All posts by Steve Lovell

Driftin’ Away and Blaming Rich

sport

‘Don’t buy it Rich. Don’t buy it! Why would you want something that big???’ would have been my advice, except he never asked for it. Naturally he wouldn’t consult with me – why should he? But I’ll blame him any way. With that purchase of his and his lovely wife Shan’s, the dye was well and truly cast.

I am the direct opposite to you Monica Dux, the direct opposite. But it’s waning, dear me, it’s waning.

My beautiful Leigh is the love of my life and sharing an abode with her here by the river is pure bliss. She is many things to me, almost everything. But one aspect of life we do not share, to any degree, is a passion for the native game. She is not a footy person and I respect that, just as she respects my lack of enthusiasm when it comes to stage musicals, which I find, to quote Monica ‘….silly, nonsensical and boring’ (unless rock music is attached). I do admire, though, women with a passion for Aussie rules, like my dear friends Steph, with her devotion to Essendon and Laurel, the Cats.

I hasten to add that Leigh doesn’t actually hate the game – she’s just ambivalent to it. She’ll watch a bit of pre-game carry-on with me, or maybe enjoy a bit of the repartee on ‘Footy Classified’, but as for actually watching a game she’s not interested, just as I wouldn’t be sitting with her through ‘The Sound of Music’ or ‘Cats’ in any way, shape or form. Nor would I expect her to give up pole position in the lounge room so I can watch the footy in the main arena and send her off to watch ‘Big Bang Theory’ in another room. In the past it’s been my practice to do that – to take myself off to the small screen in the spare room. Once upon a time I was perfectly happy to do so, but not anymore. And so now I am worried, that in the digital age, I’m driftin’ away, bit by bit, driftin’ away. It seems I’m doing the same with AFL as I once did with cricket. If passion for a sport is measured by viewing hours – well, I’m almost gone.

There are reasons for it – and not one is to do with the state of the game, so bandied about in the media. I dispute the claim that the style of play these days makes it less of a visual attraction. With footy, you won’t hear me saying it was so much better back in the day

So the first reason for my slow drift away has already been alluded to. I just enjoy my lady’s company – simple as that. Watching a show together, tucked up in the lounge room, is just so pleasurable. We can discuss our shows, often including testing ourselves as to exactly who is that actor we know we know but just cannot place. Then there’s her delightful habit of disputing the way certain medical procedures are done and I’m blessed with her perceptiveness in finding holes in the story that I always miss, especially when it comes to continuity. And as I watch and engage with her, I am able, all the while, to sit in comfort on our new sofa with a device in my hand that keeps tabs on the scores, be it from the summer or winter game. Perhaps the sofa, too, is a cause of the issue in itself.

Another reason is that we are in the midst of a golden age of television, or so we are repeatedly told. And I wouldn’t demur from that conclusion. So many platforms now that we have added Netflix and Stan; so many excellent series that these days movies on the small screen do not get a look in. Given the choice between watching the Gold Coast play Carlton or Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons taking on the world in Game of Thrones, it’s no contest for me. Which would you choose?

And the ads. OMG the ads. After every goal, every single one – and often there are two in succession shouting at you to buy wood-fired heaters or bargains at Hardly Normal. They drive me, especially when a team has a run on or it’s getting towards the end in a tight one, bananas. Just ruins the flow, detracts immensely from the spectacle. I know I could go ad free for a not expensive amount, but it’s hardly worth it given, yes, I’m inexorably driftin’ away.

Maybe, just maybe, a factor could be that I am totally sated. My cup has runneth over supporting the Hawks, they at least having given me one, if not more, premierships in all the decades of my life since the Sixties. What more could a follower ask of his/her team? The Doggies winning in ’16 and the Tigers last year, because they’re both such great stories, gave me perhaps as much, if not even more, pleasure than if Hawthorn had emerged victorious in the final dance again.

I’ll never, ever become Ms Dux in my attitude to the sport. I still relish reading about a Hawthorn victory in the Age and the opinions of its columnists on footy matters, especially now with Robert Murphy back in the fold. I could still hold my own in any conversation about the weekend’s results. But, increasingly, it’s becoming a smaller and smaller part of my life.

And lastly, I blame you Richard Lovell. That big screen television of yours and Shan’s, that I get all to myself when I’m house/Memphis sitting whilst you both are somewhere sunny, is a trap. And up at Bridport, last weekend, I watched a whole game for the first time this season – the Swans v West Coast – and I almost swooned with the ecstasy of it. It was a terrific contest – imagine how crabby I was the following Sunday when I fired it up to watch the Tigers/Geelong match up only to find, bless their hearts, it wasn’t on Southern Cross! Now going from that to the little screen in the spare room just doesn’t cut it. And whereas the giant screen is perfectly at home in your spacious abode, Rich, it would indeed look ridiculous in ours. What we have, for me, is just fine – but, at home, I’ll simply be driftin’ away.

