All posts by stevestevelovellidau

Holidays – William McInnes

October 14, 2015Book Reviewsstevestevelovellidau

Who you gunna turn to if you need a good belly-laugh from a book??? Well, Mr McInnes is as capable as anyone writing in Oz today to entice great guffaws from me and his latest did not let me down.

It is an art-form, is writing comedic prose. It’s been a while since I’ve emitted even chuckles from my book-reading. Probably the last to induce such-like was Nick Earls’ glorious publication from last year, ‘Analogue Man’. Earls writes fiction. So does McInnes – and he does okay at that too, but it’s his volumes of memoirs that really do the trick for me. ‘A Man’s Got to Have a Hobby’ was such a complete joy. I laughed so much it bought tears to the eyes. Tears featured as well with ‘Worst Things Happen at Sea’ – but for a very different reason. It was co-written with his now deceased wife, Sarah Watt – and for the delight in question the author delves into his past again. Tears came for both happy and sad reasons in ‘Holidays’.

In this recalling of the past he again displays what a memory he has – I wonder if he kept a diary. For the life of me I can only remember childhood incidents in broad stokes. He brings them to us in fine detail. Most of the gut-clenching humour came in the first half – it tendered to peter out as he started to become a tad more deep and meaningful – but this is not to say the final chapters were lesser for that. They just spoke more of the human condition. And the ending – the final stanza, was, well, just heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

The man can write and it helps that you can picture him in the scenarios he weaved as the central figure. He’s graced our screens for a few decades now, first coming to my attention in the never-to- be-forgotten marvel that was ‘SeaChange’.

The book opens on Brisbane’s Redcliffe Peninsula, setting of William’s childhood and his scallywag adventures. His yarn about the Kosy Korner Karavan Park was priceless, a rib-tickler of the first order. For our young hero the Peter Stuyvesant fag ads on tele in those days were the height of sophistication. The only place he could imagine in his world as a possible location for such-like to be made in Brissy would be said Kosy Korner. It would surely be where the international jet-setters would go to smoke and drink martinis, served to them by the pool by stunningly sexy women in bikinis. Or so he thought till he actually braved the grounds of the place.

Another adventure of his youth – this time of an amorous nature, when he was obviously much older, involved being naked and draped in beauty contest sashes. His love interest led him to meet a certain Mr Tait, the travel agent who never travelled. Why would he? He had visited the opening of Wrest Point Casino down in Hobart and saw Jerry Lewis perform. No holiday could surely top that so why waste money. His life ambition now was to sell some punter a Scandinavian vacation. I wonder, as does McInnes, whether he actually succeeded.

It seems the television star has a soft spot for Hobs. ‘Hobart is a beautiful city, perhaps the prettiest of Australian capitals, with marvellous restaurants and glorious landscapes.’ Of course these days the jewel in the crown of the city’s gems is MONA. One day, at a loose end in our burb, he sought advice at reception. ‘The bloke behind the desk brushed one side of his porn-star moustache with his forefinger and then said, ‘Go to the museum mate. The museum’s a good place.’ And so it turned out, although he was bemused at the number of kiddies that were on the loose in a place supposedly just for grown-ups. He reported the place was, in his estimation, most impressive. ‘The eclectic scale and verve of the collection is stupefying, moving and glorious.’

Being such a public figure, our author on vacation is recognised by many – but sometimes the punters get it confused. At various times they thought they had been greeting him as bonkers former Labor leader Mark Latham, sex-god Colin Firth, ‘Wait There’s More’ Demtel Man (Tim Shaw) and even, not Jeff Kennett, but his brother!!! The one that was much to his horror was being mistaken for execrable Sam Newman of ‘Footy Show’ infamy.

So many glorious stories William McI tells in this tome. There’s the bush pilot, on being informed that stormy weather lay ahead in the flight, offered to play Patsy Cline, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper for the already nervous author. Then there is the perennial problem of what to give up for Lent. One year he decided it should be his propensity for swearing. To get around the difficulties that involved he decided to insert a more suitable word instead. For some reason he hit on yallop – the surname of a former test cricket captain – but of course he spun this yarn out too to make it hilarious.

It’s a bonza book this. McInnes gets my recommendation for a guernsey in our National Living Treasures list and I’ll be yalloped if you’ll find a funnier read this year. It’s full of all that’s wonderful about our great, taking the yallop, national sense of humour.

Stay With Me – Maureen McCarthy

October 14, 2015Book Reviewsstevestevelovellidau

‘A seven year old and his grandmother allegedly murdered by an uncle in Western Sydney – my home town. A mother allegedly belted to death by her enraged husband on the Gold Coast. A woman shot dead at a McDonalds nearby. This is not the Australian way. There is a huge problem lurking behind the front doors of Australia and its name is domestic violence. To me there is simply no excuse, no reason to ever hurt a woman. For someone to hurt a woman is a thought process I can’t comprehend.’ Michael Clarke, September, 2015.

So the recently retired test captain wrote for the press after returning from a post-Ashes holiday with his wife Kyly. He’s only one of a number of prominent Aussie blokes ‘manning-up’ to make their revulsion clear. Our Australian of the Year, the remarkable Rosie Batty, has become the face of this one of the scourges of the nation, along with obesity and the so-called ice epidemic. The latter two are newish and seemingly intractable issues needing to be confronted. Domestic violence has always existed and maybe always at this present day level – but that doesn’t mean it is in any way acceptable. That it’s being dragged out into the light and into our collective consciousness can only be beneficial – a start.

And domestic violence features prominently in Maureen McCarthy’s new offering ‘Stay With Me’. It is quite a read; quite a journey the author takes her many, many fans on with this.

Tess, emanating from a not entirely functional family situation herself, leaves Melbourne for a schoolies-type break up in Byron. There she encounters a much older man in Jay – he’s not a toolie as such, but is a local with similar intent. And he focuses on young Tess. He is quite unsavoury. We can pick it but she is too naive to know – despite her new found friends on the far north coast trying to warn her off him. With his car, a ready supply of dollars and attentive charm she is quite smitten and decides her future is with this fellow. Big mistake. In the blink of an eye she is trapped and realises too late his true controlling colours. A child, Nellie, comes along. Far from improving matters, Jay’s behaviour becomes more drug addled and violent – not only towards her, but the little one as well. Jay’s whole family is dodgy, but for a while his mother provides the only none-to-sympathetic refuge. However, a chance meeting provides the most unlikely of ways out, thus commencing a road trip back to family and a possible escape from the horrors of life with a truly horrible man. But can she really hide from her vicious partner with distance? Or will this new male, who takes her under her wing, cause more problems than he solves?. Can she trust any male?

Harry, who has the makings of her saviour, is somewhat battered too in ways – but eventually delivers her to the succour of the remains of her family. Now, finally, is she safe, particularly as Jay’s past has caught up with him? Even though she knows he’s under lock and key, his threat still casts an unnerving shadow over the remainder of the tale. The reader is fully aware that how it all pans out may not be pretty. We expect the odious fellow to reappear at any tick of the clock. In this case, fiction is little different to reality.

