Melbourne: the shame

One wonders what countries were inflicted with telecasts of the Commonwealth Games Closing ceremony. The fewer the better.
If the opening was a cringe-making affair, the closing was a display of gauche parochialism on the most spectacular scale. Melbourne is besotted with Melbourne. Melbourne celebrates Melbourne. Everything is about Melbourne, to the boorish exclusion of the rest of the country and the Commonwealth. And so, with a terrifying lack of taste let alone sophistication, the ceremony featured dull rock music accompanied by football players and ballet dancers in football colours. Melbourne is the world headquarters of football, don't you know. The Grand Prix made it in there, too. And, for some reason, photos of people's relatives to convey the message that Melbourne is the great cultural melting pot. Doh. Just like the rest of the country - but don't tell Melbourne. It thinks it is unique.
I had to watch the closing ceremony out of macabre fascination - hoping that perhaps it may be better than the opening. Hopes dashed by the Melbourne-centric obsession and the general choregraphic mess and hotch-potch of half-baked, self-aggrandising ideas.
Redemption came in the form of the Indians. As their teaser for the 2010 Games in Delhi, they turned on Bollywood delights complete with giant elephant floats and myriad well-wrought and jolly cultural representations - including, of all things, Bollywood hip hop. It was a vivid, celebratory joy. India may not have won as many medals as Australia, but it won the ceremony production stakes hands down.

Of course, medals are the rub of the Commonwealth Games. India scored only 50 to Australia's 221 (with England at 110 and Canada at 86). The competing countries include Tuvalu, Nauru, Malta, Botswana, the Maldives, Belize, Kiribati, Bangladesh, Grenada, Tonga and Papua New Guinea. Funnily enough, these are not countries who can invest vast amounts into institutes of sport, not countries in which sport is the big priority. So the significance of these games is questionable. One may call it a vast waste of money.

Hiss and miss

The lack of grace in losing goes on in South Australia. It has been an astonishing display of venom and sour grapes from the Liberals who were defeated by a landslide in the elections on the weekend.
Their hissing and spitting is not worthy of professional politicians. Somewhere along the line, they have to show some respect for the voters. The voters made a choice and the power is theirs. Losing politicians should acknowledge this with some degree of humility if they are to win the voters back.

Journalists making news

Good to see journalists making their way into the nitty-gritty of politics. At this State election we have the divine Chloe Fox with a runaway victory over a popular veteran politician and the ebullient Leon "Biggles" Bignell who also made a comfortable win for Labor. Then there is Grace Portolesi, former political media advisor and wife of one of our top journalists. And we could amost count Russell Wortley, a career trade unionist but married to the former head of the journalist's union, Senator Dana Wortley. We can call him cousin to the profession, I think. Certainly he has lived close to our issues for many years.
One must not forget, of course, that the State Premier, Mike Rann, whose popularity as leader generated this landslide back to Labor Government, also was once a journalist.
Truly may we say that the wordsmiths rule in South Australia.

Election sour grapes

There can be a nobility in defeat, or at least dignity. Not so here in South Australia for the conservative Liberals after the spectacular trouncing they suffered to Labor in the State Elections today. Rather than admit that they had been bettered in the polls, they chorused a line of sour grapes carping that, obviously, had been the on-the-spot brainchild of one of their spin doctors. Their line was that the voters had been naive because they had not understood that Labor's success in Government and the healthy state of the State was really due to the national Liberal Government's economic policy out of Canberra. And these voters were in for a big, dire shock.
Now had the Liberals thought of this line of argument before their defeat, they might have used it as campaign material. If it was true, of course. But it is the first we have heard of it. If it was true, they have been seriously remiss in not alerting the State to this potentially dire situation long since. Why wait until they lose an election?
I think we may have respected them more had they acknowledged that they had been outvoted and congratulated the victor.

