzi. Austin makes for a compelling case study, as he not only proves a valuable insider to the industry, but also reveals his motivations in a way only a teenager could. Grenier follows Austin as he shoots celebs in downtown LA (sometimes at 3am on a school night) and reveals the simultaneous camaraderie and competition of this intriguing underworld. Representing the celebrity’s point of view are a large ensemble of Grenier’s celeb-buddies—Paris Hilton, Eva Longoria, Matt Damon and his Entourage cast-mates. Their interviews, accompanied by some excellent footage of celebrities and paparazzi (Bruce Willis breaking a camera and dropping a cool “Fuck you” as he walks away = awesome) show the invasive dark side we all know exists. But what could have been just a surface-level “celebrities vs. paparazzi” showdown is further fleshed out by Grenier, as he brings in an analytical dimension to the relationship of fame and culture, backed with thought-provoking theories from acclaimed media scholars, and the opinions of other paparazzi and regular people.

But the focus, for the most part, remains affectionately on Austin as Grenier documents his naïve approach to his future and the effects of Austin’s own taste of fame once his exploits garner exposure from the media. While the more cynical could easily dismiss this film as a giant PR vehicle for Grenier as he reconstructs his image and buddies with Austin, Teenage Paparazzo stands alone as an insightful and well-rounded study of celebrity culture—one that stimulates thought and entertains in equal measure.

Screening as part of the New Zealand International Film Festival:

Saturday 24th July, 3.30pm—The Film Archive.
Sunday 25th July, 2.00pm—Paramount.
Tuesday 27th July, 12:00pm—Paramount.

The world of publishing is a weary one, filled with discarded manuscripts and the kind of crushing rejection that epitomises the starving artist. Amy Brown—young, celebrated and published, has defied the statistics and Salient is here to document the start of her promising career. A graduate of our very own VUW, Brown marched off into the literary distance with an MA in creative writing and the Biggs Prize for Poetry. In between working as a book reviewer and contributor to The Listener and The Lumière Reader, she published her poetry debut, The Propaganda Poster Girl, a soul-bearing collection which was shortlisted for Best First Book of Poetry at the Montana New Zealand Book Awards. Now at 25, with an impressive CV and the validation that comes with critical acclaim, Brown has turned her attention to authoring a series of children’s books entitled Pony Tales, the first of which, Jade and the Stray, has been launched this month.

Brown is humble about her success, citing luck and an eagerness to take opportunities as the driving factors. “During my Vic Uni years, I wrote a lot; I tended to say yes to things (such as Salient and Lumière) without thinking through how much time they’d take or whether I’d be capable of doing a good job. Getting into the habit of saying yes to writing opportunities helped breed more opportunities. For instance, it was through writing for Lumière that Philip Matthews (the then-books editor at The Listener) read my work and asked me to do some Listener reviews. In that sense, I was lucky—many good opportunities came, and are continuing to come my way.”

When confronted with the ‘starving artist’ stereotype and asked if she had experienced any scepticism for following her creative instincts, Brown is undaunted. “Perhaps I just ignored it? I guess, until The Propaganda Poster Girl was published I never referred to myself as a writer (let alone a “poet”!), probably to guard myself from potential sceptics.” Then there’s the obvious question. With poetic praise firmly in her grasp, what inspired the idea for a children’s book? She recalls that a recent birthday present from a friend reminded her of how much she enjoyed pony stories as a kid. “I used to be obsessed with riding and horses. I originally just wrote the first book for myself—for fun, and to see if I could do it. But, once I read back over the first draft, edited and decided it might be worth sending to a publisher, I saw that it would probably work best as a series.”

Although the comparisons are there for the making, with horse books as diverse as Black Beauty and The Pony Club series dominating the children’s fiction market, Brown is certain that her series will resonate with its New Zealand audience. “Jade and the Stray will be familiar to New Zealand readers because it’s set in the central North Island in 2009; from the place names to the films Jade watches, to the price of ponies and the way the pony club rallies are conducted should be familiar.” And she would know. Brown spent her youth attending many a gymkhana in muddy, rugby-hued showgrounds all over Hawkes Bay. While Jade and the Stray pays homage to her East Coast hometown, Brown doesn’t downplay the importance that her time at Victoria has had on her writing. The ex-Salient book editor credits her involvement with our splendid publication for teaching her how to “believe in my own opinion more readily, without agonising over what people will think of me. It also taught me my limits; reading and reviewing several books a week on top of uni work just isn’t possible. Well, it is, but it’s impossible to do a good job of it.”

As for the university itself, having weathered a BA in English and philosophy, a first class honours degree and an MA, Brown simply says it was “hugely influential”, adding that she fondly remembers lecturers such as Damien Wilkins, Harry Ricketts, Ismay Barwell and Anna Jackson. Yet the scholastic odyssey is far from over. As you read this, Brown is doing her bit to dispel the lazy Arts student cliché by undertaking a PhD in creative writing at the University of Melbourne, putting all of us academic slackers at Salient to shame. After finishing her doctorate and penning three more Pony Tales books, Brown plans to put her sharpened reviewing skills back to use by returning to “reviewing and editing with the energy I once did, during the Salient and Lumière years”. You’re welcome back here anytime, Ames.

Pony Tales: Jade and the Stray, by Amy Brown
HarperCollinsPublishers, RRP $18.99, July 2010

At 5.30 in the afternoon on Wednesday the 14th, six actors will be descending on Mount Street Bar to perform Forum Theatre about the issues of student flatting. Forum Theatre is a kind of interactive performance where spectator is a dirty word—instead of just watching, the audience become spect-actors and get involved in making the theatre.

The show is being performed as part of Re-Orientation 2010 and as the major practical component of Theatre honours student Joel Baxendale’s 489 research into Theatre of the Oppressed—a method of theatre originally developed by Brazilian Augusto Boal, for empowering people, raising consciousness, and rehearsing for real future action.

In this performance the actors will perform a short play, following the protagonist as she encounters some of the problems that occur with student flatting, and the people who cause those problems: the ‘oppressors’. At the end of the play the oppressions will reach a climax, after which the audience will be invited to offer solutions to the protagonist’s problems and to replace her in the play to act out their own suggestions.

The point of Forum Theatre is to provide the opportunity to try out different possibilities for the future. In transforming the spectator into the protagonist of theatrical action, everyone, either personally or vicariously, will have rehearsed the different ways to combat oppression, in whatever form, and be more able to apply them to real life. In Boal’s words, we “try to change society rather than contenting ourselves with merely interpreting it,” and this theatre provides us with a safe space for experimenting how to deal with that social reality.

Earlier in the year the same group of actors, who are a mix of theatre students and graduates, performed Invisible Theatre in one of the THEA203 lectures. They acted out an argument over how assignments were marked to a class that was completely oblivious to the rehearsed nature of the scene before them, in an attempt to promote open discussion about the issue. Passers-by may also have seen the group in the quad at lunchtime late last semester, performing Newspaper Theatre.

After performing in Mount Street Bar, the group will then take the show to Karori campus to perform it in the common room at 12pm on Thursday the 15th. The shows are completely free and open to all.

What: Forum Theatre Performance
When and Where: 14 July 5.30pm Mount Street Bar, 15 July 12pm Karori Campus Common Room

This is an opportune time to visit the Adam if you haven’t already done so, as the gallery is showcasing Play On, a quirky collection of four major artworks created by New Zealand artists from the 1990s to the present. The exhibition is a who’s who of the New Zealand Postmodern era, including works by Michael Parekowhai, Julian Dashper, Michael Stevenson, Terry Urban and Ava Seymour, which investigate the relationship between sound and art.

Upon entering the gallery, one is hit with a wave of jumbled musical jingles streaming from Michael Stevenson’s robotic Slave Pianos (1998-99) and the repeating DVD showcasing the performance of Parekowhai’s Patriot: Ten Guitars (1999). At first, the compilation of artworks seems rather random. The fact that most of these works seem to be musical instruments placed in the context of the art gallery raises the legitimate question of whether these objects should actually be considered art. But that is exactly the type of question the radical young artists of the 1990s wanted explore. All the works in Play On use the medium of music to encourage the viewer to think about issues such as the definition of art and the role of the artist as a single creative individual.

Many people are intimidated by postmodern art and avoid it at all costs. Even I will admit that I was a bit bemused when confronted with drum kits, guitars and a self-playing piano. Yet postmodern art can be rewarding if the viewer is prepared to think outside the square, to scratch a little deeper than the surface. Don’t be intimidated by the fact that this is an exhibition showcasing Postmodern New Zealand art. Play On is a fantastic showcase of some of New Zealand’s most unique contemporary works, and Victoria students are fortunate to have such a collection on campus.

Play On
Adam Art Gallery
8 May – 25 July

Theresa Rebeck, the writer of Mauritius, Circa’s latest main stage work, has a background in writing for TV. It really shows. Mauritius is a tightly structured knot of a play, every event building inexorably to the next. It works so hard to be suspenseful that the tension becomes palpable. Its story revolves around the discovery by Jackie (Danielle Mason) of two extremely rare stamps in her deceased step-father’s collection. They are the Mauritius “Post Office” Stamps (the one penny and the two penny) from 1847. It’s the faults that make stamps valuable – these stamps should read ‘Post Paid’ but in fact read ‘Post Office’ – and the combination of this rather impressive mistake together with their age make these two stamps, as we are constantly reminded throughout the play, the holy grail of philately worth millions of dollars.

We are quickly introduced to our cast of characters, all of whom want those stamps for various reasons. Jackie wants to sell them so she can escape the city for some barely-hinted-at reason. Mary (Lyndee-Jane Rutherford in a career best performance), Jackie’s half-sister, wants the stamps as they are her last connection to her long-dead father. Dennis (a lugubrious Andrew Foster) wants to broker a deal between Jackie and Sterling (a solid Jeffery Thomas), a cowboy businessman with shady connections and a great deal of love for stamps. Philip (a delightfully meek Aaron Alexander) owns the philately emporium where the deal is to go down. Things, of course, go far from smoothly and there are many twists and turns.

When operating at its best Mauritius is an engrossing, if slight, thriller. There are some infrequent explosions of violence (well choreographed by Allan Henry but clumsily executed by the cast) seemingly designed to emphasise the stakes of the piece. These are somewhat ineffective. Its biggest fault, as a piece, being that well, at the end of the day, they’re just stamps and you are never really made to care about the characters enough to want them to succeed either. The film Carousel is an extremely good example of how to make stamp-collecting interesting and entertaining for the non-philatelist audience, and perhaps Mauritius should have taken a few more notes from its pages.