Monica Dux’s column = https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/carn-the-phantom-why-its-time-for-musical-theatre-to-outscore-afl-20180518-h10822.html

Mothers Day with Joe

historical, sport, Travel

Joe played his first test against the touring English and visited their shores four times. In all he played thirty-one tests against our old cricketing foe. He captained his country in eighteen of those. It took Bradman to lead the Australian XI more times to that point. He, Joe, was a thick set man in the Boon tradition and also mightily powerful with the bat. He was courageous against speed in those unhelmeted times, could defend with stoicism and build an innings by slow aggregation. He figured in some mighty stands. But, when it called for it, he could swashbuckle his way to a ton in the blink of an eye. He once held the record for the fastest century against the Poms. He also took on the South Africans once they came into the test fold.

My lovely Leigh and I, for various reasons, did not travel north this year to celebrate Mothers Day with our wonderful Mums, but nonetheless we wanted to do something to mark the day, something a little different perhaps – something we normally wouldn’t do. In the lead up to it Leigh saw an ad, I readily agreed and she made a booking.

Joe was born at Glen Ormond in South Australia, the son of a well-to-do merchant. He attended the Prince Alfred College in that state’s capital, quickly demonstrating his prowess with the willow. He once set a schoolboy record, scoring 252 against a neighbouring educational institution. He also was proficient at the native game, playing footy at a high level. After his school years he moved on to an agricultural college, before managing one of the family’s wheat farms. Later he returned to Adelaide to marry and open a sports store on Rundle Street. His father, John, saw his business potential and started to groom him to take over the family firm and was not happy when his son was selected to play his sport at the highest level for South Australia. Over time his wife, Alice, gave him ten sons and five daughters so Joe was soon to have trouble balancing his life between representative cricket, family and business. Could he make a go of it in all three arenas? Only time would tell.

The journey on that most recent of Mothers Days was only a short one, just into the nearby suburb of Claremont. The location of our repast was to be an elegant mansion that was once, before the area became built up, the most dominant feature on the landscape for miles. Now it is largely hidden from view of the major thoroughfares. A chocolate factory is now the feature most commonly associated with Claremont, but once upon a time it was this house. A recent benefactor had lovingly bought the building back to life as in previous decades it had fallen into decrepitude. It is now open to the public for tours, high teas and special occasion functions such as ours.

To start with his sporting passion won out for Joe, but the time away from family weighed heavily. Then his father pulled the mat right out from under him. John purchased a large property and informed his son he was to manage it. Joe retired from cricket and followed his old man’s orders. But his country needed him and he was soon back in whites, succumbing to pressure to take over the national side as captain. He tried to battle on in that role for a few more years, but age and weariness caught up with him. He was doing too much and had to slow down, seeing him give away the game at the highest level to return to his holdings and his ever growing family. Part of the trouble was where his father’s land was situated – almost in the middle of Tasmania, just outside Oatlands.

Claremont House was radiant in the dusk as we arrived. Entering, we were impressed by the capability of the restorers who had taken it back to something akin to how it must have looked in its heyday. On its originally prominent site it began life, around 1840, as a four-roomed Georgian home, gradually morphing into its present day form as a mansion in the Italianate style. The land it was established on was once owned by another iconic figure, one of the founders of Melbourne, John Pascoe Fawkner. He put it up for sale in 1826 for it to be purchased by another mover and shaker of those early days in the colony, Henry Bilton. He built the first structures on site, including the cottage, by 1840 transforming it into a substantial house of rendered brick. Fast forward to 1858 and Bilton had increased his land holdings around it to 350 acres. Being childless, on his death in 1889, the land was sub-divided and sold off. Parliamentarian Frank Bond became the new owner of the house itself, adding extra rooms to his Claremont edifice and constructing its tower. Twenty-one year old Kathleen Brook purchased the property in 1911and with her wealth it soon became a centre of the local social scene for the well-to-do.

Stuck in the middle of Tassie, Joe was far away from any substantial social scene, something Alice probably would have felt quite keenly. But being in that part of the world had some advantages for her husband. He found a new passion – politics, initially throwing himself into the various farming associations whose function it was to gain better deals for the man on the land. But Alice was hankering for a more urbane existence and it was her that saw an advertisement in the press for a substantial house to house a substantial family by the Derwent, not too far out of Hobart. It was also right on the road north to Stonehenge, their Midlands residence. Perfect. She quickly purchased it on Joe’s behalf and they moved in in 1920. And soon Joe started to set his sights on taking his political ambition one step further. He became the MLC for Cambridge in ’21 and served that electorate in the Legislative Council until 1941.

I wouldn’t rave about the tucker, but there was plenty of it, being a buffet – and it was palatable enough. But it was the plush surrounds, on that second Sunday in May, that really appealed. The food was being served in a large room dominated by an expansive billiard table. And on this was arranged all sorts of memorabilia that fascinated this diner, including from Joe’s tenure at the stately home. Amongst it was a plethora of photos from his time as a cricketer, including a snap of him arm in arm with the great WG, as well as one of the man he called his ‘white-haired boy’, Victor Trumper. I was so engaged I almost totally forgot about my stomach and the gorgeous date waiting for me back at our table. Also featured, from more recent times, was an image of the current owner with Dame Helen Mirren.