Commonwealth Games gripes

Quel dogs dinner was the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony! It was one of those overproduced messes that looked as if it had been designed by committee. There was an overdose of "cute" and a desperate sense of plagiarism. Sydney Olympics had a little girl being awakened to wild imaginings...we can be different and do it with a boy. Gee. And a duck. I didn't mind the flying tram which others seem to find cringe-making. The old tram is undisputed as the Melbourne hallmark. But the flying dancers and boats and swings and visual fruit salad of bits and pieces was plain bad television and one can only hope it looked a bit more co-ordinated and thematically coherent from the grandstands. $50 million was spent on the Games opening extravanganza. No comment, methinks. Only the general conclusion that perhaps it is time to scale down these absurd provincial back-patting rituals and think of some other way to celebrate openings of large sports events. The ideas have run dry. They are trying too hard. The Melbourne event had an air of desperation to it. It was embarrassing. Time to let go.

As for the Australian athletes. They made one cringe, too. Seventy international teams came out with some degree of dignity. The Aussies walk into the arena and starting screaming the idiot excitement "whoop whoop" and lunging at the television cameras to stick their tongues out and shout at their mothers. Unruly, stupid, undisciplined children. I felt ashamed.

Festivalled out

Another magnificent Festival, Fringe and Womadelaide season draws to a close leaving us sated and exhausted. From the work perspective it was a matter of just making it through to the end of almost a month of review nights on top of working days - coming to the point where one was so tired that one could not sleep. Which is now. Well, the last week. A bad time to put straws on the old camel's back. But the workplace is nothing but straws.
The theatrical experiences have been rewarding - from the spectacular Berlin production of "Nora" to Angelica Torn's dazzling one-woman "Edge" performance, embodying Sylvia Plath in a skilfully-written play by Paul Alexander. There was the Stephen Sewell play, "Three Furies" on the life of Francis Bacon, a Beckett-like Irish piece called "Trad", the topical new play on cloning, "Honk if you are Jesus" by Peter Goldsworthy...there was, there was, there was.... I reviewed about 45 works, only a fraction of the massive arts entity, but largely the best part.
And, of course, it is always contenting to see the city bubbling with the sort of life the Festival brings. It's a feeling of joy - a city sharing joy. The parklands glittering and shimmering with tent theatres, cabaret, burlesque, circus and even pleasure rides for children. The river amassed with audiences 50,000 strong to see free site-specific peformances. The Persian Garden festival club crowded with convivial after-show party people. The lively hum in the piece of park where Writers' Week takes place beneath the grand marquees - the elegant sprawl of readers en masse, listening to writers talking about writing. The sounds of jazz and blues emanating from backstreet clubs. Queues of young people lined up for comedy shows. The sidewalk restaurants and cafes packed late into the night...which is not really festival-exclusive, but seems somehow more bubbling at festival time. Oh, it is all very nice. Very civilized. And I reflect on what a charming city this is.

Festering on

Festival time in Adelaide - and its 7-days a week, 16 hours a day for those of us on the reviewing team. Physical exhaustion seems offset by some strange energy which artistes give off in their best work - in other words, good shows keep us up and powering while duds sap the spirit and drain the stamina.

But, while we may be weary and bouncing off the walls, we are not complaining. We are always happy when the fecundity of the creative spirit surrounds us at Festivals. Well, perhaps we get a little bit snippy with some of the publicists who send us email attachments and hard copy and then pester us on the phone to see if we have things. It would not be so bad if there were fewer of them - but, talking about fecundity, publicists seem to do nothing but multiply these days. There's a bloody plague of them.