‘Stay With Me’ is compulsive reading. Previously McCarthy has gifted the nation the irrepressible young women of ‘Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life’, but as a character Tess wins our hearts as much. If the prose is a little over-cooked initially, once the novel is in its stride this scribe was reluctant to put it down. McCarthy has been a tad uneven in her offerings of late – but here she is at her out and out best. I defy any reader not to be riveted, willing Tess on as she, Harry and Nellie wend their way down inland highways to the perceived safety of the family homestead outside Leongatha. We all delight as her formerly estranged rellies gather around to shield her from her constant fear of her worst imagined outcome. Unfortunately many women, as scarred and scared as the courageous Tess, have no out. In the real world, as in the fictional, total safety may only be fleeting. I know this book will surely ‘stay with me’. In our current climate it is almost essential reading.

Chern

October 12, 2015art and photographystevestevelovellidau

Yes, we’ll call him Chern. I reckon most English speakers would call him that to his face in any case. His name’s a real mouthful – Gennadiy Chernomashintsev. See what I mean?

One of the joys of my on-line perusings is looking at professional photography websites. I’d never be as expert at pointing the camera as those guys, but a fella can dream. There are countless out there in the ether so it takes something special to stand out. His did. Chern’s.

With those that tease my senses I then tend to delve a tad deeper. In doing so I found an article about Chern. It stated that he was a throwback to a golden age of fashion photography – the period the great Bailey encapsulated. In Chern’s work there was ‘…not a drop of colour to be found, plenty of grain and a style that was immediately recognisable.’ This photographer takes his cues from the past, from the ’50s through to the ’80s, but unlike many purists he does not eschew digital technology. He reckons both can co-exist, so when the new paraphernalia came along he worked assiduously to ensure that, for him, the change over would be seamless.

Chern was born in the old USSR back in 1968. His father purchased him a camera at a young age and he was immediately captivated. On leaving school he found himself trying a variety of ways to earn a crust – as a poet (as if), composing music (maybe); before ending up in advertising (jackpot). In this he gradually realised that, with photography, a future was there for him to grasp.

After Russia lost the Cold War Chern moved to Ukraine – to Donetsk in fact. Not a place to be, I would have thought, at the present time. But these days his fame has allowed him to practise his art globally, but still one cannot but hope he has not been caught up in the mess that is the eastern part of his country. At present, as well as taking up freelance jobs for fashion houses and mags, he’s an art director for one of the latter – ‘Domino’, popular in his homeland.

Beautiful women in beautiful attire are his bread and butter, but he also likes to use his signature high contrast black and white to dabble in the nude – and here he aims at being provocative so, be warned, some galleries of his work on-line are NSFW. You can also find Chern at his calling in the fashion field on YouTube. He’d like to become more involved in film-making, but concedes the scope for that is limited in Ukraine in the present climate. However, he has produced some shorts, attainable on Vimeo – but the aforementioned proviso applies. In all this there’s nothing shabby or salacious. With Chern be assured – it’s class all the way.

A Chern Gallery – one of many on-line = http://ndmagazine.net/photographer/gennadiy-chernomashintsev/

Chern on YouTube = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=60BbMorLEDE

Chern on Vimeo = https://vimeo.com/user8254704

Honey Brown and Hobart

October 11, 2015Book Reviews, Other Writingstevestevelovellidau

‘It was the green dress that did it,’ I responded. ‘The green dress, plus you were just too lovely and vivacious that night to pass up. As well, I think I was ready. Ready, I guess, for more life in my life. I can’t in all honesty say there was much wrong with the life I was living – just that spending that evening in your company I figured, for the first time, I could have more, sweetheart. You turned my world upside down back then – and repeated doing so again more recently. I’ll thank you forever for that – and thank you forever for taking me up to your room that night.’

That first morning away I had woken up to another hotel room – but as usual waking up next to Judy meant turning to see her already with her nose in a book. That was okay – we were in no hurry to get out and about on our first morning in Hobart. At our ages helter-skeltering wasn’t our scene any more. Once we’d come in from the airport last evening and settled in to our accommodation on the IXL side of the city’s waterfront, we’d chatted what we might do today. In the end we decided we’d take the grey-camouflaged river-cat up-stream to MONA. I’d been before, when it first opened and knew it was a must-see. It had turned tourism on its head to the island of both our births and I was keen to show her it. Judy hadn’t been to the state’s southern capital in decades. Both being North West Coasters in our youth, it was far easier hopping on a plane across to Melbourne than making the torturous road trip to Hobs. At least that wasn’t so bad these days, but back in the day it seemed to take forever – and someone always became car-sick. The Casino had livened the small city on the Derwent up for a while, but mostly back then Hobart seemed as sleepy as Burnie.

Judy was a bookaholic. Every chance she’d get she was turning pages. The daily paper and a good whodunit, now and again, did me. I’d also read sporting biographies of AFL stars and cricketers – but no more than a couple a year. Jude would devour a dozen or so books a month. She reckoned they kept her going when her kids were younger, stuck down the Mornington Peninsula for most of her married life. Reading, so she said, was now ingrained in her.

AFL had a fair amount to do with us being together in the first place. I met her by chance on a footy trip across the Strait with the lads. Then I used it, or the cricket, as an excuse for scuttling off to Melbourne several times a year to catch up with her. For my sake she was always discreet and knew where to meet away from the usual tourist traps. In this way I concealed the affair for so long. But, coming back to her books – one aspect of her obsession is that she loved talking about them to me. And I enjoyed listening. It had only been a year or so now since I made the decision to up and leave my Burnie existence and Raissa to strike out on a new life with my Melbourne love, now that she was free. In those months she always kept me appraised of her latest novel – for it was fiction she usually read. I could see that one in Hobart that morning was something entitled ‘Honey Brown’, or so I thought.

When I enquired as to what ‘Honey Brown’ was about she laughed. ‘No Jim, that’s the author’s name. The book itself is called ‘Six Degrees’. As to what it’s about…Well, how should I put this? It’s about sex, my love – first time sex with someone. It’s short stories. Let me give you their titles – that’ll give you the idea. Here, I’ll flip back through – I’m almost finished. There’s ‘Threesome’, ‘Two Women’, ‘Older’, ‘Younger’, ‘Two Men’ – you’d love that one Jim. Not. And the one still to go is ‘First Time’. And they’re pretty erotic tales too, let me tell you, my love. Almost too much for this good Christian girl. They get me all hot and bothered.’