Along with politics the former cricketer was partial to automobiles, converting the coaching house to hold his collection of six expensive models. Sadly, though, time marches on and with his children grown up and largely dispersed, the place became too onerous for the ageing couple to manage. He sold it to the Red Cross in 1940 to be used as a convalescent home for the war wounded.

It was a delightful evening at Claremont House for Leigh and I, well worth the cost of the meal for all that history. My lady has vowed to return to partake of the tour and high tea and I would encourage any visitors to our fair city to do the same.

Joe Darling CBE saw his later years sadly mired in controversy as he dared to take on the might of the Forestry Department whose practices, back in the day, were every bit as dubious as they have been in a more recent era. He accused the minister and some officials of taking bribes and demanded a royal commission. The evidence he presented was so compelling that this was finally granted – something that did not earn him friends, but served to demonstrate the man himself hadn’t changed much from his days leading our nation on the cricketing fields of the world. He won out in the end, but did not live to see the outcome, passing on in 1946. He was the last surviving member of the soon to be federated nation’s touring party of 1896, dying only thirteen days later than fellow Tasmanian tourist of that team, mate and local parliamentarian CJ Eady. Joe is buried at Cornelian Bay. I wonder what the great man would have made of twenty/twenty, IPA and dare I say it, the current ball-tampering farce? I daresay he’d turn in his grave by the river.

Claremont House website = http://claremonthouse.com.au/

Pink, Jack and the Point of it All

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It was in my early months of retirement and I was sitting next to him at an end of the year work function. He was a doctor at my lovely Leigh’s place of work; the practice where she plied her profession as a nurse. At a glance I’d say he was older than myself, but who knows? We chatted away haltingly, as you do with someone you don’t really know all that well, looking for common ground. I probed away with cricket, footy, travel and even the weather, but eventually what we had was the end of our working days. He was obviously thinking about pulling the plug, I was still feeling my way into it after doing so. Breaking free from the nine to five was strange at first, but by the time I was sitting next to Jack, I was starting to feel pretty good about it. And the notion was our starting point through which, as the evening proceeded, we began to get to know each other in a bit more depth.

After reading Ms Coslovich’s column, I returned to my own private phobia of the colour. Of course, these days, if I had a grandson, using ‘too girly’, if he had of picked out ‘…the glittery pink journal’, would not have passed my lips, but would I have still discouraged him from buying it? I suspect he would find out soon enough in any case. But I wonder if it would have been the same way back when my own cherished son was a little tacker? It’s so long ago now, but maybe. I know I’ve an illogical aversion to the hue and the male gender. I’d happily buy pink for my equally cherished granddaughters. Unlike, though, the sartorially elegant Michael Portillo, with his pink jackets and strides adorning his person as he gads about the English countryside on his trains, I could never wear it. I’ve even fallen short of buying a book by a favourite author because it was too pink for me to take to the counter, let alone to be seen out in public reading it. There are some advantages in e-books.

He asked me how I put in my time; how did I fill up the days? I replied that, so far, my post-teaching days had been full and rewarding – and that wasn’t just idle chat. That was decidedly the case. I explained I could now see every movie I aspired to, read every book that tempted me (that may have been just a little fib I was to discover), catch up on all the old tele series I was forced to miss during term time and go on to wholly enjoy what we now know as the golden age of the small screen. And I confided to him that I wrote. Jack took an interest in that, asking what I put pen to paper about. ‘Whatever comes into my head,’ I responded. I told him about my blog, the Blue Room, my digitally savvy daughter had set up for me. He told me he was totally ignorant of blogs, so I gave him some more detail about how they operated.

I like Gabriella C’s short piece ‘Handle Messages with Kid Gloves’. I liked her yarn about the two men, the contrast between the guy learning Spanish and the one disappointing his son over the pink diary. I guess, if anything, with my scribing, I fancy myself as a columnist like Gabriella – or a Bernard Salt, Martin Flanagan, Tony Wright or Wendy Squires, just to name a few of my favourites. That is, writing for a wide public consumption. But I know, particularly at my age, that’ll never be the case. But does that matter? In no way is it a burning ambition.

Then Jack asked the inevitable question – the one I knew he would ask. ‘Well, what’s the point if nobody reads it?’ I could add,’What’s the point if few ‘like’ my Facebook or ‘heart’ my Instagram posts?’ I counted the medico’s query with words akin to that first father’s out with his lad – ‘And not everything need(s) to have a purpose; you could do something for the pure enjoyment’. Just as he did with his foreign language lessons; just as I do with my writing. Like the comparison with the truck driver, I know I’ll never be a writer. But it is important to me that I can write. That few respond to my blogs or anything I place out into the ether is of little concern to me. It’s the process of doing so that gives me the utmost pleasure. Isn’t that enough?