Mauritius also suffers from being noticeably a bit too long. Rebeck’s razor-sharp structuring is undercut by her propensity to let her characters go on too long. People break too readily into speechifying and plot points tend to be rather overstated. This needs to be a tight 90 minutes not its current leisurely two and a bit hours.

Ross Jolly’s direction is clean if workman-like. John Hodgkin’s set is well-detailed if a shade too sitcom-inflected, and Ulli Briese’s lights insist on hiding the revolving of the set, which steals some theatricality from the play. The score’s echoes of the Seinfeld theme also caused much amusement between me and the person who came with me.

Mauritius is no failure. The performances alone are worth the price of entry (if you can afford it), and the script is gripping enough to make you largely ignore the fact that you’d be really hard pressed to actually care about the goings on. For a play about stamps, Mauritius is a lot better than it could have been.

Mauritius
wri. Teresa Rebeck
dir. Ross Jolly
perf. Danielle Mason, Lyndee-Jane Rutherford, Andrew Foster, Aaron Alexander and Jeffery Thomas

at Circa Theatre, 26 June – 24 July 2010

New Zealand’s isolation works horribly against it when it comes to seeing films not readily covered by the mainstream. Thankfully, we have several institutions, like the New Zealand International Film Festival, to save us from languishing in cinematic limbo. This year’s festival offers a literal smorgasbord of choice picks from across the world, all in order to sate the unquenchable thirst of so many viewers across the country. Isn’t that nice?

Also, one of them is The Human Centipede. Sorry.

Special Nights and Big Presentations: The Human Centipede is not here

Predicament: Jason Stutter’s adaptation of the lurid Ronald Hugh Morrieson novel looks gloriously irreverent (and has Jemaine Clement, always a plus). Hopefully, it’ll finally wash the slightly stale taste of Tongan Ninja out of our collective mouths.

The llusionist: French animator Sylvain Chomet’s feature-film debut, The Triplets of Belleville, was a deliriously entertaining and imaginative piece of work, full of whimsy and stunning animation. This time he’s working with an unfilmed script from legendary French filmmaker Jacques Tati. Which is ace.

Once Upon a Time in the West: A gen-u-wine spaghetti western classic, being shown on the big screen in a new print. Attendance is mandatory.

Also of note: Certified Copy; Carlos; Under the Southern Cross.

Why does Auckland get this and we don’t: Sherlock Jr.

Worlds of Difference: The Dutch contingent is not sorry for The Human Centipede

Poetry/The Housemaid/Hahaha/Like You Know it All: The South Korean contingent may not pack the one-two punch of last year’s Mother and Thirst, but with two films from dry-witted festival favourite Hong Sang-soo (Hahaha and Like You Know it All) and two films fresh from Cannes—Lee Chang-dong’s latest, Poetry, and Im Sang-soo’s sex-drenched remake of classic Korean melodrama The Housemaid—it’s a pretty formidable line-up nonetheless.

White Material: Last year, Claire Denis’ much-lauded 35 Shots of Rum breezed in and out of the festival; this year, we get the French auteur’s hard-edged drama White Material, about a French farmer in Africa who refuses to leave her land as the country plummets into chaos. It stars Christopher Lambert from Highlander.

The Killer Inside Me: Casey Affleck plays a small-town sheriff with a secret—he likes to beat up women. A lot. Michael Winterbottom directs, saturating the film in noir tones and chiaroscuoro lighting.

Also of note: Agora; Cell 211; Senso.

New Directions: Not regarding where the shit goes in The Human Centipede

Four Lions: British satirist par excellence Chris Morris (The Day Today, Brass Eye) explodes onto the big screen (lol) with his expose of an Islamic terrorist cell in Northern England, populated entirely by imbeciles and egotists. It promises much hilarity.

Winter’s Bone: This film’s festival buzz is pretty substantial—some circles are already prophesying Oscar nominations—which should pique any self-respecting cinephile’s interest. Rising star Jennifer Lawrence plays 17-year-old Ree, who must hunt down her meth-cooker dad and make sure he attends his court hearing lest her family lose their house and their lives.

Extraordinary Stories: It is 245 minutes long, but this daring offering from Argentinean director Mariano Llinas tells three interweaving stories about nameless male bureaucrats looks fantastic. If you can make the time, see it.

Also of note: Ajami; After the Waterfall; The Double Hour.

Documentaries: Real people do real people things and do not get their mouths sewed to someone else’s anus

Marwencol: Jeff Malmberg’s documentary follows Mark Hogencamp, a man suffering brain damage from a brutal assault, as he plays out an elaborate fantasy in a scale-model World War 2 village he has built as a coping mechanism—that is, until the art world sits up, takes notice, and asks how much for it.

Inside Job: Charles Ferguson won plaudits aplenty for his (late) expose of the Iraq War, No End in Sight—now, on time, he turns his lens to the global financial crisis and burrows into exactly what triggered the downfall.

Babies: Basically what it says on the tin.

Also of note: The Oath; The Invention of Dr. Nakamats; Gasland.

In praise of slow cinema: Next year, we bring you a ten hour documentary about the human centipede walking

Police, Adjective: A policeman begrudgingly follows a group of kids around after they’re spotted smoking marijuana, reluctantly detailing their every move as he laments the archaic laws in Romania that will costs these kids their lives. It sounds awesome.

Music and dance/Portrait of the artist: Artists and music and teardrops and surgery

The Red Shoes: Lovingly restored thanks to the sponsorship of one Martin Scorsese, this new print of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s seminal 1948 ballet drama is one of the most intoxicating prospects of the festival, and like Once Upon a Time in the West, a must-see for anybody with even a passing interest in cinema.

Strange Powers: Stephen Merritt and the Magnetic Fields: One of American music’s most audacious innovators, Stephen Merritt’s work with The Magnetic Fields is well-renowned for good reason, and this documentary, shot over ten years, promises some kind of insight into the mind of the man who brought us the excellent 69 Love Songs.

Two in the Wave: By 1969, the once-friendly relationship between French New Wave directors Francois Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard had deteriorated into bitter sniping. With this as the focus, this should at least offer a welcome alternative to the typical French “oooh, aren’t we so great and better than the British” self-congratulatory wankfest for the New Wave.

Also of note: The Arbor; Oil City Confidential; HOWL.

Animation/incredibly strange: Here lies The Human Centipede

Birdemic: Shock and Terror/The Room—In the modern canon of awful films, no two works have achieved the notoriety of Birdemic and The Room. One is intentionally awful, the other is not—both must be seen.

A Town Called Panic: A bonkers-looking Belgian animation that’s taken its sweet time getting to New Zealand, this is stop-motion of the most ludicrous variety. You’ll never want to hold a barbeque for a horse again.

The Human Centipede: Yeah. You know what this is. (NB: If you don’t, I implore you, don’t Google it. Most importantly, don’t Google Image Search it. Ever. There, now you’ve been warned.)

Also of note: Summer Wars; Dream House; Splice.

In conclusion: The Human Centipede and other better things but mainly The Human Centipede.
Yes.

However, where F for Fake doesn’t waste time in beginning to discuss its themes of the nature of art and the importance (or lack thereof) of where it comes from, Exit Through the Gift Shop goes about addressing those issues in a very roundabout way. The first fifty minutes or so are spent establishing the backstory of Guetta, a man with an infectious enthusiasm for the wonders of video recording and an unerring compulsion to indulge in those wonders every damn minute. Cousin of street artist Space Invader, it is through videotaping his work that Guetta comes into contact with the world of street art and all its colourful inhabitants. The man’s obsession with videotaping these avant garde artists, under the guise of ‘making a documentary’, slowly reveals to the audience an entire history of the movement captured on grainy olive-tinted film, and it’s a fascinating, though slow-paced, documentation of that growth.

When Banksy enters the frame and requests Thierry make the ‘documentary’ he’s been talking about doing, the film kicks up a notch—the reveal of Thierry’s ‘documentary’, a nigh-unwatchable exercise in MTV editing and incoherent composition, is an unexpected comic highlight in the film. But it is when Banksy takes over the documentary and tells Thierry to go do a small street art installation instead that the film’s long build-up pays off. Thierry transforms into ‘Mr Brainwash’ and the show transforms into a massive installation in the abandoned CBS headquarters, and against it all Banksy paints a picture of hype and commercialism gone wild, MBW’s highly-derivative works praised by a public all too easily suckered in by MBW’s ‘voice of street art’ persona. Regardless of whether this is a prank on the audience or not (which is likely, given how evocative MBW’s work is of Banksy’s and fellow street artist Shepard Fairey’s, and how little work we actually see Guetta doing in the film), Exit Through the Gift Shop’s potency in addressing issues about authenticity, celebrity and art makes up in part for its padded first half and jarring narration, and offering the opinion that if MBW is the future of street art, then it’s best to get the fuck out before that begins.

No matter what I say about it, A Nightmare on Elm Street is by no means an awful movie. It’s just an unnecessary movie, which is worse. It’s very obvious that a lot of money has gone into re-jigging the 1984 slasher classic. My question to the producers (which happen to include Michael Bay of Transformers infamy) would simply be: Why?

Usually, it’s worth judging a movie on its own merits. This is impossible with a remake, especially one as uninspiring and derivative as Nightmare. The whole mess makes a lot more sense when you learn it comes from the same production company responsible for the remakes of Friday the 13th and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre—all of which grossed far more than the original films. The 2010 Nightmare is currently the eigth highest grossing slasher ever released in the US. This probably gives you a better idea of what the producers were going for.

Nightmare loosely follows the plot of the original. Freddy Kruger, the unkillable dream-fiend, has been changed from a child killer to a child molester—Wes Craven’s initial intent. It’s this part of the film which works best. It’s hard not to wonder how the original would have differed if Craven was able to follow through with this vision. There’s a weak stab at the idea that Freddy could just be a repressed memory, but it’s hard to take that seriously after eight previous Nightmare films.

Jackie Earl Haley (Rorschach from Watchmen) is a gross-looking elf at the best of times, and coupled with some of the most convincing burn-victim CGI/prosthesis I’ve ever seen, he provides a genuinely menacing presence while stalking the kids through their corridors of unconsciousness. Slasher franchises are never about the victim’s personality, which is just as well considering that none of the leads have one. Unless you can count personality as “not fitting in”—which in Hollywoodese translates to wearing a Joy Division shirt or doing art.