She gave a slightly embarrassed laugh, but I asked her to tell me about those she’d already read. She put the book to one side and asked if I was sure I wanted to know. When I nodded she snuggled down beside me into the crook of my arm and placed a hand strategically on my upper thigh. ‘Sure you’re up for this old fella? It might get you a bit worked up too. Anyway, it might be all about the act, but it’s still well written, I reckon. She does sex well, does Honey Brown. All the stories have a kind of link to tie them together and they all end with the two involved making love. Actually, with the first episode there’s three in the mix. It’s Valentines Day and a café owner receives a bouquet of flowers from the love of her life who’s a famous cook. But they have never really taken action on their mutual affection – each reckoning the other is not interested in turning friendship into something more. Anyway, the chef turns up at the woman’s flat above the café, only to catch her just after being in said act with one of her wait staff. One thing leads to another and in the end a threesome changes her life and brings the two together, the renowned chef and the object of his yearnings. It all seems unlikely, I know, but in Honey’s capable hands it makes sense – sort of. The lesbian story starts off in a Kalgoorlie skimpy bar – you know what that is Jim?’

‘Thought so. I didn’t before this book. I’ve led a sheltered life you see. Anyway she’s not really one of the skimpies – but still dances for the men and manages to get their appreciation without actually taking any of her clothes off. But in a mining town there’s not really much action for someone of her persuasion, until there’s a night she eventually realises that one the punters she’s serving is actually a woman. From the time she passes across her frothy their eyes meet continuously across the crowded room and you can probably guess the rest sweetheart. The story I liked best, well so far anyway, was of the older man and a young twenty something, set in the high country somewhere. He was fifty, Jim, hardly past it. How old are you again? Sorry, don’t look at me like that. Anyway, she’s a fishing guide, being the one who was initially attracted and made all the running. The older bloke’s a real gentleman and she can tell he has issues that he’s perhaps taking a break from. What they are become clearer as we progress. She just finds him so different to the younger guys, who seem to her just to have one thing on their minds. This mature male seems cut from a different cloth to those of around her age she’d been associating with in recent times. He does his best to resist her flirting during the hours they spend together by brook and stream – but of course in the end he succumbs. But it’s all very lovely and I really think you can tell it’s a woman writing this. She doesn’t pull back when it comes to descriptions of the lovemaking part, but I imagine it’s softer than if a man wrote it. That being said – it’s all a hell of a lot better than that ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ stuff. I’m still trying to work out why I just had to read all three. Might be a bit more to me than you figured, Jim. Watch out, I say. You getting sick of this? You want to me to carry on?’

I replied in the affirmative and she laughed. She asked if it was making me feel any awakening down below. I told her that maybe that could be the case. ‘Well, I’d better continue then. The next tale is the reverse of the previous. Seems this young fellow has always had a crush on the older woman next door. While hubby is no longer a factor he seizes the opportunity and finds his desired MILF is just as eager as he is. The story is told from her point of view and sort of gives the woman the kick start to get on with the rest of her life. She has a fair idea the youngster needs to be just a one off for she’s no cougar – and she has a fair idea too who a more suitable candidate could be. The next not-so-sexy one is about this woman’s estranged hubby. Seems he’s moved over to the gay side, meets a certain someone at a writers’ retreat. Being two guys it was the one I related to the least. You’d hate it Jim. I know you are all for their rights, but you’re still very much the old fashioned heterosexual, aren’t you, my darling?’

By this time Jude’s hand had moved to another position and we ended up making love – the first time in quite a while. ‘Must be being back in Hobs,’ Judy quipped. ‘I can’t imagine what else may have bought that on. You could almost be fifty again.’

Despite it being a return visit, MONA was still an eye-opener. Stuff I remembered from my first time was no longer on exhibition and there was plenty that I hadn’t seen to keep me fascinated. Last time was after my enforced stay down here following my turn in the main street of Burnie, so I didn’t get to see it all in any case. I conked out about half-way and had to have a spell. It was during that period of time that I confessed to Raissa what had been going on all those years with Jude. For a while she seemed to take it well and I resolved to try and make it up to her. But once we were back in Burnie it was obvious the dynamics of our marriage had changed and I was finding myself still hankering for Judy, even though, by this time, it wasn’t the passionate affair it had once been. Going to Melbourne meant I’d have great company with somebody I was very quickly coming to adore. The great sex, if it happened, was a bonus..

Judy kept emailing me and that didn’t help me trying to wean myself off her. For a while I refrained from answering, but she was persistent and eventually my promise to myself crumbled. For a while we just communicated about our daily doings – but even so it soon became apparent she wasn’t the same old Judy. Something was going on in her world too. I certainly wasn’t the same Franksy my mates would recognise either. They’d reckoned I had changed – and I didn’t need my pals telling me to buck up, so for a while I distanced myself from them. I knew exactly what was needed to get me out of my funk. Judy had long given up her other ‘regulars’ when she travelled to the city. I knew that, but I was nonetheless surprised when she let me know that now, perhaps following my lead, she and hubby Tom had had a heart to heart as well. It turns out he’d found someone else too – and he had also been seeing her for some time unbeknown to Jude. Seems when she also confessed he already had a fair idea what was going on with her. He was happy to move to Portsea where his lady lived, leaving her with their abode. Looking back over it all, it’s hard to imagine that these days I contentedly reside here with Judy. It all seemed to happen so quickly. It so did the trick, though. These days I’m more than happy with my lot in life.

Of course I knew nothing of her confession until Judy emailed me with the details of her conversation with her spouse. The final line of her account read, ‘No pressure, Jim. I am here if you want me.’ Simple as that – and I couldn’t wait to get to her. I still have the guilts about up and leaving as suddenly as I did after that. But then I knew Raissa was not in a good place. I had betrayed her and she resented me for it. Perfectly understandable. I thought it was in our best interests to part. I told her face to face, my Raissa. She said she’d been expecting it. All in all I just figured life’s too short to be miserable. For as much as my wife once meant to me there was now someone else who meant more – and she was available. I would have to take it easy, I knew that. Any physical exertion, even love making, still takes it out of me, so I take life very slowly these days. Judy is all go, go, go and she has plenty to be on the go with in her community – and she has her overnighters in Melbourne. I know these days her only interest is in the shopping. Occasionally, on my better days, I go up with her on the train – but frankly, I’m just as happy pottering around the house. Hobart is a sort of tester as we’d both like to do a bit more travel – maybe a cruise or an island resort up north. I should be up for that, shouldn’t I?

It helps too that I’ve recently been made aware that Raissa has someone in her life too now – a younger man she calls ‘Lad’. I suppose it’s a tad like the MILF story Jude was describing to me. I’ve no idea who this guy is, but Kylie tells me she’s happy as all get out. Good on her I reckon – I wouldn’t want her otherwise.

Showing my lovely lady around MONA just re-enforced my view about what a special place it is. It is justifiably deserving of all the glowing reports written about it, but still I was a little wary. Despite her facility for giving and receiving a good time in the bedroom, my Jude can be a bit prudish about overt displays of sex and nudity – but I needn’t of worried. She loved it. She reckoned it left the NGV for dead. Nothing on offer at MONA fazed her – and there’s still plenty of weird in-your-face-stuff there.