My Leigh now works elsewhere, in another medical practice, although I still go to her previous place of employment as my own terrific doctor still hangs his shingle there. I hadn’t seen Jack around the place in quite a while, but last week I had reason to again visit and there he was. He breezed through whilst I was waiting for my consultation, gave me a cheery wave and greeting before continuing on his way. Perhaps he was now part-time; perhaps he’d decided retirement wasn’t for him, that he wasn’t ready. It doesn’t matter. He’ll know when the time’s right. Back in ’11 I knew it was and have never regretted the decision, even if some might feel what I do with it might be indeed pointless. I love my life today and that’s good enough for me.

Ms Coslovich’s column – https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/m19columnist-20180509-h0zv6x.html

Two Days – Two State Visits

Movie Reviews

For a while, nothing. Then, all of a sudden, there was a plethora of enticing new movies airing at the State – in my eyes of course. So obviously my usual routine of a movie a week would have to be upped. I triaged these releases according to the amount of staying power they would have at the venue. ‘Chappaquiddick’ had the least number of screenings per day, so it was my obvious first choice.

This is an offering for my generation. When I was chatting to my beautiful savvy daughter about it, the strange word meant little to her. She’d vaguely heard of the small island off the eastern end of Martha’s Vineyard, that playground for the rich and famous, but had little notion of it’s significance for the career of the scion of the most notable American political family of the latter half of last century. On it an event occurred, on the same day that man first walked on the moon, that would similarly reverberate down through the decades. And questions remain unanswered. Was he or wasn’t he in a relationship with Mary Jo Kopechne? How hard did he try to save her? Just why did it take him so long to contact authorities? Mary Jo (Kate Mara) was a promising campaign operative still grieving the loss of Teddy Kennedy’s big brother Bobby. As a result of her losing her life that night, when Edward Kennedy drove off the bridge, plunging into a creek on the island, his quest to follow a brother into the White House was over. He served the nation well the following decades, but he could never make up for that deed.

Jason Clarke is quite convincing as the presidential hopeful and we have fine performances from Ed Helms and Bruce Dern in their roles, particularly the latter as father Joe. John Curran’s re-imaging is absorbing enough, but he gets it very wrong in one sequence. When the Democratic Party’s big guns gather to spin Kennedy out of his mess, the overly choreographed reactions to each of Teddy’s revelations, seemingly played for laughs, were so out of kilter as to be jarring. That lost it points for this viewer. After the Dallas assassination and Robert’s murder, Chappaquiddick marked the final death knell of Camelot continuing for the USA. What the big brothers promised, little bro threw away finally and forever.

And there’s a touch of ‘ Chappaquiddick’ in ‘Tully’ to which I accompanied my lovely lady the following day – as well as a hint of ‘The Shape of Water’. There’s a vast difference between the world of America’s political elite and that of Marlo (Charlize Theron) and her family. She, at movie’s start, has one on the way, but is already struggling with an autistic son and a put upon daughter. Hubby, a loving but somewhat disengaged character, is submerged by his work and tiredness. Marlo doesn’t get a break with her son struggling at school and her lack of energy. She can’t even manage to put decent food on the table. She’s definitely in need of a circuit breaker and along it comes, once a newborn is released from the womb. Her rich brother provides her with a night nanny (MacKenzie Davis) – something I didn’t know existed and who are evidently life-savers for well-to-do US mums. The nanny takes control of the situation as Marlo starts to get her life back.

This is an excellent offering, a tribute to writer Diablo Cody, director Jason Reitman and their lead actress in a role low on glamour but high on spunk.

As the relationship between Marlo and her night help, Tully, develops, an uneasy feeling emerges that something isn’t quite right. But when the saga takes a very unexpected turn, it still comes as a shock. What were the clues along the way? This is what Leigh and I chatted about as we drove home in the aftermath.

Theron is marvellous and I enjoyed Ron Livingston as the dad Drew. This is billed as a comedy and there is some dark humour, but it’s much, much more than that. See it if you can.

There are more movies to get to at the State in the weeks ahead before I go north. I’ve my fingers crossed I can manage to see them all. I am back there today.

Trailer for ‘Chappaquiddick’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qG-c8DtOm9g

Trailer for ‘Tully’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRtBP07gIHY

Extinctions – Josephine Wilson

Book Reviews

Worthy. That’s the best description of Wilson’s novel. It was a worthy winner of last year’s Miles Franklin. It will never be looked back on as a great winner, but there’s no doubt of the author’s worthiness in turning a collection of words worth our while perusing. This tome, unlike many other winners of the prestigious award, had not been purchased but passed on to me. The words my writerly daughter used were, ‘You’ll enjoy this.’ She knows. I did.

There is a worthy trend in British film making at the moment, with many of their great thesps getting on in years, to produce for us in the older demographic. Usually they are fairly mushy, but nonetheless enjoyable for that. They are tales about falling in love again when that was felt something for earlier decades. Cite the ‘Marigold Hotel’ duo and the more recent ‘Hampstead’. There’s numerous others. Also, some ponder on the meaning of love itself at our age. ‘Extinctions’, the novel, constantly reminded me of, not an English speaking movie, but the Swedish gem, ‘A Man Called Ove’. A curmudgeon is softened by a female influence.