For all this effort, it’s remarkable how much of this we’ve seen before. The scares aren’t phoned-in in advance. They’re telegraphed in. Hell, they’re smoke-signalled in. I lost count of my mental tally of fake-outs. Creepy music stopped and a terrified teen looks like they’re safe? Think again! Dog suddenly stopped barking outside? Well, gee, I wonder what’s happened to him!

You could get this from any horror of the last 30 years. And much more cleverly too—think Rec or Paranormal Activity. Some of the dream sequences are well-contrived, but do we really need a different filter on the lens and a creepy blonde four-year-old to let us know that a character’s fallen asleep? The real fear in a nightmare comes in not knowing that you’re dreaming—which is something the film completely misses.

Don’t see this movie. Seriously. You’re not missing anything that you won’t have seen a million times before, and done better than this. Do yourself a favour and rent the original, try to watch the sequel as a fable about gay panic (seriously, it works really well) and pick up Scream while you’re there for a healthy dose of self-awareness.

The best thing about this movie was that no one at Reading asked for my ticket and there were only two other people in the cinema. Granted, it was four in the afternoon so it could be wishful thinking to suppose that remakes are on their way out.

Still, a guy can dream, right?

“Fuck off with your assonance and get some better words. “

The Intricate Art of Actually Caring is the kind of play high-school students New Zealand wide should be made to see- especially if they’re studying Baxter. I don’t mean this in the sense that only high school age students will enjoy it- just that it’s one of the few youth-oriented ways Baxter’s poetry has been presented in recent years outside of the classroom. I would certainly have benefited greatly from seeing this a few years ago.

If you pay any attention to Wellington theatre, you know the story by now: against a backdrop of grief, depression and the unfulfilled potential of their early 20s, Jack and Eli road-trip to Jerusalem to visit the grave of James Baxter following the death of their high-school friend at his 21st birthday party. Combining post-adolescence, friendship dynamics, family relationships and rites of passage with the oak-matured voices of Baxter and Tuwhare creates a human insight rarely seen.

For those of us who have experienced a young and untimely death of someone close to us, this play will strike a bittersweet personal chord. Seeing these two guys on stage (who at times so reminded me of people I know, and even occasionally myself) dealing with the incommunicable realities of death, guilt and self-analysis was an interesting experience. The brutal honesty of this play is compelling.

The way the poems have been woven into the script is so seamless that at times I wouldn’t have realised the lines were Baxter’s had I not read his poetry, and Shadbolt’s delivery was enviable to say the least. I was also particularly impressed by the song (written by Kent, sung by Shadbolt) which I took to be a very crafty home-spun version of Baxter’s “Lament for Barney Flanagan”? (I could be totally wrong on that one though- I didn’t get a programme to check – (ED – Yep)). The graphic simplicity that could so easily have seemed tacky and crass instead comes across as poignant, with a hint of dark humour to keep the soppiness at bay.

The design team has done an incredible job – the use of screens and OHPs created a simple but salient backdrop that was perfect for such a verbally rich play. For a production originally created for a bedroom, the staging has developed impressively. Instead of opting for a classic bedroom set, a more abstract approach has led to an innovative and visually diverse environment for the productions’ events to unfold in, the projections showing everything from road-kill to minor characters. The use of lighting design also creates an extra dimension for the production, the shadow play especially.

In the final section of the play, Eli’s Ritalin-fuelled character explains his atheism in the most eloquent way that I have ever heard. It is interesting that he is the one to have such a violent outburst considering it is Jack who claims to be suffering from depression. It also shows that while the character of Eli is seemingly shallow and riding on the reputation of more prolific family members, he has a far deeper recognition of human folly than he lets on. The fact that this outburst of articulacy was book-ended by a majesty of emo ranting was like a slap in the face- it was the perfect portrayal of how people really behave, even though we’d rather not admit it.

A Few Niggles: knowing that these were people playing themselves onstage it was impossible not to be distracted by a quiet but constant stream of thoughts about what was factual and what was theatrical embellishment. Some of the early direct audience interaction was really stilted and the explanation of why they were addressing the audience was unnecessary. But these are minor things, the fact I haven’t seen any of the earlier renditions saves you from my compulsion to compare.

I recall seeing an interview with Jacquie Baxter a few years back, and in it she made a flippant comment that has stuck with me over the years about Baxter leaving his family and pursuing his ideals of commune life and redemption and all the while his tuxedo was pressed and ready at home in the closet. Nothing can be as pure and honest as we’d like, even the closest friendships are shadowed by the unspoken and I appreciate how this show portrayed that.

The Intricate Art of Actually Caring
wri. Eli Kent
dir. Eleanor Bishop
perf. Eli Kent & Jack Shadbolt

At BATS theatre, 1 – 5 June 2010

Salomé is an Oscar Wilde play bit it’s not an Oscar Wilde play. That is to say that it is not what you expect and Oscar Wilde play to be. Rather than a stately and witty satirical romp around social rituals full of finely honed epigrams and put upon butlers, it is a one act symbolist exploration of the story of Salomé who so famously danced for the head of John the Baptist.

Anna Kamaralli has directed it at 77 Fairlie Tce using the students of THEA 301 – Company as her cast (the work towards this production forming the severe majority of their course-load) and the students of THEA 324 – Scenography as her crew and designers. It is a bold choice of play and one that results in a bold production.

The studio in 77FT has been decadently filled with a sumptuous and epic set of long walkways and twisting netted columns. This set designed by Jen Eccles, Sophie Hanover and Jane Wenley is very well conceived and extremely well produced. However, multiple sight line issues for anyone not sitting in front row of the traverse somewhat degild this lily. The lighting by Sam Steeds and Kattral Lee is wonderfully colourful and compliments the overall design very well but the frequently loss of actors faces to shadow annoyed this audience member (maybe I was just sitting in the wrong place?). The costumes by Sophie Sargent, Katherine Jennings, Daniel Emms and Stella Reid are real nice too. The A/V by Jess Robieson and Cassandra Philp, sound design by Kattral Lee and Srini Twigley and music by Theo Taylor and Holly Antonsen are all almost without flaw and more than up to a professional standard.

The cast all do perfectly fine jobs but special mentions must go to Stella Reid’s wonderfully meek Young Syrian and to Theo Taylor and Danni Taylor for their Soldiers who amused throughout.

The boldest move made by this production is the addition of a prologue. This works very much to evoke and interrogate the similarities between Salomé and the Hebrew Song of Songs. It seems sure to divide audiences (and that is hardly ever a bad thing) with its poetical language and abstracted choreography. Personally it rang a trifle too pretentious for my taste and that somewhat rings true for the whole of the show. This production of Salomé seems unwilling to really open up to its audience and share its sources and secrets, it feels like it is a few too many steps ahead of you and is unwilling to let you catch up.

To call Salomé a mixed bag is to give the impression that the good and the bad balance out. This isn’t true. There is a large weight of good in this show, it’s just some hard to catch sight of.

Salomé
presented by the students of THEA 301 & 324
wri. Oscar Wilde
dir. Anna Kamaralli
perf. Alana Henderson, Josh McDonald, Blair Everson, Holly Antonsen, Joe Waymouth, Rachelle
Fons, Brooke Charles, Luwita Hana Randhawa, Sophie Sargent, Cherie Le Quesne, Danni Taylor, Emma Eglinton, Theo Taylor, Stella Reid, Susie Berry, Annemieke Dabb, Daniel Emms and Katherine Jennings

at 77 Fairlie Tce, 7.30pm, 1 – 5 June 2010
book by emailing theatre@vuw.ac.nz

Willem Wassenaar has, with one of the two current classes of Long Cloud Youth Theatre, adapted Antoine de Saint Exupẻry’s classic children’s story The Little Prince (the other class presented a very well-achieved, very physical and present workshop selection of scenes from Romeo and Juliet). It is the story of a curious young man (Patrick Carroll) who lives on his own small little planet. With a rose (Fran Olds) that is in love with him. You know how it is. He explores the solar system meeting several rather peculiar grownups. These include an oddly fair-minded but still rather eccentric King (Lucy Suttor), a tragically conceited man (Jonathan Price), an even more tragic tippler (Ben Crawford), a very job-demarcation oriented Geographer (Isabelle Stewart), a sociopathic Business man (Ngakopa Volkerling) and heartbreakingly steadfast Lamp Lighter (Jonathan Price). He then arrives on Earth in the middle of the desert in Africa and meets a pilot (Jack Buchanan) who also serves as the narrator of the story (this narratorial role was taken by the whole company). On Earth, the little prince learns many worthwhile lessons and meets some rather inexplicable animals. Then he has to go and tragedy really begins to set in.

The Little Prince’s power as a story sits in how gently and simply it expresses some profoundly important and complex ideas about human nature and how people interact and how simply we can harm people without thinking. While it may superficially seems to be little more than a childish tract on how grown-ups simply don’t understand, it is, in fact, about ideas of loyalty, understanding, love, sharing and all their inherent complexities when people get involved. It is one of the triumphs of this production that all these ideas are just as present on the stage as they are in the original text.

Presented in the round with the cast sitting with the audience sharing the story as they would with a large group of friends. The only design feature is that all four walls of the space are covered in child-like drawings which feature heavily in the work. The feeling of intimacy that this setup and the performances build was really quite delightful and one has trouble thinking of any other way that this story could be presented.

The cast show skillful-beyond-their-years style, élan and teamwork. This excessively good kind of performance is, of course, now routinely seen in Long Cloud’s productions. While all the performances are all incredibly watch-able and nuanced it would be remiss to not mention Patrick Carroll’s performance as the titular wee prince. A wonderfully pitched evocation of the naivete of childhood that never dipped into laughable ignorance.

Over the 75 minutes or so, Long Cloud weft a wonderful, truly captivating work and one can only hope that it will return for a longer run perhaps in a slightly more refined – design-wise – production.

The Little Prince
wri. Antoine de Saint Exupẻry
dir. Willem Wassenaar
perf. Patrick Carroll, Jack Buchanan, Isabelle Stewart, Ben Crawford, Fran Olds, Jonathan Price, Lucy Suttor, Ngakopa Volkerling and Michael Boyes

At WPAC on 28 & 29 May 2010

She is really rather good at what she does (New Zealand – specifically West Coast – country swing), and her voice is velvety and smiley (read: she sings nicely, like a Christian*… COUGHBrookeFraserCOUGH), her demeanor classically kiwi – humble, and sort of embarrassed at her own audacity to be talented.