That afternoon we pottered around, caught the tail end of Salamanca Market and then headed up to the restaurant strip in North Hobart. We had a fine repast at a place called Capital and decided to walk back to the hotel, being such a mild night. By a couple of blocks, however, I was done in and we took a cab the remainder of the way.

It was around seven the following Sunday that I emerged from the land of nod to find my wonderful partner-for-the-rest-of-my-life immersed in a book. I tapped her shoulder and said I thought it was a different one to yesterday. ‘No good mornings then?’ she chided.
‘Sorry, sorry – all that with bells on. Only I’m keen to find out what happened with ‘First Time’. That’s what you were reading when we went to bed, wasn’t it?’
‘It was my treasure. Good memory love. You’re not losing it after all. And all that snoring you did overnight. We had a big day yesterday, didn’t we? I enjoyed it. Bet I snored a bit too. Let me just finish this little bit and I’ll cosy up and tell you about it.’

I needed the loo, but when I tried to hop out of bed the old bod wasn’t so keen to follow instructions. I realised then that on that second day I’d have to take it quietly in what I planned. I also knew I was having trouble with my short term memory and that was concerning me. Judy had obviously picked up on it too. I tried to tell her yesterday the new/old name for Mt Wellington – what the first Tasmanians called it back before colonisation. But think I could recall it? I had only read about it in one of the guides shortly before we left the hotel and made a mental note, or so I’d thought. It wasn’t as if it was a difficult word either. Still I could recall the previous day’s activity under the sheets all right – so that was something. With that and all the walking – no wonder a bloke was stuffed.

On my return Jude was waiting for me and snuggled in, placing her hand in its welcome position on my upper leg. She proceeded to give me an account of the final instalment. ‘Jim, it’s about young girl losing her cherry at a rural eighteenth birthday shindig. The guy involved was also a virgin, a former neighbour. She had witnessed a horrific accident he was involved in outside his front gate, causing him to lose his father. He disappeared after that, so it was a chance reconnection at the party, in more ways than one. I was a bit ho-hum in truth, my love, compared to some of the others. Bit it did link up nicely to the other tales and rounded the whole book off .’

When she finished she took her hand away, placing it on my chest instead. She knew I’d be overdoing it if we had a repeat performance. In doing so, though, she asked that initial question, ‘How much do you remember of our first time, my love?’

I told her then the impact the green dress had on me – it was something she was not unaware of. I’d repeated my love of her in it so often over the years. Jude and I had known each other in our early days in Burnie. Our paths had crossed in the months before Raissa entered my world. Had she not – well, let’s just say for a while there I liked what I saw in Judy, although she was a bit on the young side for me at that stage. Once my wife-to-be came along I lost all interest though. We’d see each other out and about – Burnie was too small a place not to. We’d say hello or wave and that was just about that. Then she too disappeared. I learnt later that she’d met a fellow in Victoria. Then, back in the early nineties, I was on one of my footy trips and wandering around Brunswick Street when she passed me. I knew it was her as soon as I saw her so I called out. She turned and was nonplussed till I shouted my name. She came running back and gave me a glorious hug. I took in her perfume, her eyes – still with the twinkle I remembered from our tender years – and, I must admit, her breasts pressed up against me, if only ever so briefly. We had coffee and bought ourselves up to date with each other’s journey in the mean time. Then she explained her reason for being in the city – retail therapy – and asked if I would enjoy dining with her that evening.

That night I escaped my mates and headed for the diner date she had arranged near the Crown Casino. I knew as soon as I spotted her waiting for me in that dress what else would be on offer that evening if I should choose to take her up on it. I had few qualms in doing so.

I told Judy all of what I remembered of that first evening by the Yarra on our last morning in Hobart as she moved her hand back and forwards across my chest. I told her how magnificent I thought her breasts were, obviously unencumbered by any bra, the material so silken, almost sheer. ‘Too bad the boobs are so far gone to be such a hussy these days.’ was her response.

I placed a hand on one of her still appetising globes and reassured her that they’re the only breasts in the world for me – that I still found something quite remarkable in their beauty. She laughed and moved in a little closer, calling me an old devil and that it was just as well as I was too pooped to do anything about it.’But maybe we could play around a bit in other ways. What do you reckon?’

It did occur to me, that night, to wonder why she would need such a beguiling outfit on a shopping trip to the CBD. When I enquired, a little further down the track, she wasn’t reticent in coming forward with the news that there were other men-friends she met up with, on occasion, in the city. She quickly ruled out the fleeting notion I had that she might do a bit of high-end escort work on the side. ‘No,’ she explained. ‘They are just random men I’ve met in my Melbourne stays that I like and want to see more of. Sometimes sex is involved – but more often than not they also just want some discreet company when they are in town. And I often like somebody to spend a few hours with after being on my tod all day in the shops.’

I remembered when I asked about her hubby she guffawed, ‘Tom! He’d have conniptions if he knew the half of what I got up to when not in his presence, the good Christian fella he is. His mind’s just on making the money I spend. We do all right down the Peninsula, but life’s a tad on the dull side with all his church mates. I refuse to get involved these days. I’ve seen the light. Ha! I’m sure he’d kill me if he knew. Not really. He’d find an explanation for it in God’s will and want me to pray with him for my eternal soul.’ Turns out she was wrong about that, but I can’t complain when I am so much the beneficiary.

Judy drifted off back to sleep that Hobart morning so I continued to lie there, thinking back to that first night. After being a one woman man all my adult life, being with another was a revelation. Raissa had, no doubt about it, been a great wife and mother. And she was still a marvellously attractive woman. But the passion had long since gone – not a bad thing in itself, but I guess I was then vulnerable if somebody else came along and displayed a little interest. Jude certainly did that. Footy trips became a break from routine, but I always demurred when some of the others trooped off to the King Street fleshpots. I wasn’t interested in that sort of thing – so when that stunning vision in Fitzroy caught my eye and I realised who she was, a whole new world opened up to me.

That first date Jude and I did imbibe a fair bit with our meal – me for Dutch courage as I knew what was coming. Then she took me, hand in hand, to her room up in the Casino’s tower. Once inside she shimmied out of her green dress, pressed up against me with those glorious breasts and gave me a lingering kiss. That decided it. In a flash we both were completely disrobed and under the sheets. What followed was a night I’ll never forget. As we prepared to go our separate ways the next morning she whispered in my my ear, ‘Come to Melbourne often, Jim?’ I knew an invitation when I heard it, especially when she slipped a card with her phone number into my hand.