And Fred, in ‘Extinctions’, has Jan for this – maybe. A tragic event has bought them together, even though they’re next door neighbours. Fred’s life has been marked by misfortune – the passing of his wife; the accident causing his son to be in high-dependency care. As a result Fred has retreated to a retirement village, pulling his past behind him to wait out his own extinction. He is going to stew in his own juices, but Jan attempts to jolt him into action, to get him into gear. It is, without giving anything away, a transformed Fred we have at novel’s end – but transformed in a positive way?

Frank’s previous work was high in academia, in the field of concrete no less. Oh dear, we might all sigh, but there’s more to cement than meets the eye. Design fascinates the old fellow and in the past he has collected significant examples, some of which he cannot bear to part with as he downsizes. He drags them into his gated community.

Jan also has a tale to tell about her life. She can see what Fred could be and doesn’t give him an inch. His daughter has a back story as well. She’s affected by her origins and has temporarily escaped to England.

No, there’s little lovey-doveyness to be had here like those Brit cinema offerings. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t light – and perhaps, just perhaps, a few second chances as well.

David Desbois and GofT

art and photography, Television/DVD review

For most of it I’ve had no idea about what’s going on; no idea whatsoever. I feel as if I need one of those family tree thingees, the sort some books provide to help out with tons of characters. I can’t get my head around those houses – House of Stark, House of Lanister, House of Baratheon and so it goes on. It puts me in a spin that I am so clueless. My lovely lady has no such trouble, but I don’t like to keep on asking for fear of spoiling it all for her with constant interruptions of, ‘What’s going on?’ So I’ve just sat back and let it wash over me – the whole glorious shebang with its, to me, mess of characters, hideous deeds, rapturous gore, triumphant and not so triumphant nudity and Machiavellian plotting. And I love it. I just love it. It’s the visuality, the immensity, the convolutedness. Is it the pinnacle of present day small screen viewing? After all, the experts now refer to these times as our golden age of television.

‘Game of Thrones’ is a marvel of the age, but it is only with this last released season that I have any notion of a handle on events as we close in on the final showdown. There is so much to relish – the dwarf, Emilia Clarke’s beauty, the stoicism of those guarding the Northern Wall, the White Walkers, those wildly gory weddings and the fact that, at any given moment, a major hero of goodness and chivalry can be hideously dispatched. I was talking to an acquaintance, just the other day, who has refused to watch any further seasons because they beheaded Sean Bean at the end of the first series. But anybody is considered fair game, as long as they don’t dispatch the dwarf. They wouldn’t, would they? Then there was the battle. You all know what I am referring to – the most amazingly choreographed clash that we have ever witnessed in our lounge rooms. The pile on pileness of it left me breathless. And then there are the dragons. I adore the dragons.

Canadian artist David Desbois has been caught up in it too. His regular job, appropriately, is in film and television. He plies his art part time, struggling to keep up with demand for his character work built around GofT and other iconic offerings of our popular culture. He, using coloured markers, creates collector card sets of the major stars of multiple series and franchises that may be readily viewed on deviantART. As well as his work on the behemoth that has emerged from George RR Martin’s sagas, he’s also come up with product from several other of my favourites, including my current obsession, ‘Dexter’, as well as ‘The Tudors’ and ‘Downton’. There’s also character studies for ‘Star Wars’, ‘Harry Potter’, the Marvel and DC comic super-hero gangs, together with much, much more. Check him out.

There will come an end, all too soon, for ‘Game of Thrones’ and no doubt I’ll feel the same way as I did when ‘Downton Abbey’, ‘Mad Men’ and the other series I became fixated on over the last decade ceased. After each, for a while, there is a tiny hole in my life, leaving me to seek something to plug it with. But I fail to see, I really do, how GofT will ever be bettered.

David Desbois on deviantART = https://daviddeb.deviantart.com/

Do You Really Need Another One?

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I did try e-books, thanks to, as is the case of so much that is positive in my life, the urging and digital savviness of my beautiful writerly daughter. And now that we know, despite that format, real print and paper books will continue to be published, contrary to dire predictions of their demise. I have nothing against them; in fact I enjoyed flipping the pages of them on my phone but, for whatever reason, I didn’t get hooked. I reverted to my old-school ways. As with one’s mobile, a book is easily transportable. So too is a newspaper. My daughter happily exists in both worlds, her NoHo home filled to the brim with tomes, many of which she passes on to me. She has an acute sense of what her old man enjoys. Our treasured Tessa is a bookaholic and I am so chuffed to be able to buy books for her and her dear cousin Olivia up in Bridport. My lovely Leigh; my mother, the amazing Nan as well as my siblings and son are also great readers. I remember, from an early age, accompanying Nan to a little private lending library at the bottom end of Wilson Street in Burnie. I seem to recall Georgette Heyer was a favourite. There were also my Dad’s Zane Greys around the house. My early world was filled with Enid Blyton, ‘Look and Learn’ magazine and Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia. In my school years I was a constant borrower at the old Cattley Street public library, long gone. Fiction occupied the ground floor, Dewey assembled non-fiction up the stairs and that was where I largely hung out. In my teaching career I had responsibility for school libraries.