Here today and GM tomorrow

Genetically modifed crops were introduced secretively to agriculture with such indecent haste that one could only wonder what on earth was going on. Why the rush? Why the push? Why the aggression? Why the corporate paranoia?
There are many things to be said in favour of gene technology. Very many things. Their promise is immeasurable.
But there is something worrying about the way the agro biochemical mobs went about trialling their crops, about the very politics of the process and about their extraordinary hostility towards other parts of agriculture, especially the organic.
I had cause to do research on all of this some years ago and the results were disturbing, to say the least.
The big biochem corporations have won their battles. GM crops now are ubiquitous in many parts of the world.
There has been hope that we could hold out here and keep our crops green as a niche market. But, thanks to a former agriculture minister, one Rob Kerin, a former ag-chem salesman, the biochems were given a secret door into our landscape. I do recall the way in which he dismissed me as some sort of ignorant little woman when I asked him about the benefits of GM-free crops. He told me it would be impossible. It would cost too much.
We have had a holding pattern of sorts, a ban under a GM Crops Management Act. But it expires next year. The Democrats are trying to have it extended - and good on them.
It turns out that the Japanese are prepared to pay us premium prices for GM-free canola that we are growing on the wilderness environment of Kangaroo Island - proving that GM-free status is a lucrative niche market.
Japan is scouring the world with its wallet open looking for GM-free products. Europe, too.

But politics and corporate handshakes are a law unto themselves.
They are used to having their own way - buying their dominance.
Wait for the campaign to demean those who promote the idea of GM-free as a market advantage. Watch the barrage of the old hate invective....greenies, hippies, tree-huggers.
Politicians' interests are short-term. They would rather feather their nests with cosy arrangements with their biochem buddies than leave a clean future for their children. It just makes one so very, very sad.

Water, water, everywhere...

The cult of drinking bottled water is turning into an environmental catastrophe. The springs are being sucked dry to satisfy the thirst of those who wish to pay large amounts to have their water designer labelled. And then there are all the plastic bottles that become the wasteful by-product of their indulgence. What a consumerist farce.

I have always found those water-sucking trendies rather farcical. Their obsession with hydration is such that they can't move without their bottles. They take them to work, they take them shopping, they take them to the theatre, for heaven's sake. Now when it our metabolisms change so much that we were unable to go 90 minutes without fluid? When did we begin to require constant top-ups?
Never.
It is all marketing. People are slaves to fashions, cults, theories, advertising. They don't stop to ask how logical is this absurd excess. They believe, like some new religion. They mimic each other, terrified of being left out.
And they are suckers not only of water, but of the current myth that it is an essential lifestyle accessory.

Sssh...don't 'tell 'em. Some naughty water companies are selling them tap water. It seems designer water drinkers can't tell the difference.

Gunning for Cheney

Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face. Apparently, he mistook 78-year-old Mr Whittington for a quail.
Big men out shooting tiny birds with broad-spreading shotgun pellets. Hunters! Great white hunters. What fun for them. How brave they are. And, to make sure the big men do not miss the little birds they must have lots of shot. Enough shot to cover a man from head to chest. How sporting. How skilful.

How approximate do you have to be to be a good shot, I wonder? I hear Cheney is very experienced. But does this hot shot take his pot shots for the pot? No, I'm sure that the little birds would not be worth eating when they are peppered with shot. So what reason could there be for rich, powerful men to spend their time and money on inefficently killing tiny wee birdies which can barely fly??

I guess they have to shoot them because they are an environmental issue. Nasty little quail ravaging the delicate ecosystem. Thank heavens for Republican environmental activists such as Cheney and his ilk. Ridding the landscape of evil little birds.

Poor Cheney's bag count must have gone down with that accident. Well, at least he hit something, even if it was not a tiny little bird.


Dontcha love big strong men with guns?