So that began our decade long relationship. I kept the footy trips going, most times slipping away and meeting up with Jude. Then they became just a cover for spending as much time as we could together. I am sure Raissa never twigged and I figured it kept me happy so what was the problem? Judy and I both knew its boundaries and were careful to be discreet, turning to the inner suburbs for our meetings rather than in the centre of town where there was more chance we could be spotted. As time went on it became more Judy’s company I craved, as much as her body – and then the latter became almost secondary. She, at some stage, dispensed with her other gentleman, reckoning she was getting too old for all that nonsense, as she called it. She confided I was the special one, that we rubbed along pretty well and she was never obliged to do anything she didn’t feel like with me. That was a real ego boost – silly man that I am. Then came my heart turn and its associated attack of the guilts, leading me to this point in time, spending my autumn years with the lovely Jude.

I was smiling, Judy’s beautiful head was on my chest and I realised she must be worn out too from the previous day’s Hobartian exertions. When she did stir she asked what I had arranged for the last day. She knew I had something planned, but I wanted it to be a surprise. We rose, toileted and dressed, after which she found I had organised for a hire car to be delivered to the hotel. I drove her out along the Cambridge Road to Richmond, stopping at the wineries and other attractions en route. We dined al fresco at the Richmond Wine Centre, under the branches of a tree, for lunch – thoroughly recommended, before heading west up the Coal Valley. By the time we finished Judy had arranged for a couple of dozen crates of lovely cool climate drops to be sent to our home – as well as a bag of cheeses and other assorted produce to take back with us on the plane that evening. The eponymous new Coal River Farm was a highlight, and we noted Zoodoo for our next trip when we’d make sure we had a bit more time. Judy had done well out of her newly minted divorce and continued her love affair with treating herself, as well as yours truly, to all that was good in life. It was a magnificent day. The spring weather was sublime, the sky a flawless blue and Judy was radiantly happy as we toured about. That afternoon life didn’t get much better. I was with a woman I cherished and now they knew her, my Kylie and Shane thoroughly approved. That Raissa was in a good place too helped.

Late that evening, on our Virgin flight back to Tullamarine, I leant over to my love and inquired, ‘You’ve packed that book, haven’t you?’
‘What? You mean the Honey Brown?’
‘Sure do. Seems to me she helped make our Hobart jaunt truly memorable. The least I can do to repay her is read her book.’
‘Jim, you never cease to amaze me. Are you sure the old ticker of yours will stand it?’
And just to prove I wasn’t completely past it, I had another word for her too. ‘That’s it. I’ve remembered – kunyani.’
‘What on earth are you on about?’
‘The mountain. Mount Wellington. I’ve been trying to recall it’s Aboriginal name. It’s only just come to me – kunyani, with a little k.’
Judy shook her head, gave my hand a squeeze and turned to look out over the lights of Melbourne as we came into land.

Florence and the Odious, Odious Man

October 6, 2015Other Writingstevestevelovellidau

It was a small gallery – pictures of women from long ago. Some were clothed, most were not. But it was a portrait that caught the eye most – a portrait in close-up that was the first I clicked on to enlarge. Above the set of images was the name Robert Wilson Shufeldt. I bookmarked it, as I do anything I discover in the ether that may have the potential of a bit of a yarn to it. In theory the plan is always to return later. When I eventually did so, with this image, just recently and dug a little deeper, I was quite amazed at what I discovered.

More often than not I find dead-ends, but this small beginning produced a gothic tale worthy of Hollywood – although it did take a little finding. There is, though, sadly no proof, one way or the other, as to whether the portrait was her. Perhaps the ‘colouring’ is right, but maybe this was of a younger woman? But, by the end, I had it fixed in my mind that it was of the heroine of the piece – that it was Florence.

There are quite despicable excuses for humanity in our own digital age, mostly male of course, who think it is fine to place private photographs on-line of former partners/wives/girl-friends/one night stands/whoever naked, or in compromising positions, for others to gawk at – predominantly male too. But if you think this is a thoroughly modern phenomena – think again. Robert Wilson Shufeldt was at it too – but obviously not in the same way. Here’s his story – and that of his victim – the remarkable Florence.

Google Robert Wilson Shufeldt and most references are for this fellow’s father. He has the same appellation (of course) – and was more historically famous than his son. He was an admiral on the Union side in the war that tore the nation apart. But Robert junior is there if one looks carefully. Delve deeper and his whole miserable existence can be exposed.

He was a bright lad, was Robert. He grew to become a Renaissance man of sorts – but with none if the enlightenment usually associated with that accolade. He was an ornithologist and it was his study of the avian species that led him to Florence. It has even been reported that he was the man who dissected the very last specimen of passenger pigeon on the planet – and what a sorrowful story that poor creature’s demise is. As well, this fellow was a renowned osteologist (expert on bones), myologist (of muscular systems), museologist (of museums and their systems) and ethnographist (of people and cultures). And he dabbled in the photography of the nude – purely for scientific purposes, you understand.

The younger Shufeldt was born in 1850 and spent the Civil War serving on one of his father’s vessels. In 1872 he enrolled at Cornell University, studying medicine. On graduation he joined the army and RWS went on to serve as a surgeon in the Indian Wars. It was at this time he commenced collecting. From that point on and throughout the remainder of his life he put together a vast trove of biological specimens, but eventually started to specialise in denizens of the air. Human anatomy also became his forte. Over the course of his career he published over a thousand books, articles and papers on a widely diverse range of subjects. One such was entitled ‘America’s Greatest Problem – the Negro’. He was, not unusually for the time, in the firm belief of the racial supremacy of whiter peoples. Determined to assist in proving that notion he took to exhuming the skeletons of North American Indians – something that we know from our own island’s bleak history wasn’t so unusual for the time either. For all these fine works, or so they were considered, RWS was appointed to the august post of Honorary Curator of the Smithsonian Institute.

But it was with his private life that Shufeldt, inadvertently, made his greatest contribution to society. His outrageous behaviour so shocked the powers to be at the time that it changed the way the American legal system viewed the rights of women and increased the move away from them being regarded as mere chattels of their husbands. Agonisingly slowly, the march for equality in the eyes of the law was starting to commence around that time – Shufeldt assisting it to get traction.

The scientist was wedded three times, firstly to one Catherine Badcock. Back in that period, when divorce was frowned on, many unscrupulous men, on finding their married situation holding them back in any way, would conspire to have their unwanted appendage certified as insane on the flimsiest of excuses. The next step would see these unfortunate souls installed in a lunatic asylum. That was Catherine’s fate. She had no means of fighting back so she took an also not uncommon path – she committed suicide. Why Catherine displeased her hubby I was not able to discern – but there seems no doubt she was very much the wronged party.

While all this was occurring Shufeldt continued his writing, with his ornithological work bringing him into contact with Maria Audubon. Now any twitcher worth his/her salt would recognise that surname. John James Audubon, Maria’s grandfather, is god to American bird-lovers. Shufeldt was a member of the Audubon Ornithologists’ Union (AOU). He and Maria published papers together in its journal. She was a spinster – thank heavens that term is disappearing from our language. Her sister, forty-two year old Florence, was also a reluctant member of the spinsterhood.