So my love of books had an early grounding and has continued down through the decades. Along with other out-of-fashion obsessions such as music on CD (rather than from the ether), stamps (again, thank you Nan) and photographic images produced in tangible form (rather than floating in a cloud), buying books is a constant in my world. I can’t stop, even if my man cave by the river is clogged with unread ones. But, unlike Daniel Broadstock, I don’t blame my city’s excellent bookshops. I accuse the weekend newspapers for encouraging my habit. The Age and the Australian have much to answer for.

Sure, like Daniel’s subjects, I could spend hours in Fullers and Dymocks in the CBD, or the Hobart Book Shop down in Salamanca, but usually I enter them with a set purpose in mind after my Saturday and Sunday perusals of the reviews in those gazettes. And I am certainly not a ‘…a literary voyeur…more interested in possessing books than reading them…’ My volumes are definitely not just for show – they are intended for reading and usually passed on then to family and friends, or donated to a local community lending house. Only the most esteemed, or signed copies, are retained. Sadly, though, because I purchase so many, they do have to be ‘triaged’ once home. And, oh dear, some simply do not get drawn back down off the self and eventually I come to the conclusion that I will not get to them and they are disposed of.

Fellow bookophiles, you all have your favourite authors, whether you follow them on the ‘…vile dictatorship of the (mobile) phone…’ or in the form that has ‘…texture, weight…’, as well as scent and which can be closed with an emphatic slam on completion. I will not list mine here, but I am a slave to them. I love, also, to branch out, to discover new writers, just as I do with performers in the case of my music. I relish, often with my daughter’s help, discovering fresh young talent. And for that aspect of my craving I also rely on those weekend reviews to guide me to new literary realms. The critics possess their own wordsmithery to tantalise and seduce. I am helpless before their blandishments. And when I, at the end of a tome, concur with their judgement of worthiness, I am inwardly elated; proud of myself as can be as though I was the sole person responsible for the new find. Silly, I know – and I feel the same way discovering a new recording artist.

Yep. There is no feeling in the world like ‘… a book pressed to your chest in wonder.’

Daniel Broadstock’s article = https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/health-and-wellness/buying-an-e-book-is-missing-the-point-20180406-p4z837.html

A Feast of Winton

Book Reviews, Movie Reviews

Is Tim Winton our greatest living author? With his latest print offering a case could be mounted for this accolade. His Australianness makes him unique, particularly when he comes up with such use of the vernacular, in such crude poetic glory, as in ‘The Shepherd’s Hut’. It’s up there with ‘The Riders’ and ‘Dirt Music’; its Jackson (Jaxie) Clackton with Scully, Luther Fox and the denizens of ‘Cloudstreet’. This outback centred stunner will linger long in the synapses. After the relative disappointment of ‘Eyrie’ and his memoirs, for this fan, our GLA is back on song.

Just as we can celebrate this, we can also re-celebrate ‘Breath’ anew. His 2008 publication sang of the sea, the coastal littoral and some of the mystique of surfing culture. Simon Baker’s directoral debut for the big screen has bought this Winton work back to life – and it’s a beautiful thing to behold.

The movie takes us to a surfers’ paradise, but as far removed from sun blasted beaches as it is possible to be. Set around Denmark, on the south coast of WA, I do not think the sun settled once, for the duration of the film, on the bleached hair and kombis of this part of the surfing landscape. There, like my own island, could be considered as part of the Australian sport’s new frontier. Pikelet (Samson Coulter) and Loonie (Ben Spence) are in their early teens, just putting their toe in the water as far as this recreational outlet is concerned. Along comes former surfing god Sando, Baker himself, as their mentor – and he’s full of it. He’s a bit of a dick, actually, as he challenges the lads’ manhood, virtually forcing them to take on monster breaks that would make any parent shake in their boots at – if they knew. Loonie, as his name suggests, is up for anything and knows no fear, but the far more reticent Pikelet isn’t so swayed by Sando’s reputation (just who did leave those old surfing mags lying around?) and bullshit.

Sando has a missus. Eva, a former skiing champ, is recovering from a possible career ending accident on the piste. She is a distant and dissatisfied figure, clearly not all that enamoured of Sando’s big-noting to the boys. When he pisses off to Indonesia, the susceptible Loonie in tow, Eva seduces the at-a-loss Pikelet. He starts to see the world, as a result, from a different perspective and begins to become the man, we suspect, neither Loonie or Sando could ever be. Although the sex aspect caused some minor gnashing of teeth, it was tastefully handled by Baker.

The brooding coastline, capable of producing maelstroms with little notice; the surfing under grey and always foreboding skies, were a masterful, evocative aspect of both the book and film. At times, though, the lack of acting chops by the two young thesps – they were chosen for their looks and prowess in the swell – is on show. As well, the movie almost outlasted my bladder – there could have been a bit more judicious editing. But it is a worthy match to the great man’s own words – and as a bonus the writer himself is the adult narrating voice of Pikelet.