Camping @ Brokeback

Brokeback Mountain is running full steam ahead towards the promise of Oscars. Everyone is gushing about it. A bit of censorship controversy did not hurt it at all - and one can always wonder if it was engineered in any way. Ang Lee is one of the great directors. No arguments. It is Heath Ledger's finest moment. No arguments. But why is everyone getting so carried away?
Because it is a gay movie. Which, people seem to keep trying to deny. How odd. It is is gay movie! It is about two handsome, uneducated country men who fall in love and spend the rest of their lives having clandestine assignations at the place where this great love was born. The place, of coourse, is Brokeback Mountain. Gay men of the 60s tended to marry to protect themselves from the stigma of homosexuality, for that is how it was then. And, fortunately, Annie Proulx, in writing the story on which this film was based, and Ang Lee, in making it, have allowed the damage wrought upon women to be portrayed. Of course, it is not the big thing of the male love story. It is incidental collateral damage.
I know women who married gay men, not knowing they were gay. I find this deception callous and self-interested. I can't feel the sympathy I am supposed to feel. It is not a moral judgement about gayness, since that is not an issue for me. It is about honesty and integrity. It is about fidelty and trust.
Here comes a movie which attempts to justify the brutality of this misuse of women in the name of a greater love between men.
It might come as a huge novelty to the ingenuous American cinema public and the equally ingenuous but ever good-cause-driven Hollywood crowd - but not to this little black duck.
However, I am putting my two dollars into the tipping cap - since for those reasons alone, just to show how broad-minded and enlightened they all are, they will vote Brokeback to the trophy top.

But, of course, the dividend is that all those men who like to go fishing and camping out in the woods with the blokes are now going to be highly suspect. Camping out with the boys now takes on a much camper meaning.

Who put the slam in Islam?

The responses of Islam are always worrisome. It is a faith which keeps us in line with quite fearsome discipline. One word out of place and we are fair game for the most violent and vindictive retaliation. It is all pretty unforgiving.
It perplexes me, since I know some very gentle Muslims and in my readings about Islam over the years, I have found is creeds to be kindly and rational. Islam, whence came the sciences. Islam, which respects Christianity's "son of God" as a prophet. Islam, which welcomes the wayfarer and will never let a beggar be ignored.

Where has the break occurred that spawned this other form of Islamic fury wherein the world must walk on glass for fear of inciting vengeance?
Those Danish cartoons are mainly offensive in their complete lack of humour. They are lousy cartoons. Gratuitious. But, I understand the paper had a competition going and they are not "proper" cartoons by cartoonists of distinction. Which makes it all the sillier. Plain dumb.
Blind Freddy could have told them that Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) is never to be portrayed as an image. From the West, it is a common courtesy to respect this. The Danes did it as an idiot provocation and it worked.
Now we are all in the middle of an emotive kerfuffle and Islam has an excuse for yet more fury at the rest of the world.
I never did work out what the Buddhists did to earn those ancient giant statues being destroyed in Afghanistan. I am sure it was nothing as terrible as drawing rude images of Mohammed (Peace Be Upon Him).

Luminous, luminous, all is luminous

Every so often a word erupts from the pleasant world of general expression to have its beauty and relevance ripped to pieces by overuse. Of the moment, "luminous" has emerged. It is one of the lyrical words which had its place in the language. But now its place is all over the place. The last straw was hearing some Hollywood type thanking her "luminous daughter" for being in her life. We now have luminous people! As well as luminous days, luminous events and even luminous meals. And thus does luminous go the way of serendipity and matrix, paradigm and parameter, awesome and resonate...

Proving climate change

Just as old-timers say that they feel the weather changing in their bones and their old wounds are like barometers, I say that I can discern climate change with my hair.

These many long years, my longish hair has stayed smooth and tidy with the usual 3-day wash-and-blowdry routine. When I am in Adelaide where the air is clean and dry.
If I go to Bali or to New England or Georgia, or sometimes even to Sydney, I am in bad-hair-day territory. The humidity makes my hair unruly. I have to tie it up, wear caps, hairclips, copious lotions...

Until this summer, I have never had to do any of these things in Adelaide. My wavy hair accepted its straightening discliplines and maintained a constant, ever-recognisable style.
Now it is rebellious, day after day. Even if I were to do the blow-dry treatment every morning, I'd be lucky to have it tidy by lunchtime.

This is a basic and major change. It is something I can observe. And that means it is evidence. How much do I have to reiterate this in argument against the naysayers who insist that the dewpoint is low and that it is really not humid? What is wrong with their powers of observation? It is Blind Freddy department.

Our climate has changed! It is different. Humidity has come to the driest city on the driest continent. It is not as it was. Why can the climate curmudgeons not be convinced of this? Bald obstinacy, I'd call it.