And so Maria bought sister Florence and RWS together. Being the type of self-aggrandising person he allegedly was, it would be quite a feather in his cap, excuse the pun, to be wedded to an Aubudon. He wasn’t really serious about her for, as soon as the nuptials were over, he was having it off with the home help, Scandinavian Alfhild Dagny Cowum. He wasn’t at all subtle about it, assuming he’d sort Florence out later if she presented any problems. He obviously didn’t know his new wife at all well. Two months into the marriage she was suing for divorce on the grounds of adultery – an unusual and brave step for a woman to take back then. Initially Robert thought all this mattered little. Being a man (of sorts) of his times, he took it as gospel the notion that the male of the species was entitled to affairs on the side. It was only to be expected of a fellow as virile as he. And normally this would be the case – but Florence was not as much a woman of her times as he took for granted. She would not be subjected by him. She was persistent and she never gave up. It was a long, tedious, demeaning and convoluted process she had to endure to see justice – but she fought bitterly to attain it. She was bold enough to convince court after court to see it her way. This, despite all the mud that her husband could throw at her; despite the despicable act he perpetrated when the mud didn’t stick. In the midst of all of it he did find time to take his mistress as his third wife. Florence gave him the wherewithal to do that – not that in any way is he deserving of any form of sympathy. She was also vital in his fall from grace.

What was shocking were the lengths Shufeldt went to to get his own back on Florence, once his wife was granted a divorce by the Maryland courts. It shocked him to the core that it was ruled he also was required to pay alimony. In the usual manner of men back then, with a rare adverse decision going against them, he simply took the common step and filed for bankruptcy. The thinking was that would put paid to any financial call she could have on him. He hadn’t figured, though, with his former wife’s determination to prove that this ploy was patently unfair. After all, he was still receiving a perfectly fine pension from the US army – surely she had a right to that, if indeed he was in dire monetary straits. She very much doubted this to be the true. She took her case all the way to the US Supreme Court – and in doing so took on the US Army as well. Compounding her problems there were the boffins at the AOU who were concerned what the impending scandal would do to their organisation’s standing. They took legal means to try and get her to desist. She refused. All this caused great publicity but again, with the bit between her teeth, she was unswerving in her campaign for her rights – and she ultimately prevailed. The loophole of bankruptcy was closed and the precedent had been set to apply that judgement to all future women in similar circumstances.

Now, what of the link to the abhorrent practice of placing intimate images on-line of women who have had the effrontery to displease their men folk in some way? Well, it was what Shufeldt published during these proceedings that caused him to lose all sympathy from those in positions of judgement. It was considered that he had well and truly crossed the line – even for that misogynist era.

It was not unknown for him to publish nude photos of women in his various scientific writings. His book, ‘Studies of the Human Form for Artists, Sculptors and Scientists’, was full of them. But when ‘On Female Impotency’ came out and it transpired that the nudes enclosed within were of his wife Florence, all hell broke loose for the slime-ball that was RWS. Supposedly a piece in the guise of being ‘scientific’, he wrote of a woman who had left a physician, who shall remain nameless, describing this anonymous wife as ‘…immoral, hysterical and not a virgin when she married.’ He also submitted that, shockingly, said woman also possessed the blood of a mulatto – a clear reference to the great bird-painter’s own mother. This outraged the AOU and the Smithsonian – they disowned him immediately. This only caused a fit of pique from Robert S who promptly marched up to their doors demanding all his specimens back. What a cheek they had not taking his side!

So what do we take out of all this? Probably that there is nothing new under the sun in this world. That it rebounded and the odious man received his just desserts is a plus. Hopefully that can happen to most of Shufeldt’s present day equivalents. All of this unseemly carry-on took it’s toll on the poor possum’s health. Most of his final years he was to be found brooding and wheezing in various sanatoriums before he did the planet a favour by dying in 1934.

It took years and years for Florence to obtain her legal win with, as a spin off, ever so slowly she assisted in setting in motion the creaky wheels of justice to make life more tolerable for the women of her time. She is worthy of greater recognition for this – and I still cannot help but wonder if that portrait that so intrigued me is indeed of her.

I’ll leave the final word to one of her supporters during her lengthy ordeal, Elliott Coves, who wrote – ‘Dr Shufeldt is morally a cancer – the most vilest and most depraved wretch I ever met. His former wife had committed suicide in an insane asylum to which his brutalities had consigned her. The horrors of poor Florence Audubon’s situation I never saw surpassed.’

That Jimmy – Will He Ever grow Up

September 15, 2015art and photographystevestevelovellidau

A rabbit perched on the shell of a giant snail; a group of Brit excursioners – they could only be Poms given their attire – floating through the air on a wooden plank, counter-balanced by a cute doggie; oarsmen rowing their way through a sea of denim or, this scribe’s pick, a super, super cuddly ted with boy and dog. It’s all the dreams of childhood before reality quells.

It’s the planet as Jimmy Lawlor imagines it. ‘His paintings are so delightfully executed that he confirms the beauty of countryside life, but he picks his nose with his nationality brush and pokes fun at the constructed Ireland.’

The Irish surrealist was born in Wexford in 1967 and now lives in the pluvially glorious west of the country. Here the Atlantic gales sweep in and the sea has created a landscape like no other – a place where the whiff of a leprechaun can still be noted if one sniffs its wind-blasted hedgerows. It’s a perfect for a chronicler of the absurd such as Lawlor. He aims at the child in all of us – and hopes the child never becomes us.

My first whiff of him came via an art-savvy friend on Facebook – and I had to discover more. This seemed particularly the case as I now have a granddaughter whose take on the world and all its wonder has reawakened mine.

Lawlor reportedly mourns the disappearance of the old ways of the Emerald Isle. It too has become a member of our generic globalised environment, but his paintings keep something of the whimsical spirit of the Irish alive – a race who can still, on occasions, snub

their nose at the political correctness so rampant everywhere. They can observe and lampoon the stupidity of, through Guinness tinted goggles, the big knobs in charge. One just has to cite, to discern that, the calibre of their comedic talent for taking the mickey. Such like is placed on canvas by Jimmy L. His works are now sought after world-wide, demonstrating we’re still not quite ready to let go the traditions of Dali and the type of adventures of the mind he indulged in. I love the magic in the contemporary version’s art.

To my mind each painting asks for a story to be constructed around it. Here logic perhaps takes second place to imaginings. I can’t wait for Tessa Tiger Gordon to tell her Poppy what is going on in some of these daubings by a painter prepared to sit whales in giant goldfish bowls; or produce traffic cones, with wings on, over the quiet unsuspecting byways of his homeland.