And his words don’t get much better than in ‘The Shepherds Hut’. With young Clackton he has gifted us a character for the ages. With verbal brilliance the author takes us on a journey with Jaxie to the great beyond of nothingness that outwardly are the West Australian deserts. Inwardly, Winton’s wordsmithery makes them come alive, giving up their primal burnished beauty, becoming the exact opposite.

Winton’s hard done by, but bush savvy, hero flees out into the scrub when he discovers his violent excuse for a piece of shit father squashed and lifeless under the Hilux. He calls his obnoxious old man Captain Wankbag and has had a lifetime of being belted mercilessly by him. It’s a fact well known around the blowfly blown community that’s the pair’s home. His mother, similarly pummelled by the vicious Sid, has, perhaps thankfully, succumbed to cancer a while back. The old bastard is the town’s provider of meat – to call him a butcher would denigrate that profession – and is therefore tolerated despite his unpalatable ways. Jaxie knows a suspicious eye will be placed on his culpability for what occurred to the scumbag beneath the ute, so off he goes. Besides, there is a solitary shining light in his life and she lives in another blighted collection of buildings on up the road a fair distance. He knows he must avoid civilisation at all costs, but he’s woefully under-prepared for a bush bash, although he is at peace with the lie of the land and that must count for something.

Even so, he’s on his last legs when he encounters the wonderfully monikered Fintan MacGillis. He’s a mystery, seemingly biblically banished to the arid wastelands to largely live off the land, as barren as it is. He is slowly addling-up through loneliness. But such is their collective predicament, when Jaxie comes across him, they very soon discover they are in dire need of what the other can give. The worn, fat ex-priest has a hut – and that’s salvation for the boy. But can the unlikely duo cope with such a harsh, unforgiving environment and survive, given its about to give up a few secrets?

Like the best of Winton ‘The Shepherd’s Hut’ compels; it mesmerises in a way akin to the mirages on the salt lake that is close company to the shanty the two protagonists share in wary proximity. It’s a truly beautiful work, even in its brutality and brutal language. It tells us there has to be hope – there just has to be.

The author’s FaceBook page = https://www.facebook.com/timwintonauthor/

Trailer for ‘Breath’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOGrFNaTaao

Mission

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My mission that morning was to find something special and I too, never remotely ‘cutting edge’, knew the place to go.

You see, one of the four ultra-special people in my life was about to turn six. I adore all of them – they bring their zing and gloss to my retirement – and who says blood is thicker than water. The birthday girl and her three cousins – Olivia, Brynner and Tobias are all different, as should be, but three sets of parents are working hard to make their childhoods magic kingdoms of the mind. Tessa Tiger’s mother and father have surrounded her with books, Doctor Who and Harry Potter as she finds her own fantastical realms with My Little Pony and Andy Griffiths. That I am included in her world; in their worlds, is a source of joy. I wanted something special for my precious Tess that morning – not because she expected it, but because I love doing it. She gives me more than I could possibly give her in return. They all do.

When the fire hit it felt the soul had been taken out of the city. For months after, even years, the CBD floundered. The retailers around the smouldering ruins, as well as later with the gaping hole, struggled – a few moved, some stuck it out and others shut up shop completely. With that and heavy competition from developments on the outskirts and in the suburbs, it was feared the life would be drained out of Hobart’s only just beating heart.

Myer management made all the right noises after the conflagration almost wiped out their store, but the fear was always present that they would cut and run. They didn’t. A collective sigh was released when they formally announced they would rebuild bigger and better than ever, doing their best to remain trading whilst that occurred. They have stayed true to that course, despite a severe flooding during the construction period and despite their own brand’s worsening bottom line. When there’s much to dislike about our country’s mega-profit driven corporate sector, Myer locally have displayed something that goes beyond screwing the public for every cent.

They have reopened in stages and that morning was the first time I’d have the whole shebang at my disposal. I knew children’s wear was on the top floor and that was the way I was preparing to head as I entered the store, not quite in the rush Laura McGeoch was on her morning before the nuptials. And at the end of that little journey, up the escalators, I’d be making a small vow to myself.

In truth, before the fire, the CBD of Hobart was tired. Myer and the Cat and Fiddle Arcade, with its little performance on the hour every hour, was the fulcrum, but it was worn and in need of a little loving. Fast forward to today, with the new department store and the arcade completely refurbished, there’s a bit of big city pizzazz in the air. Flanked on one side by Centrepoint, also undergoing jazzing up, as well as newish Wellington Court on the other, the heart and soul has returned. And, unbeknown to me before I entered Myer, something else was happening.

What I first observed was that the ground floor was just about empty of customers, mirroring Ms McGeoch’s experience in the Melbourne sister store. I was a tad stunned by that, but I was soon to discover why. Out the back I could see, even from a distance, that there was, beyond the reopened entrance to the arcade, a brace of mint-new stores. I deviated to investigate One of these newbies, Mecca Maxima, was sucking the life out of Myer and most of the outlets around it. At its Murray Street entrance the punters, mainly young women each toting a large pink gift bag, were lined up down the block and around the corner. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of eager shoppers were patiently waiting their turn to be guided in by the contingent of security hired for the occasion. I was quite mildly gobsmacked. Mainland big city retail glamour had come to our little city.