I like New Zealand music. I really do. Like most New Zealanders, I feel the cultural cringe, but I push through it. I loved Anika Moa’s In Swings The Tide and for a while now have really been enjoying the dalliance New Zealand music has been making into folky country and swing (perhaps because we have been gagging for something, ANYTHING that isn’t dub for about 20 years now), seen in the music of Moa, as well as Jess Chambers, Age Pryor and other Woolshed Session stablemates. It’s been great, guys, but Mel Parsons at BATS proved to me that there can definitely be too much of a good thing.

The set, rugs on the floor and projections of Mel’s video clips, reminiscent of Super 8 holiday reels, was quaint. The atmosphere was genial and the music, well, good – but I just wanted something more. I’ll be honest – I was bored. Give us something new! Mel Parsons is a relatively new artist, having just released her debut album, Over My Shoulder. I know you want it to play on the radio, but goshdarn, surely not just for the people who wanted The Woolshed Sessions: Take Two, right? Surely not.

Perhaps this is all rubbish really, because BATS was brimming with punters, and everyone seemed to be having a great time. Sure, my foot was tapping a bit, and I really enjoyed the lyric: “Aaaah… LET’S GET DRUNK” (I could relate to it: it would have livened things up for me, probably).

The musicians really were outstanding, and very enjoyable to watch – especially the guy with the harmonica, who is no doubt some heavyweight influential/respected figure in the New Zealand music industry, hence I, the heretic, blaspheme unto all that is holy and signed to a record deal in this country: he reminded me of that drunk dad from the It’s Not The Drinking, It’s How We’re Drinking ALAC ads.

Anyway, everyone there seemed to be loving it sick, which is exactly why Mel Parsons and her band were playing that bland brand of music. People love what they already know. But I need more if I am to have any faith in New Zealand music anymore. If only New Zealand music was daring enough to be different, to not stagnate and try something new and brave. C’mon guys, prove you can do it.

I’d rather see Newtown Street Justice or Palace This! At BATS. At least these bands, while not signed, are challenging and playful. Even Stephen Jackson would have been more bearable. At least he gets his kit off and wears sequins from time to time.

If you like Anika Moa, Brooke Fraser, The Woolshed Sessions, Jess Chambers, etc., then don’t hesitate to go to her shows in the future. She’s good, and you’ll get what you want: same-same NZ singer-songwriter blah blahs, which is cool, if that’s what you’re into. I just think she’s boring, and she can do better.

At the very least, the lighting at Mel Parsons was great.

*Myself, I sing like the ‘militant atheist’ I am: laced with homosexual sex, heroin and provocative blasphemy.

MEL PARSONS AND GUESTS LIVE AT BATS THEATRE
BATS Theatre, Wellington
27. 28, 29 May 2010

Out Takes, A.K.A. the annual queer film festival, is 16 this year—meaning it’s still not okay for us to sexualise it, but we’ll all look the other way when it inevitably happens. 2010’s festival is higher of brow than some previous festivals, and that’s a good thing because certain past selections have been little more than your usual watered-down Reading schlock, with the queer experience tacked on. (Another Gay Movie, I’m looking at you!) In its best years though, Out Takes is a highlight for both the queer community and film buffs. It provides a niche for transgressive film and powerful queer stories that would otherwise never be shown in Aotearoa, as our country’s film distribution ethic is awful. This year’s lineup promises plenty of variety and quality, and to help you choose we at Salient have some suggestions:

Festival opener An English Man in New York is yet another film about the iconic Quentin Crisp to star John Hurt. This is set around the time America went gaga over him in the 1980s. It’s well acted, well shot, and it is fascinating to watch the New York scene. An English Man isn’t as good as The Naked Civil Servant, but honestly very few films will ever be.

Little Ashes is that film where Robert Pattinson plays a young gay Salvador Dali. Sadly the film’s had surprisingly few cinematic releases internationally. It is passionate, gorgeous and literate Oscar bait.

A friend made me watch excerpts of We Are The Mods a couple of months ago, and I devoured its aesthetic. Two young ladies in LA’s Mod culture hang out and experience each other. It’s keen.

Both Stephen Jackson and I recommend Translatina, a documentary about the lives of the trans people of Latin America. It’s remarkably interesting and thorough without sacrificing its political integrity to its quick pace and charm.

I Killed My Mother
Director: Xavier Dolan

I Killed My Mother will undoubtedly become the film of the year for all those indie kids hanging out at the top of Cuba Street. It is almost the perfect film for indie kids. But the film, like the work of many young artists, is misshapen, both in form and content. It is a mish-mash and plays like the work of a film obsessed art student unsure of what medium he is working in.

I Killed My Mother is the story of Hubert Minel (Dolan), a high school student who hates his mother. Hubert’s issues with his mother are unfounded. The midpoint of the film reveals Hubert as a gay man, but despite Hubert’s obvious discomfort around his sexuality, he is too much of a selfish bigot to care about. The script forces social issues down your throat in large, difficult to digest chunks, most notably single parenting and coming to terms with sexuality. The problem with the film is that it offers a weak narrative and no entry point into any of the lives of any of the characters, creating a work that is difficult to engage with.

One would at least expect the film to be impressive visually, but Dolan borrows too heavily from the techniques of many of the past decade’s top directors. Aronofskyian symmetry and montage, Wong Kar Wai’s repeated use of the same song over slow motion tracking shots, Andersonian two-shots of characters in odd environments. To top off his blatant plagiarism, Dolan frames the rest of the film with unbalanced compositions and repeatedly places large chunks of text from letters that characters are reading in the middle of the frame. When it isn’t plagiarising it is a unique-looking film, but it isn’t any better for it.

I Killed My Mother is definitely cinema of the 21st century, a cinema which is French New Wave meets Noughties auteurs, for the YouTube generation. Dolan definitely has talent, but he needs to develop his own style. What the film lacks is a good story or characters. What the film lacks is originality. What the film lacks is subtlety. But the film got into Cannes. Go figure.

Label: Papaiti Records
Formed: 2009
Website: papaiti.com
Salient Picks: Mammal Airlines, BMX Rapists, EVERY SINGLE BOOTLEG

“For an artist with a small fan base I think making their music accessible should be more of a priority than making money.”—Giles Thompson

Papaiti Records, although decidedly smaller than previously featured MUZAI, is doing great things for music in and around Wellington. Originally formed out of boredom in 2009 by Giles Thompson, it was initially based in Whanganui, but given that the duo behind the label, Thompson and James Stuteley, live in Wellington, it’s essentially become a Wellington label. It exists as a vehicle for their own projects, as well as others who have expressed interest—a community of like-minded musicians.

“I always intended to release several groups, and did so from the beginning. We are open to new stuff and have already had a lot of people email us, which is awesome. It was never just James and I, even at the beginning there were a few other artists (e.g. Deathdream, BMX Rapists). Hopefully if someone likes an artist that has music on Papaiti, they might check out a few of the other artists. By forming a co-operative of sorts, all the artists get more exposure than they would alone. That’s the theory anyway. For example, a Deathdream EP was posted on a Brazilian shoegaze blog, and we got a whole load of traffic—which hopefully spilled over to some of the other artists.”

The desire for attention on one group to transfer into attention for others on Papaiti is just one facet of their altruistic approach to releasing music. While there are small physical releases of Papaiti albums and EPs, everything on the Papaiti roster is released for free via mp3 download on their site.

“For an artist with a small fan base I think making their music accessible should be more of a priority than making money. I don’t really believe in ‘owning’ music itself at all or in APRA and similar things. When you buy a physical release of a Papaiti artist, you’re paying for the physical product (case/plastic/booklet), not the music. So far our physical releases have been hand-made, non-traditional case formats, personalised and very limited runs, generally only charging enough to cover costs, and we plan to continue in this direction with other merch as well. I don’t think we’ll ever ‘sell’ the music.”

It’s a generous move, and one that has seen Papaiti get no small amount of love in recent months. The Mammal Airlines Two Songs, Too Much EP sold way more than we expected”, and their site is constantly updated with projects from around the North Island, mostly those of Thompson and Stuteley, but several other notables as well, particularly the abrasive BMX Rapists. But one of the main talking points with Papaiti of late has been their bootlegging. On their site you will find free downloads of live sets by Jeffrey Lewis, Grayson Gilmour, Street Chant, Seth Frightening and numerous other class New Zealand acts. It’s not direct ripping off, though: every bootleg on the site has been posted with the permission of the artists involved. Except a recording of Deerhoof’s Orientation show, which wasn’t posted because, according to Stuteley, “I just really don’t like Deerhoof.”

He goes on to explain why he’s bootlegging for Papaiti: “There were always people recording in Wellington, but not really releasing them nicely packaged and for free from the same website. It costs a bit to get into and takes a lot of time for basically no return apart from having the recording yourself and maybe a few compliments.”
Thompson adds: “I like the idea of being able to hear a show you couldn’t make it to, or check out a band you keep missing. The other thing I like about the bootlegs is the documentary aspect of them. I hope that they will be around for a long time.”

So, you know, you get it. They’re pretty good guys. The effort from Thompson and Stuteley put into the label is incredibly impressive, especially given that their main payoff is a sense of wellbeing, or the knowledge that they’re doing some good for the greater music community. But that’s the point: they’re (cheesily) in it for the music, it seems. No overpriced pen drives here. They’re releasing free music for all to enjoy, from a number of varied bands from across New Zealand. If you’ve got the bandwidth, they’ve got the goods.

Heavy Rain was released in late February this year to massive critical acclaim and sales of well over a milllion copies—boosted in part by the simultaneous release of the pricedropped PS3 Slim. It touts itself as the first modern “interactive movie”, something that many games have been striving for (to some extent) since the format was created.

Heavy Rain is the third game from French studio Quantic Dream, and was introduced to the gaming public with a tech demo demonstrating the tremendous amount of facial detail able to be represented by the in-game engine. The game uses a unique control scheme wherein movements of the control stick and presses of buttons correspond to on-screen action. This has been done before—most notably in Fahrenheit, Quantic Dream’s second game—but Heavy Rain manages to dodge most of the jankiness you often run into in quick-time events through the use of a difficulty level that exclusively deals with player input. It’s a lot easier for an action sequence to be compelling when you’re not having to focus on remembering a series of flashing lights.