Jimmy Lawlor’s website = http://www.jimmylawlor.com/

Affairs=Murder for Woody and the Blue Room

September 11, 2015Movie Reviewsstevestevelovellidau

It was worth more that two and a half, Paul Brynes – it was! Granted, one could still argue it wasn’t a patch on classic Allen – no where near ‘Annie Hall’, ‘Manhattan or, more recently, ‘Midnight in Paris’ and the marvellous Cate Blanchett vehicle, ‘Blue Jasmine’. So the reviewer from the Age is correct in that regard, but still, that rating – well it was miserly for what was nonetheless an amiably entertaining film. But the critic made a point about his distaste for ageing male Hollywood stars playing against much younger actors as their love interest and there’s another case of that here. I concur wholeheartedly with this view. It does get on one’s pip, I must admit. That is not just jealousy speaking – it’s so unrealistic in most cases. But at least it’s not Woody himself as the romantic lead, as in the past on occasion. Emma Stone does a fine job as the more junior of the two ladies who fall in lust with the dissolute Abe Lucas (Joaquin Phoenix), newly arrived on campus as the bad boy of the philosophy department. To give him some credit he did reject the none to subtle advances of the student initially – but that was possibly only because, at that stage, he was struggling with his libido. All that grog wouldn’t have helped. We know he was a dud in the sack because of his impotent display with the older Rita (Parker Posey) – a far more suitable, age-wise if nothing else, match for him. And it has to be said, his colleague’s wife is a far more sensual, interesting woman than Stone’s Jill Pollard.

Phoenix does look as though he’s kinda sleep-walking through his role in this the auteur’s latest. It’s as if life’s party has petered out for his character – that is, until an overheard conversation puts the pep back into his step. He’s contemplating murder you see. There’s renewed vigour in his classroom and bedroom performances – enough to be finally tempted by Jill.

It’s not great, is ‘Irrational Man’, but it’s nowhere near the waste of money Allen at his worst provides. The two women, for my particular dollar, steal proceedings – especially the lustful, lustrous Posey – why on earth don’t we see more of her up there on the big screen? In the end the villain gets his just desserts – both of them. I did feel the climax needed a tad more teasing out – to me it seemed out of kilter with the rest of the offering. In truth, Paul B, I’d give it one more complete star – but you did allow that other critics have been kinder. Even an average Allen, in my view, is far superior to most of the dross Hollywood produces these days. Long may we cherish him, despite all his hang-ups and misdemeanours.

Now how could the Blue Room have resisted a movie entitled, well, ‘The Blue Room’? And yes, a blue room certainly features throughout – but mainly, as well as exceedingly erotically, in the opening scenes. Delphine (Léa Drucker) and Julien ( Mathieu Amalric), both married, escape to this upstairs room to conduct their passionate affair. She hangs a towel out the window when hubby, who works downstairs as a chemist, is absent. Directed by the lead male, he also bucks the trend and places his privates on display – why should it be expected only of the women? What the viewer eventually realises, as the hanky-panky disappears from the screen, is that really the film is a police procedural, for the aforementioned cuckolded chemist has been murdered. Which of the pair did the deed – or were they in collusion? That is the point of the exercise. We learn that neither party are being completely honest with the investigators, or in court, through witnessing the back story – red herrings there are a-plenty. The convoluted evidence presented at the duo’s trial left me completely confused as to how the jury arrived at the verdict they did. But we do know, by the time this is reached, that one of the pair is decidedly out of love/lust with the other – and the direct opposite applies. One decidedly also has a screw loose.

‘The Blue Room’ has enough Frenchiness to keep this customer satisfied. Again, though, as with ‘Irrational Man’, it didn’t completely captivate. I would have been happier if I were as certain as to whom was the guilty party as the members of the public sitting in judgement. However, as it was hard to feel anything for either of the lovers being held for the despicable act, in the end the verdict didn’t matter much. Maybe they both received what they deserved.

I really wouldn’t make it a priority to see either film before their respective runs end, but as for viewing one or both on some other platform – the ‘in’ word these days it seems – one could do a great deal worse, as I have in recent days, than these two offerings.

Official trailer ‘Irrational Man’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hP8mPkyBntw

Official trailer ‘The Blue Room’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieb9AbLl1_k

Molly Fink

September 8, 2015Other Writingstevestevelovellidau

It is a glorious name, Molly Fink, isn’t it? And a pretty special name too, given that its owner had an incredible time on this planet. And she had a connection to this island – her mother being one Elizabeth Fink, nee Watt, from Tassie. She married Wolfe – Wolfe Fink – a Channel Islander who practised law in Victoria and was a noted Shakespearean authority.

Molly was born, to the above, in Melbourne back in 1894. They named her Esme Mary Sorrett Fink – but she was always Molly. She went on to have an even grander appellation attached to her. She became the rani of Padukota. Later in Molly’s life she became a habitué of the French Riviera where, on certain occasions, she could be spotted, dressed to the nines in Chanel, walking her pet tortoise along the seafront. With its shell encrusted in diamonds, whenever the little creature would flag on its excursion, from her handbag, Molly would produce the most delectable of asparagus tips with which to revive it. In between her growing up on the Yarra and the tortoise towards the end she had quite a story to tell, did Molly. Let me present you with it.

Now some of us are familiar with another Australian abroad in the wide world at the same time as Molly. I refer to Sheila Chisholm – that amazing woman from Oz who outraged Buckingham Palace by taking young Bertie Windsor in hand and teaching him a thing or two about the delights of the fairer gender. He fell head over heels in love with her, but caused such consternation to the Firm that they quickly found unsullied, so they thought, eighteen year old Elizabeth Bowers-Lyon for him to woo and wed for the good of the country. We’ll hear more about young Lizzy anon. Maybe she wasn’t so pure – with a Tasmanian to blame. I do wonder, though, how the course of history could have been changed if Bertie had stuck to his guns, as with his elder brother? It was reading an article on SC that I encountered the name Molly Fink as another Down Under sheila who became embroiled with a royal around the same time, but with a more satisfactory, for a while, outcome. And this girl’s journey was no less fascinating than that of Sheila C’s with the capital S. A name like Molly Fink just yelled out for further investigation.

Molly grew up in the suburbs of Melbourne and, on attaining her ‘coming out’ in local society, quickly became the talk of the town for her beauty. Golden-haired with dazzling blue eyes, she had an ‘…oval, ivory-skinned face…’ and ‘…pouting pomegranate lips.’

Her life commenced its uniquely curious journey when, in 1915, she journeyed north to Harbour City. Up in the Blue Mountains – at the Majestic Hotel in Medlow Bath to be exact – the nineteen year old found a glorious male specimen also taking the air at that resort for the well-to-do. He was the dashing, cricket-mad Marthandra Bhairava Tondiman, who also happened to be Indian royalty. He was the rajah of the southern sub-continental principality that was to later become part of Molly’s official title. That was in April – soon, as with Sheila and Bertie, they were totally enamoured of one another. But their out come was far more romantic if none-the-less fraught. Nobody stopped them and by August in that year of war they were married in a Sydney registry office.

After the unadulterated bliss of an American honeymoon, the real world started to hit back at the besotted couple – the real world back then not quite so ready for a ‘mixed marriage’ of such import as in more enlightened times. This soon became obvious when the rajah took his rani home.