I had a quick squiz at the other new kids on the block before making my way to my destination. Up there, to start with, it was like a graveyard too.

Should I feel self-conscious, in this era of man-blaming, rifling through racks of young girls’ clothing? Maybe, but I love it. That I have two stunningly gorgeous female beings to select attire for, to me, is bliss. If any askance glances are cast my way I am oblivious and couldn’t give a toss. I was on a mission for Tessa Tiger and I was wholly immune. Sadly, I couldn’t find anything to my taste on the generous number of sale racks, but, as I am no cheapskate when it comes to my granddaughters, I proceeded on to the other stock. I found two garments I hoped she’d love, so I approached the counter. Whilst I had been engaged making my selections some other customers had actually arrived and there were a couple of them being attended to by staff, a male and a gorgeous Myer lady in ‘…trademark black and white.’ I’m not ashamed to say I was a tad disappointed when it was the guy who was ready for me first, but the dapper young gentleman was absolutely lovely. He apologised for my wait, even though it’d only been a minute or so and chatted with me while he processed my purchases. When I passed over my Myer card I explained to him that I had some queries about its benefits and that I didn’t seem to have had any of the expected communication from the store regarding my points tally. He tried to discover what what amiss without success. He then wrote down a number for me that would avoid the oxymoron that is dialing up customer service. Shortly after arrival back home my problem was quickly sorted as a result. I was impressed by him as I have always been by the staff both here and across in Yarra City. He made my day and was the cause of my self-promise to become a more regular shopper there.

Hobart’s town centre is now a happening place with its centrepiece in situ and I too keep my fingers crossed for the struggling Myer, just as Laura McG does, for it kept its faith in and with Hobart. Now that, because of the Mona effect, tourists are flooding in all year round and with the increase in the uni student presence there, it is a wonderful place to people watch, let alone do anything else.

Buying for my grandchildren, as well as Leigh’s, is an indulgence, I know – but, really I’m only indulging myself. I just adore doing it. And I know Tess will love her outfits because they come from her Poppy. Gee life’s good.

Laura McGeoch’s article = https://www.smh.com.au/business/companies/quick-trip-to-myer-made-me-see-the-writing-on-the-wall-20180503-p4zd55.html

Wildwood – Colin Meloy

Book Reviews

I didn’t intend to read the book straight away. It was described as America’s ‘Narnia’. I hadn’t ever read any of the that esteemed series and I’d already earmarked a local great’s latest as next on my list. ‘Wildwood’ was with a number of tomes my beautiful daughter had handed over to me in the expectation that I would enjoy them. I usually did, but ‘Wildwood’, on initial appearances, didn’t appear to be my thing. Besides, it was hardly newly published, dating from 2011. As well, it was long. Anything over 500 pages, for me, is long. It would take me forever to get through. Nup, it looked suspiciously like a non-starter.

Meanwhile, Katie had also been telling me about a new, to her, band she had discovered that she also thought I’d enjoy – the Decemberists. And I did, when she sent me a link to them. She informed me that the lead singer, Colin Meloy, was also quite the wordsmith, as songwriters have to be. He had also tried his hand at writing novels and had had a few published. She was currently reading one and would pass it on when she had completed it. Initially I didn’t make the connection when she handed it over, in amongst a collection of other tomes, further down the track.

So I put ‘Wildwood’ aside, thinking maybe I’d get to it one day, when I’d finished some more pressing titles.

Last week I was about to start the Winton, but beforehand had a look at Katie’s pile. Flipping through ‘Wildwood’, I was struck by the illustrations it contained – retro gorgeousness. They were akin to something from my own childhood. When I sought out information about the illustrator, Carson Ellis, turns out she is the author’s wife. Then the penny dropped. That guy was the Decemberists’ front man. Well that was worth reading the first few pages for. I’d get a feel for it before tackling ‘The Shepherd’s Hut’. Then I was hooked, wasn’t I? Tim W would have to wait.

I did enjoy ‘Wildwood’ very much. It was a real page turner and I was through it in less than a week. Good going for me. Meloy has struck the right chord (hum) with a style suited to his target audience. The tweenies, I suspect, would immediately be attracted to it. He doesn’t pander to them – he sets challenges as far as the language he chooses is concerned. It also had this ancient adult enthralled. It was a lively narrative of daring-do in an alternate world where animals can talk and live on equal terms with the human inhabitants. Eagles and owls, to my delight, play a prominent part. Our lead girl, Prue McKee (adore the name), is a feisty construction from Meloy. She is determined to save her baby brother from evil forces after he had been stolen from our world by a murder of crows. I was particularly drawn to Prue’s offsider, Curtis, who found himself embroiled in the girl’s adventures all because he indulged in a bit of harmless stalking. He’s a real nerd hero.

It’s a wonderful collection of principalities invented for us in the Impossible Wilderness. Katie, you handed me a ripper. Thank you.

The Wildwood Chronicles’ site = http://www.wildwoodchronicles.com/