So does it succeed? Well, yes and no. To this day, I can probably only think of fewer than ten games that reach anywhere near the narrative complexity (and maturity) of a trade paperback—and I’d be reluctant to include Heavy Rain in this canon. Even though the story itself is on par with a better-than-average Cold Case episode, the way in which it is presented to you adds a much needed layer of maturity which pulls the game above its subject matter.

The game’s real triumph is in fostering emotional investment through the use of the mundane. This is really what makes Heavy Rain stand out from the crowd, and is sure to set the bar for imitators for years to come. Few (if any) games with a multi-million dollar budget would be brave enough to include an unskippable half-hour segment documenting A Dad’s Life. The use of this downtime gives a much-needed personal element to the hunt for your slowly drowning son, and at a few points I found myself reacting a certain way in a situation not because it’s what I’d do, but rather what my character would do. To this extent, Heavy Rain is a success.

As much of a landmark Heavy Rain is in craft, there are some very real issues which hold it back from its true potential. The most pressing concerns are sadly the most obvious ones. The quality of the voice acting ranges from the very good to abysmal. Being that the game is set in Philadelphia, I’d have thought it’d make sense to have the main roles of the game played by Philadelphia natives. Oddly enough, the voice actor of Ethan Mars (the game’s primary protagonist) is British, and there are several instances with a severe case of bad-fake-accent. I’m all for childhood scenes, and I understand that children aren’t great (or in fact, usually used) as voice actors, but surely there must have been better choices than the ones they ended up using.

It might seem like I’m picking nits here, but when a game’s promoting itself as the most immersive experience since actually doing things (and has a budget of well over $20 million) I’d like to have thought Quantic Dream would have sprung for native voice actors. Gamebreaking crashes, in combination with a punishing save system, don’t help with your immersion either—although these have apparently been getting better with ongoing updates.

Don’t let any of this hold you back from playing it. It definitely is some sort of landmark in game design, even if it’s not sure exactly what yet. If you’re thinking of sinking $100-plus on it though, you might want to consider this quote from David Cage, co-CEO of Quantic Dream:

“I would like people to play it once … because that’s life. Life you can only play once … I would like people to have this experience that way.”

With just over 20 hours of straight gameplay and ‘three-day’ status at most videostores, Heavy Rain comes as a highly recommended rental.

The Intricate Art of Actually Caring is the little show that could. Starting as an intimate production in the 2009 Fringe performed in a bedroom it was soon met with universal critical praise and sell-out crowds. A return season as part of Downstage’s annual ‘Pick of the Fringe’ season and wins for Most Original Production, Best New Director (Eleanor Bishop) and Best New Actor (Jack Shadbolt) at the Chapman Tripp Theatre Awards secured its success. Having toured the country, it is now returning to Wellington with a strictly limited season at BATS.

To discuss this triumph return, Salient theatre wizard Uther Dean sat down for a chat with Eleanor Bishop [producer/director], Eli Kent [writer/performer - 'Eli'] and Jack Shadbolt [performer - 'Jack'].

Uther – So, let’s get the obvious questions out of the way, what is Intricate Art about?

Jack - It’s about two 21 year olds, Jack and Eli, on a road trip to visit New Zealand’s greatest poet James K. Baxter’s grave. It’s something good to do post their friend’s death, it’s an inspiration to kinda carry on. It’s a bit of a road trip story, but the purpose of the road trip isn’t just to go on a road trip. It’s to get to a place where things might become clear.

Uther – You’ve being doing this show on and off for about eighteen months. How has it changed since it, somewhat infamously, premiered in Eli’s bedroom?

Eli – Well, we had this massive gap of about 6 months so coming back was a bit ‘woah’. We could see it with fresh eyes. You could see all the stuff you could make better.

Eleanor – I think it’s chilled out a lot more in a way. It’s returned to some of the stuff that was really good about the bedroom. It’s just really relaxed and I think we lost that a bit doing it in theatres and getting really caught up in the stuff of it. Having to without some of the comforts of the bedroom. We had to figure out ways that it could retain some of its magic.

Jack – It’s hard to adjust to a theatre, because the audiences we played to in the bedroom were so small that we could speak at room level and stuff like that. We get on to a bigger stage and there is a lot more space that we have to deal with. With the third time, when we went to Christchurch, we hit on this OHP idea, where we could kinda minimalise it all back down so there wasn’t any stuff hanging round and you could kinda make an area of the stage that we stick to mainly and the whole time projecting images behind us all manually as well. It gives the actor something else to do.

Eli – It’s kinda busy but it doesn’t really disrupt the performances when you’re actually acting. Like when we were at Downstage and actually at Christchurch as well it was quite kind of they were both kinda messy.

Eleanor – And full on.

Eli - …and both of our performances were all kinda AAAAAAAAAAAARGH. Now, uh, one thing we did with the new was that we tried to chill out and really look at the steps of the friendship and where it starts and where it ends.

Eleanor - Because in Dunedin we got a stage where everyone sorta knew what they were doing so we could actually return to their relationship, to Eli and Jack’s friendship and their connection, particularly Jack’s connection with the audience which is really different now but was a really strong part of the bedroom but is totally different now that it is playing in theatres.

Jack – I hope when people who come who’ve seen previous seasons they’ll enjoy that because we essentially tell them that we’re telling the same story and they’ll be like “oh, okay” but they’re gonna use different methods of telling it – the OHPs and stuff really enhance all that. They beautifully, the pictures on them are done beautifully by Erin [Banks] and Heleyni [Pratley], we don’t just straight up put things on and leave them there. We’re gonna do other stuff using the light. It’s just a cool new way of telling the same story.

Eleanor - There’s this really cool sense that like they’ve set this all up. They’ve got a couple of OHPs and hung some sheets up and…

Jack – …they’ve got some people coming over.

Uther – This show has proven itself to be quite elastic, moving from the bedroom to Downstage to BATS and you talk about stripping it back and you’ve totally transformed the production of it. Is this because this particular script is especially elastic or could you do it with all theatre?

Eli, Eleanor & Jack – …

Uther - I don’t know what that question means.

Eleanor – Yeah.

All – …

Eleanor – I think because, it was always when we started and had a script but lots of elements got writeen in for the bedroom and bits tha we wanted to do got written in and things and that’s just kind of… it hasn’t changed too much but new things come in according to new stage business that comes in. Because Eli wrote it so it really easily evolved like that.

Eli - It’s a funny one as well though because we do still have a room and we start in the room which is sorta confusing. The room feels more like a symbol now. The fact that its no longer performed in the room but the room is still in it is quite ‘oh, why did they choose to set it in a room?’ and we have our reasons for that.

Uther – it’s always been, from even the fringe season, its always been incredibly well recieved, with only one or two exceptions. There was no warm up period, you’ve always been well-revieced. How does that feel?

Eli - We didn’t expect it to be nearly as well received as it was. It sorta feels like in a sense that now we have to keep it good and every time we do another one we’re really afraid that people won’t like it. [Laughter.] Because its changed so much. Like the downstage one, we thought people weren’t going to like it as much as the first one. And with this one, it’s the same fear. That it’ll loose something.

Jack – We’re essentially doing the same thing we did in Dunedin and that was really well recieved. There’s no fear for me at this point.

Eleanor - It’s very liberating taking it to new places, like after Downstage and all that fucking hullabaloo really about ‘where’s the bedroom?’ so soon after the first season and mentally having to shift into a different zone and going to Christchurch and Dunedin and people not having heard of us or anything and just coming along to see the show and then really liking it is just completley liberating and awesome. So, I’m actually slightly nervous about BATS.

Jack – I just hope that a lot of the people who see us at BATS haven’t seen the show before. I’m not really into people seeing us for a third time when other people can’t get tickets and stuff because it’s such a limited season. I hope one day we can do like a month long run somewhere so every man and his dog can come if they want. Y’know?

Uther – Well, touring must come into that and you’re going to tour more…

Jack – Yeah, we’re confirmed for four more seasons after this. We’re going to Auckland in the middle of June, Hamilton at the start of July as part of the Fuel festival. Then later in year around September, October we’re going to the Melbourne Fringe and the come back and finish out the year in Nelson. It’s cool taking it to a wider audience and I just really like taking it to new people and giving them a Wellington kinda story.

Uther – Because it is in many ways, at least to begin with, a very Wellington-centric play, how is that part of it recieved in places that aren’t Wellington?

Jack – Well, there’s always the odd person who knows exactly what you’re talking about in New Zealand. It’ll be interesting going to Melbourne, lots of them probably won’t even know Baxter even though he is an internationally renowned poet. People seem to generally see past the Wellington stuff and see gthe story. You need a location for every story, I guess.

Eli - Auckland willl be a funny one as well. It won’t be a massive change. There’s always a slighty different feeling whyen you do it in different places.

Uther – What has always struck me about Intricate Art is how it sits kind of seperate from the rest of your output as company. Not in any negative terms but where as your previous shows like Rubber Turkey and Bedlam where very much in a heightened, almost absurdist mode where as IA is much realer and smaller. So, I always wonder where it came from, not where the idea came from but where the show overall came from?

Eli - I think, part of it is that a lot of it was done, a lot of the poetry in it was done before we existed as a company. There is a bunch of stuff in it that is from a time before the Playground collective and that is one of the reasons it has a slightly different feel.

Eleanor - To me it was always having an idea of theatre that it’s always different from everyday life – so that absurdist kind of thing – and thinking that was the kind of work I wanted to make and then Eli giving me this script and being like “Holy fuck! This feels so like me.” And feeling a little bit guilty about that. “I can’t put this on stage because it’s just us.” Y’know? These are the lives that we’re living and it’s just a bit self-indulgent. We should make things about important stuff but then thinking that if you make from your heart, that is the most important stuff and that will speak to people. And you shouldn’t feel guilty about that.

Jack – You really want the audience to relate to stuff in it.

Eleanor - Yeah.

Uther – What is it, do you think, that has connected so much with young people?

Jack – I think young people like the dialouge of it, the interaction between the two of us. The banter. The roadtrip thing treally connects with them. The older generation like looking back to what they might have been like. Everyone goes through little bits of their lives where they’re like ‘fuck fuck? what do I want? and what do I need to do to get there? and how do I feel about all this?’ and they really like the Baxter stuff and the poetry and that’s another generation older. We had a couple of old people, in the their 70s, in the front row in Dunedin who smiled the whole way throughout. I like to think they were Baxter fans back in the day.

Eli - I’ve never really know what it is. What I’m interested in is not nessissarily what other people will be interested in. Because I always though it was about God and doing it in Dunedin made me realise that more. That this is essentially something about God and its absense. And how in that absense how people can still contain morals. Our generation can connect with that sort of stuff because a lot of us were raised athesitis but then it’s like… what do you do with that? What do we have in terms of belief? We beleive in science but that doesn’t give us morals.

Jack – You feel guilty for sinning even though you don’t believe in god.

Eli - I think there is something in that which is obviously not a completly new thing but exists a lot more in the show now than the last time it was here.

Jack - It strikes a real cord with young people which is really cool.

Eli – [Laughs].

Jack – What are you laughing about?

Eli - “It strikes a real cord.”

Jack – You strike a real cord.

Eleanor - So, it was funny. Now its like “Lets do this there” and make a big splash and I’m like “Oh god.” The best thing we ever did was make this thing because we really like it and we think other
people will really like it in Eli’s room in the Fringe and be really low key about it.

The Intricate Art of Actually Caring is on at BATS theatre from the 1st to 5th
of June with a 4pm Matinee on the 5th. Book by emailing book@bats.co.nz or calling (04) 802 4175.

You should also check out their super sweet website at www.intricateart.co.nz.

1. ‘Selfissh­’—Seth Frightening
2. ‘I Am A Light!’—Grayson Gilmour
3. ‘Difference Engine’—The Postures
4. ‘Astronomy’—Golden Awesome
5. ‘Forget Me Not’—Vaults
6. ‘I Heart Nigella’—Mammal Airlines
7. ‘Daughter’—The Body Lyre

The Invention of Dr. NakaMats
Director: Astrup Schroder

The American science academy recently named the best scientists in history as: Archimedes, Marie Curie, Nikola Tesla, Michael Faraday and Yoshiro Nakamatsu, or so Nakamatsu (or Dr. NakaMats as he is affectionately called) tells us. Whether or not he is being completely truthful is uncertain. What is certain is that he is a fascinating man and a fitting subject for a film.

At the beginning of Kaspar Astrup Schroder’s documentary, Nakamatsu claims that he has 3357 patents (Edison only had 1093) and we learn of many of these during the course of the film. At various points he claims he invented the floppy disk and Karaoke (his Wikipedia page notes that he invented the basic technology of the floppy disk but makes no mention to his contribution to the field of drunken singing). Other things he mentions seem less useful. These include, but are not limited to, pogo shoes, a notepad that works underwater, and ‘Love Jet’, a substance that supposedly increases female libido; he never specifies how.

Nakamatsu’s eccentricities extend beyond his inventions. He is eager to share his personal philosophies which he adheres to ardently with the intention of living to the age of 144. At an already impressive 80, Nakamata thinks of himself as about halfway through his life and stays healthy by sleeping four hours a night, eating a single meal a day and practising sumo wrestling.

Nakamatsu is, however, a bit of a jerk, and his arrogance definitely contributes to his interest. Some of the film’s best moments involve men prostrating themselves before him as he scolds them for insulting him for various things. Furthermore, since the filmmaker’s involvement is minimal, the narration is done by Nakamatsu himself as he tells us about all his aforementioned inventions, rituals and philosophies. No other subject gets as much speaking time and nobody is given the chance to talk candidly about Nakamata; it is always Nakamata on Nakamata.

While it may sound like I’ve described all there is to describe in this fleeting, one-hour documentary, I haven’t. The man has to be seen to be believed. At the end of the film, Nakamata tells his barber “These people edit out all the good stuff and only show the weird scenes.” But there is nothing malicious about the situations Schroder chooses to show and I am sure he was just as fascinated as I was by this incredible, if flawed, man.

Last Friday I sat down with Rachelle Fons, Cherie Le Quesne and Josh McDonald to hear the juicy details of the combined THEA 301 and 324 production of Oscar Wilde’s Salome. I would like to note here that I stumbled into Studio 77’s green room suffering the effects of Wellington’s horizontal rain and gale-force winds—to add to this I was totally unprepared save for my nerdy dictaphone. And they didn’t laugh at me—not once. I was even mercifully presented with a cup of tea. I know they’re actors—people hoping to make careers as professional liars, but I was most impressed. Anyway, to the point: before you continue reading you must immediately drop everything (scalding coffee, newborn child, priceless artefacts included) and book yourself a ticket to see Salome next week, go on… I’ll wait.

…
Done?
…
Good.

Chosen by their lecturer Anna Kamaralli for its intensely sexualised and decadent writing, Salome acts as a lens to observe the world through. Wilde’s writing doesn’t accept the dismissal and condemnation of anything considered risqué or debauched. In both Wilde’s contemporary society and indeed our own, sexuality and desirability are shoved in our faces constantly, expected even, but we aren’t supposed to acknowledge it as such. For a group of young adults, the issues of unrequited and forbidden loves, the pressures to be desirable without being threatening are common enough within everyday life. And through the words of Oscar Wilde they are able to present to an audience how truly weird these expectations and situations are. Free from censorship, this is also an opportunity to present the play as Wilde had intended it to be, rich and decadent in every detail.

The plot is sinister with intricate stories of unrequited loves, ill omens and incestuous debauchery—though not so dark that it lacks humour. Salome is the original femme fatale whose unrequited love for Jokanaan (John the Baptist) leads to some very dark deeds. It is the kind of story that you can interpret any way you desire, from hedonism to hilarity—take your pick. (Check out some of the summaries online if you wish to familiarise yourself with the play but haven’t got time to read the genuine article.)

The main revision of the play is the prologue, which has been created by Anna to highlight and demonstrate the (intentional) similarities between the Song of Songs (which is a book of the Hebrew Bible) and Wilde’s Salome. Though it wasn’t written by the students, they played a large part in the development of script, being given the opportunity to bring their individual talents to the table and create a highly personalised performance, a ‘visual feast’ if you will allow such a cliché phrase.

This particular production of Salome has left no stone unturned, the set creation by THEA 324 students was discussed with much enthusiasm, the strong influence of art-nuevo in the set and costume creation as well as the play itself has led to a decadent and darkly beautiful design—parts of which were described more as art installations than stage sets. Some actors have even been learning Hebrew; some have choreographed dances, conducted intense research into the society in which Wilde was presenting this play (though technically this is course requirement). They’ve played around with audience expectations and gender roles—so look out for these innovations, they are indeed intentional.

Finally, a few bonus words that should hopefully appeal to anyone not yet convinced: gender issues, role reversal, decapitation, John the Baptist, art installations, femme fatale, peacocks, debauchery, and lustrous language… interested?

Also check out this link to the sweet trailer they’ve made.

Salome is on at Studio 77, 77 Fairlie Tce at 7.30pm, 1 – 5 June 2010.
Tickets are $15/$8 and you should book by emailing theatre@vuw.ac.nz or calling (04) 463 5359.

Artist: Janelle Monáe
Album: The ArchAndroid (Suites II and III of IV)
Label: Bad Boy

As debut albums go, Janelle Monáe’s is one which could not be accused of lacking in ambition. The ArchAndroid is bursting at the seams with creative zest. Spanning a vast number of diverse genres, it could be accused of being too scattered if it weren’t for the absolute joy running throughout and the utter conviction with which she somehow pulls it all off. Inspired by the sci-fi German expressionist film Metropolis, it’s a concept album about a future where androids are the feared “other” in society, but Monáe convinces us to embrace them and that “androids are sexy!”

Unlike Madonna-reincarnate Lady Gaga, Janelle Monáe has true variety of talent and uniqueness of vision. This album is somehow more than the sum of its many parts: it is never stale, but also never chaotic. It’s brilliantly composed and has insane cohesion of vision for such a massive project. It’s fitting that The ArchAndroid is largely produced by Big Boi; his Outkast partner Andre 3000’s The Love Below is perhaps the closest in spirit to what Monáe has concocted here. It’s certainly not short on theatrics. But Monáe has honed in her eccentricities and eclectic taste to something both focused and loose. Taking The Love Below comparison further, the one-two punch of ‘Cold War’ and ‘Tightrope’ is definitely Monáe’s ‘Hey Ya!’ moment, and she revels in it. Check out the video for ‘Tightrope’—she can certainly bust a move. (Is that an updated moonwalk?)

Her talent as a singer alone is impressive—at times like Janis Joplin (‘Come Alive’) and at others uncannily similar to Lauryn Hill (‘Neon Valley Street’) and even sometimes a prepubescent Michael Jackson (‘Faster’). And that’s not even taking into account her songwriting abilities. She masters styles ranging from psychedelic space-rock, funk, beautiful soul numbers, R&B, hip-hop to folk, and 50’s girl group harmonies with sweeping orchestral arrangements lending it all a panoramic depth.

Where many lesser artists get trapped by the limits of a concept like this imagined future world, Monáe avoids the pretention these projects can become by her sheer exuberance; her hugely likeable personality. It’s ultimately unnecessary to buy into the overarching concept. This is an immensely enjoyable album, front to back, filled with universally human themes and should have a wide appeal. She deserves all the success she gets.

4/5

Tea for Toot is the story of two old and lonely sisters, Emily (Alex Lodge) and Georgia (Cherie Jacobsen). They heavily routine based lives in Water’s Edge, the former residence of their mother Mary Waters. She was an acclaimed, prolific and now very dead children’s author. Not that Emily or Georgia would ever acknowledge the deceased nature of their mother. Residing still in the nursery they grew up in, to them mother is simply upstairs too busy to take guests or answer fan-mail.

Regularly punctuated by cups of tea, Emily and Georgia’s schedule is one of rigorously scheduled delusion. At 11, they write their memoirs and scrapbook. At 12, they have tea. At 1, they play sleeps – a demented game of make-believe where there fantasies reveal themselves to be both surreal and mundane. At 2, they have tea. Then a spanner appears in the works of their meticulously executed ignorance of the cruel facts of their existence in the form of a letter and the force of industry and reality has no choice but to force these two into action.

Toot is narrated by Rachel More very much in the mode of the books on tape that seem to accompany all memories of childhood car-trips. She comments and guides the action of the play as well as telling one of the tales of Toot, Waters’ most popular character, accompanied by some nice shadow puppets made by Hannah Smith.

The cast all acquit themselves nicely. Lodge and Jacobsen perfectly pitch the music of age to the tune of childhood. Lodge is a natural comic genius and Jacobsen has an undeniable watchability and charm. Richard Falkner impresses in a small role as a man who may or may not be Toot. He gives a case study in how well and real smaller parts can be played, as totally real, fully formed people with their own stories who happen to brush up against the one you’re following.

Ed Watson’s direction is assured and clear, even if he does let the show noticeably droop in the middle. The script was devised by Lodge, Jacobsen and Watson is much funnier than it has any right to be but tends to hide what is a very solid structure under some flabby and over long scenes with some ideas feeling rather overstated and over-emphasised.

The tone and pitch of the show is incredibly complete and consistent. Hannah Smith’s decayed, domestic set has just the right air of age about it. Rachel Marlow’s lights are, as always, very good and Tane Upjohn-Beatson and Gareth Hobbs’ soundtrack builds a very nice sense of the world both interior and exterior of the show. While the shadow puppets that I’ve already mentioned are very well made, their use in the show is rather clearly under-rehearsed and rather shambolic. This makes them substantially less effective than they could have been.

Toot’s eccentricity is very well balanced by a deeper consideration of ideas of decay, mortality and sibling relations that run well weft throughout it.

The clear (and directly and openly cited) inspiration for this show is the life and work of Enid Blyton, especially, obviously, focussing on her daughters. Reports very heavily vary on Blyton’s mothering skills. Toot does a very good job of exploring the ideas of and around Blyton at the same time as playing a distinctly different enough game with the character of Mary Waters that one never really has to raise the question of ‘Why didn’t they just actually include ol’ Enid in the show?’ Toot is a compelling dance through the profoundly twisted aftermath of a mother who was, at best, absentee, at worst, something a lot more sinister.

Tea for Toot’s greatest strength is its infectious whimsy. This is a nice warm mug of theatre. Designed for heart cockle thawing on cold evenings. It perfectly mixes the white noise chatter of the aged with the exuberant explosion of those permanently stuck in childhood – there is a particular delight to be taken in their very precise mispronunciation of some words. It is claustrophobic without ever being gratuitously depressing.

It is without a doubt a good show but its success is not unqualified. Its middle stretch is simply too long – mayhap they could have done with the pressure of a one hour slot rather than the 75ish minutes it is now as an hour would have been a much leaner and cleaner show – this is both an issue of pace and an issue of needing cuts. Also, the ending when it arrives becomes a little too obvious a little too quickly. But these are merely quibbles and Tea for Toot still comes highly recommended.

Tea for Toot
6.30pm / 21/05 to 05/06/2010 / BATS theatre (www.bats.co.nz)
book@bats.co.nz / (04) 802 4175

devised by full.stop.theatre
directed by Edward Watson
performed by Cherie Jacobsen, Alex Lodge and Richard Falkner with the voices of Rachel More and others

Derek Flores’ particular brand of comedy is a very heady mix of shouting, satire and and laying his bleeding weeping soul profoundly bare for the audience to pick at like the twisted predators they are. He hurls his heart onto the stage like a rotting comedy lump of meat.

I’m not afraid to admit that in the past Flores’ persona (well, personas when you consider the multitude of alternative selves he slips into on stage, most famously El Jaguar his failed Mexican wrestler character) has run very hot and cold with me. He entertains by sheer force of personality. Sometimes he hits the humour button, sometimes it runs real dry.

With the debut of Improvalini, a new improv format in the 21st of May slot of WIT’s regular Thank God It’s… Improv Friday 11pm slot, Flores took the emotion exposure inherent in his work to its ultimate extent . Improvalini is named for genius Italian filmmaker Frederico Fellini who dealt with ideas of memory and the archetypes that run through our lives. Fellini always discussed these things on very personal terms. Flores hoped to recreate that same sense of dreamlike honesty at 11pm. At BATS. On a Friday. Big challenge.

Over the hour and a little bit that the show took, Flores took us on an improvised journey through his memories, angsts and neuroses, focusing on his fractious relationship with his father. “My father was an asshole,” was how Flores began the show.

There is a clear line of relationship between Improvalini and the practice of playback theatre. The difference being that in playback theatre the reenacted stories come not from the director but from the audience. This raising an interesting question of this show’s relationship with its audience. What are we to it? Witnesses? Bystanders? Victims? Therapists? Should we be laughing with Flores or at him? How much of the tragic clown do we need him to be?

Using his nattily dressed cast of Christine Brooks, Paul Sullivan, Woody Tuhiwhai, Danni Taylor, and Merrilee McCoy and accompained by the Robbie Ellis orchestra and Derran Woods on lights, Flores wove a distorted and complex hour of his deepest and most personal memories and moments. It was pretty funny. Not as funny as you would normally expect Friday night improv to be but that’s not the point here.

It was also maybe the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever seen. Which is not a bad thing. Within Flores’ search for meaning (my most abiding memory of the show was him attacking an audience member for not taking it seriously – “I just wanted to make something than means something.”), in his public journey inward, there were moments of the quite severely profound and the oddly beautiful.

While there was a large element of TMI to the show – a lot of my notes from the show itself read ‘Seriously?!’ or ‘Oh Jesus.’ – it never becomes too too much. While it may have been rather lost on the drunk Friday night crowd, I think that Flores succeed. This was a show that meant something.

The most enthralling part of the evening was watching Flores observe the improvised recreations of his past, his face was a compelling know of conflicted emotions. In the theatre it is so easy to learn to live without the true human emotion (I find myself going away from more and more plays thinking ‘It was good but I just didn’t feel anything.’) that should be omnipresent.

This show of Improvalini was a night of real proper emotion. It was was improv so often strives to be but so often fails to achieve – art. I will admit that I have reservations about the format in and of itself. It seems a little too built towards unappealing naval gazing. There is also a real question about how and where and when you’d program a longer season of this format.

The show that happened on the night of the twenty-first of May was really something, I just hope it wasn’t lightening in a bottle. One wonders how Flores could catch it in the same bottle.

This show lives in two very distinct, if not totally different worlds. It’s a gig, but it’s not a gig. It’s a play, but it’s not a play. Rosy Tin Teacaddy, the charming Wellington folk band consisting of Billy Earl and Betty Grey (aka Andy Hummel and Holly Jane Ewens) wrote and perform the show which mixes in a rather staccato fashion performances of their songs and extended scenelets which detail the songs creation. Coffee Cups and a Porridge Pot at Frying Pan Lake tells the tale of their 2009 Creative New Zealand funded trip to a cabin near Mount Tarawera to write their latest album.

Neither side of this show’s flipped coin of performance genre is any kind of failure. The music is, as a matter of course, wonderfully performed and delightfully listenable. The theatrical interludes (directed by Hannah Clarke and lit by Marcus McShane) are well achieved and designed, full of some exceedingly fine images and effortless spectacle. These interstitial moments, however, do quickly begin to run bit too long. Extended sequences of both band members reading from their journals very rapidly fall into being unwarrantedly self-indulgent.

The performers talents very clearly lean much more the musical than the theatrical. The fact simply lies that they are not actors flicks often across the show in the form of dead moments and needlessly mumbled lines.

But, no matter. These is a real sense achievement in Coffee Cups and a Porridge Pot at Frying Pan Lake, as if the very fact of pulling it off is enough. The music is great, the pictures are pretty, the lights are great. A good time to be had for all.

19-05 – 22-05-2010 / BATS theatre (www.bats.co.nz)

written and performed by Rosy Tin Teacaddy
directed by Hannah K. Clarke

Artist:Sleigh Bells
Album:Treats
Label: (N.E.E.T.)

Sleigh Bells is the latest in that unfortunately labelled line of ‘internet-hyped’ bands. A variety of leaked demos have established that Sleigh Bells is basically a pop band, but the one major difference being that these songs are LOUD. As in, official-entry-in-the-noise-wars loud. There are punk elements, hip-hop beats and even metal guitar riffs present here. One thing all these genres lack, especially when combined in an ear-blasting mix here, is subtlety. The first thing that comes to mind comparison-wise is Girl Talk, albeit a little less ADD, and with actual songs.

These are definitely pop songs, but there is an undercurrent of something seriously fucked up. Never before have youthful giggles and cheers sounded so menacing. After listening through, the album cover makes a lot of sense: a group of cheerleaders in one of their formations, hands on hips, faces crumpled in on themselves—pretty disturbing. It’s the polar opposite take on youth to M83’s dreamy and nostalgic Saturdays=Youth. This reimagines youth with bitchy cheerleaders and grungy drug-fuelled teenage parties.

But there’s something about Treats that makes me want to play it over and over on repeat: it’s addictive. Their sound is confrontational to say the least. There are moments of respite, as on the funked-up (and Funkadelic-sampling) ‘Rill Rill’, but mostly Sleigh Bells spend Treats crafting a sound that is uniquely theirs. Album opener ‘Tell ‘Em’ lets you know: “Adjust volume now” right up front, with its aggressive bass drum assault and metal guitar riff, and works as a perfect introduction to what’s to come. Lead singer Alexis Krauss used to be in a teen pop group, which makes sense: her vocals are a perfect blend of Sugababes and Alice Glass from Crystal Castles—breathy but violent—but somehow amidst the sonic chaos she mostly keeps her cool.

They are definitely a divisive group, just like their label owner M.I.A., but this is music deserving of strong reactions. The most important aspect of Treats, and something I probably haven’t stressed enough, is how much fun it is. It doesn’t take itself too seriously and knows exactly what it is: big loud party jams. And at that it succeeds.

Artist: The Tallest Man on Earth
Album: The Wild Hunt
Label: Dead Oceans

I love Highway 61 Revisited as much as anyone, but my favourite Dylan would have to be the pre-electric freewheeling folkster. So when I heard the first few seconds of ‘The Garden’ from The Tallest Man On Earth’s first album Shallow Grave, I assumed I’d come across a long-lost demo that had just come to light. But this man is not Mr Zimmerman at all; he’s not even American, despite that faux-southern twang in his voice. This man is from Sweden. It may seem strange at first, and even appear to be a gimmick. Some might criticise The Wild Hunt as being derivative, but they’d be missing the point. Is originality the only thing of value in music? What about a great melody, musicianship and even greater lyrics?

Kristian Mattson (birth name) clearly works hard to cut the fat off his songs. While Dylan could be a little hit-and-miss with his genius (Outrage! Criticism of Bob Dylan!), The Wild Hunt’s songs are carefully crafted and devoid of excess. Two albums in, and he has already created two modern folk classics filled with optimism and great stories.

What is the most surprising about Mattson is that he avoids the cringeworthy cheesiness that his music could potentially succumb to. A super-serious poet singing folk songs about heartache is enough to make some feel a little ill. But Mattson also sings of the desolate countryside of his home country, the changing seasons, faces remembered, loss, drunken nights and lessons learned in such an endearing way that it’s hard to fault him for being overly earnest.

Mattson is consistently excellent in constructing short pop folk songs with clear verses, bridges and choruses. Tight and brilliant folk, The Wild Hunt is simplicity at its best. It’s a relief to know that, no matter what studio gimmicks people use in their music in the current landscape, there is still room for an approach to the singer-songwriter cliché—a man, a guitar, great tunes—that manages to accomplish the difficult task of being both refreshing and completely compelling.

OMG!
REVIEWS!

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Improv Divas
Class Comedians
Dave Wiggans is Googling God

Dave Wiggans is an American who lives in Auckland. He’s also a Christian. Which is fine, I guess. I’m really not. And I couldn’t help but wonder going into his show Googling God how much that would affect my enjoyment. I shouldn’t really have worried. Wiggans, apart from being a very consumate showman, has done quite a good job of dealing with religion as subject without directly excluding any part of his potential audience. I say “quite a good job” because, well, his audience is still rather clearly a God-hugging one and he does pander that way a bit. Which is totally okay. How flippantly he occasionally deals the more extreme elements of religion (godhatesfags.com) isn’t so okay, though it must be stressed he comes out against such movements. This man knows his market and his sell-out season can only attest to his audiences reverence.

Wiggans is simply a funny guy. It’s real easy to enjoy the time you spend with him. I was never bored during the show. But my one major issue with the show was by its very nature, it reeked of other people’s laughs. Wiggans takes us on a tour of the internet results he found while googling God and as such, the show quickly resolves itself into him pointing out funny things he found online and occasionally forgetting to really add a joke to it. He needs to do just a little more than point his finger at other people’s funny.

Wed 12 – Sat 15 May / 8pm / BATS

Artist: Wolf Parade
Album: Expo 86
Label: Sub Pop

Wolf Parade’s new album has been described on Sub Pop’s site as sounding “sort of like INXS, but also, and mostly, not like INXS at all”. Which I quite like.

Expo 86 is the Montreal outfit’s third album released on Sub Pop. It was recorded in a fairly short amount of time, marking the end of a one-year hiatus, with writing starting in late October/November 2009. The theory behind their hiatus was that by the time they reconvened they would all be creatively recharged and brimming with ideas. And from the sound of it, they were right.

There’s a lot going on in Expo 86. It’s hard to believe that such a full fleshed out sound was churned out by just four members. Each song is overflowing with melody as guitars, synths and beats are layered up and tightly packed in. Rather than giving it a chaotic unsettling feel, all the elements come together harmoniously, bringing density and richness to the album.

Though I haven’t always been completely sold on Wolf Parade’s vocal stylings, this album did win me over. There’s a sense that the vocals are used as an additional instrument, rather than just a vehicle for melody and lyrics, and it works well with the exuberant musical arrangements.

While the album is smooth and well put together, it doesn’t feel over-produced. There’s a real raw, live quality that Wolf Parade have managed to maintain on the album. Upon investigation I found that this is due to the album being recorded largely live, with very few overdubs. This tactic really complements their self-professed aesthetic of maximalism. The absence of polishing lends itself to the sincerity of the songs and the album’s voluptuous sound.

Expo 86 is an unrelenting ride from start to finish, completely devoid of hollow or boring moments. Maintaining a swift, upbeat pace, it’s a seriously fun and charming album.

The Room – Roof Scene : Oh Hi Mark

The Room – Full Length Trailer

The other day, I perused an internet forum, as I am wont to do. On this forum, a discussion was being had on the nature of the brouhaha surrounding the film The Room. For those unfamiliar with Tommy Wiseau’s 2003 film, The Room tells the tale of Tommy Johnny (played by Wiseau), a man whose relationship with his ‘beautiful’ girlfriend Lisa is destroyed by the web of lies and deceit she weaves out of sheer boredom. Billed erroneously as a film “with the passion of Tennessee Williams”, it cost $7 million to make and shows absolutely none of it, bearing the production values and acting of a high school drama production. It’s but the latest in a long line of abysmal films made by people with the talent of a muskrat and the ego of a muskrat high on paint fumes.

The Room’s following, however, is the kind of thing that only comes along once in a bad moon. After making less than $2000 in its initial theatrical run, it grew into a sensation when Wiseau, buoyed by numerous emails thanking him for the film, began screening it once a month at a theatre in Los Angeles. Rituals began—spoon throwing, football throwing, insult throwing—and the cult slowly grew to the gargantuan proportions that exist today. The Room’s popularity has seen it played as an April Fool’s joke for the last two years on Comedy Central’s Adult Swim; Veronica Mars had an extended scene in one episode discussing the film; Alec Baldwin, Kristen Bell and Frank Black count themselves as fans. It is a cultural phenomenon, as pervasive as Tommy Wiseau’s pock-marked arse in the film’s myriad sex scenes and as addictive as the drugs Denny may or may not have purchased at one point during the film.

In the aforementioned serious internet discussion, one fellow referred to his dissatisfaction with the following surrounding The Room, calling it “forced”, and musing that people became part of it “because it was expected of them”. Naturally, I disagree, but the conversation that arose from this curmudgeon’s theorising gave rise to a consideration I hadn’t, um, considered. Namely—what makes us fall for a bad film? What is it that draws us inextricably to these creations, and, perhaps more importantly, what makes us choose these bad films? There’s plenty of awful cinema out there, but what is it that draws us to films like Plan 9 From Outer Space or The Room instead of the likes of Space Mutiny or The Happening?

The most obvious answer, on the face of it, is hubris. Many of the films that gain their popularity for being awfully brilliant are loaded with a misplaced self-importance or conviction in the necessity of their creation. The Room’s “passion of Tennessee Williams” has long overridden Wiseau’s attempts to retcon the film’s intent by saying it’s a black comedy; Plan 9 and other Ed Wood films are full of a sincerity that’s hard to shake; Neil LaBute’s remake of The Wicker Man is 100% all the way serious, misogyny and bear suits and bees and all, something validated by his earnest, borderline-pretentious director’s commentary on the DVD. We seem to find amusement in the delusions of others, laughing uncontrollably at just how completely inept they are at realising their own ambitions. It’s the cinematic equivalent of falling into a sewer and dying, as opposed to the cinematic equivalent of a papercut (which is arguably the trap The Happening and Snakes on a Plane fell into—there wasn’t enough of a fall).

However, evidence points to plenty of arrogant sons-of-bitches making bad films and not getting the following that others do. Perhaps, then, it’s less hubris and more a general sincerity. These people don’t believe they’ve made bad films, nor are they so egotistic as to claim their films are the best ever made; they’ve struck a middle ground between self-importance and honest passion. Ed Wood was utterly convinced that he was an auteur making films that spoke to people; Wiseau’s attempts to ‘fix’ the public’s perceptions of his films fail so emphatically that one can’t help but see how serious he once was; LaBute’s belief that his Wicker Man remake was a good film is solidified by the commentary and interviews in which he has been quoted as saying, among other things, that “All the good bits and none of the music” of the original were retained in his film. In comparison, David R. Ellis (Snakes on a Plane) and Joseph Kahn (Torque) were very much aware that what they were creating was over-the-top and comedic; and M. Night Shyamalan’s exceptional arrogance meant that audiences turned off The Happening and never embraced it in quite the same way they embraced The Room or Plan 9.

On top of that, however, there’s a key element which, when combined with the intentions of the creator, makes these cult films theoretically irresistible—how ridiculous the films actually are. Heightened drama, absurd stunts, bizarre characterisations, over-the-top acting, unnatural and ludicrous dialogue: all these factor into how we assess these films. While films like Plan 9 and The Room may be the cinematic equivalent of falling down a sewer and dying, it’s how fast they fall, how deep the drop is, and what they hit on the way down that makes it even better. The Happening may be hilarious, but a genuinely interesting conceit and flourishes that hint at competence wear down its acceptability as a truly awful masterpiece; in contrast, The Room never once hints at anything above idiocy. It is a film where a man can dry-hump a red dress and be presented as tragic. It is a film where a woman can mention she has breast cancer and never, ever have it brought up again in the narrative. It is a film where people throw footballs a metre between each other while wearing tuxedos. It’s lovably incompetent, and that, combined with the director’s genuine belief that he’s saying something that needs to be said, makes it spectacular.

That’s why we watch bad films and love them, I think. Not because it’s expected of us. But because they’re too ridiculous and too honest to deserve otherwise.

Having taken ENGL114, I can tell you with considerable expertise that this is a gothic novel, and it epitomises everything about the genre—the unreliable narrator, the vulnerable female fighting supernatural forces, and the potential for misinterpretation at every corner.

Set in 1891, Florence and Giles is the story of 12-year-old Florence and her half brother Giles, both orphans and left to grow up in seclusion at an austere New England mansion. Forbidden education by her (guardian) uncle, Florence teaches herself to read and prostitutes her literacy by devouring anything she can get her hands on during secret visits to the mansion’s library. She and Giles have a swell old time running wild and whatnot, until their uncle decides the time is right to install a governess, who promptly drowns in an eerie, almost unexplained accident. Her replacement is Miss Taylor, a mysterious woman who, according to Florence, inhabits mirrors, walks on water, and plans to kidnap Giles, who she’s developed a boa constrictor-like attachment to.

There’s something sinister going on and it isn’t just The Turn of the Screw salutations. Florence herself is one of life’s straight talkers. She comes off as a sort of mischievous Hermione Granger, all precocious and shit, but like any neglected child she’s a little too clever for her own good, and as it turns out, everyone else is good too.

Beware her idiosyncratic writing style—as narrator Florence has us all at her mercy and the entire story is seasoned with made-up words that turn nouns in to verbs (case in point: “I downstairsed quick”). The book is actually quite good, beginning as a nineteenth century Nancy Drew story and ending as a velveteen warning that even sweet orphaned kids can be evil masterminds.