There are mixed reports about how the inhabitants of Pudukota reacted to their nominal ruler bringing home an Aussie missus – and a Catholic to boot. The ordinary people were bewitched by her, so it has been said, but the palace movers and shakers were mortified. They began plotting. With their diabolical scheming they found an ally in the British authorities. The latter assumed, being an antipodean, she could only be a gold-digger. There was no evidence at all this was fact, but that didn’t stop them. It was decided poisoning was a good option and the now pregnant Molly was fed doses of oleander. The rajah was a wake up to this and spirited her to a safe haven away from court. His wife duly produced the wished for heir. But, because of his mixed heritage, it was proclaimed that young Martanda Sydney would never sit on an Indian throne.

The rajah was not about to desert his Aussie belle on news of this. He figured the best way to deal with it was to escort her back to Oz. He’d determined to seek restitution from King George and he would state his case from Sydney. Having had issues with unsuitable matches for his own sons, George was not inclined to give this minor Indian prince much of a hearing. That was seemingly the sealer and Molly never set foot in her hubby’s homeland again.

In the Emerald City the couple cut a swathe through the high end of town. The rajah was heavily into the sport of kings. One of his steeds won the Grand National to entrench them as darlings of the turf. Molly became bosom buddies with Ada Holman, the Premier’s wife and an interesting woman in her own right – stay tuned. But the rajah was getting antsy for what was rightfully his. By 1919 he had deduced he’d do better stating his case from London, so Molly agreed to pack up and head for Old Blighty.

As the twenties wore on, though, it was obvious that their cause was dead in the water, but in recompense the British government did award the couple a healthy stipend. 1922 saw them quite taken with the French Riviera so they moved to Cannes. Here friendships were formed with such notables as Cecil Beaton and Anita Loos. Sadly the exiled rajah died in 1928. His Molly, at the time described as a ‘…very generous woman, madly extravagant.’ decamped back to London where, bejewelled and glittering, she attended all the right parties and performances. She also became a frequent visitor to the US and across the Channel.

Her story continued on with more twists and turns as the world again plunged into conflict. This saw her stranded in NYC with, oh dear, no access to her fortune on the other side of the Atlantic. And, quelle horreur, she was obliged to take a job. It was in an up-market fashion house so it wasn’t too much of a strain. She also involved herself in raising money for the war effort. This caused the FBI to come calling – they had proof she was embezzling much of what she inveigled out of the society types she consorted with. Eventually it turned out they couldn’t make the charges stick, so as soon as VE Day was celebrated, back to London she scampered. Tellingly, her son, the would-be rajah, later served time in Sing-Sing for stealing jewellery.

With her looks fading, the fifties witnessed her becoming reclusive, surrounded by her pekingese dogs and a certain tortoise. She became estranged from her son due to his criminal activities and sought solace in the bottle. In 1967 she donated all her worldly goods to the British public and in November of that year she was claimed by cancer.

Molly Fink – such a ‘common’ name. But, even with that handicap, she escaped the snooze of Melburnian suburban torpor to live a life large, mainly on the opposite side of the planet, Even with that name, she should not be forgotten. Hopefully a better wordsmith than I will bring her out of the shadows and place her in the same light as her contemporary, Sheila Chisholm, has been in recent times. I wonder if they ever met? I wonder what they would have made of each other?

All Days Are Night – Peter Stamm

September 2, 2015Book Reviewsstevestevelovellidau

How do they do it? It would take some gall. Of course there are a few with salacious intent – but the rest seem genuinely to work from a higher motive. Sometimes money will change hands in the negotiations. If that’s the case, why not simply hire from the plethora of models seemingly willing to offer that same service for a fee? But for many that would defeat the purpose. Some consider those who make a living from it not ‘real’ women. One cannot get to the ‘essence’ with a hireling – they are all false. It would show up in the image or on canvas. For some it is the purity that they are after and for that they need to also convince that they are pure in intent. They rely on citing their artistic resume. Some would allow husbands/partners/boyfriends, perhaps even mothers no doubt, to be present – but again, does this sully the intention? We, of course, can come at it from the other angle – why would a woman – or man for that matter – agree to do what is being asked of them? But it does happen – some organise it simply by handing out flyers with a proposal, but others, like Hubert Amrheim, simply approach a subject, suitable for his purposes, outside railway stations or cafes and puts it to them face to face. In his novel, Swiss author Peter Stamm looks at the motivation from both those sides – from the artist’s perspective asking the individual to pose nude for him back in his studio, as well as from one of his subjects prepared to disrobe for him. But, imagine it, walking up to a woman and asking her to take her clothes of for you.

Hubert A is able, successfully, to do just that. Mostly he has negative responses – even rude ones – and that is to be expected. But there are enough positive ones to make his project viable. Once back in his studio he photographs these compliant women naked doing mundane household duties – ironing, brewing coffee, making the bed. Examining the dozens of photographs he takes of each volunteer, he only selects for transferring to canvas those containing the pure essence he is seeking. It works. The results are in demand and he garners enough fame/notoriety so that Gillian decides to interview him for her television show. She finds him distant, austere even – not quite what she expected. But she’s intrigued. There’s not much life in her marriage to Mattias, so she contacts Hubert anonymously just to see where it leads. Where it leads is first to a coffee – but eventually, very reluctantly, the artist agrees to her desire to pose for him. But you see, being a famous face, she isn’t ‘real’ in his view. He has similar misgivings about photographing her sans clothing. The photographs don’t reach down into her ‘essence’. She is disappointed by this and it’s followed by an attempt at seduction – not by him, but the reverse. He immediately gives her her marching orders, but she succeeds in obtaining her images off him. Mistake. Hubby discovers them, is disgusted and goes ballistic. This ends up with Matthias dead and her face so smashed up she is now unrecognisable as a celebrity. Her television days are over. Much later, with a new face, Gillian – now Jill, has moved on to an existence as an entertainment coordinator at a cheesy alpine resort. Here she has a chance encounter with Hubert. He’s in town, having moved on from his nudes, to stage an exhibition at a local gallery. Trouble is – he has a dose of artists’ block – which eventually leads to him unravelling. Guess who becomes his carer? A relationship of sorts flares between the pair with never short of interesting results.

And that is as good a description as I can provide of this slight, in terms of page numbers, tome from Mr Stamm without giving too much away. He was the first wordsmith from his native land to be short-listed for the Man Booker so, despite the obvious possibilities, this offering from him is quite literary. It is a gem, in my view. Despite its brevity, it is beautifully structured and written. ‘All Days are Night’ still ticks all the boxes as a page turner. Opening with Gillian/Jill gradually emerging from a coma as a result of Mattias’ meltdown, Stamm first puts the back-story in place, then fast-forwards, in the second half, to the re-connection between the two main protagonists. Excellent stuff.

Peter Stamm

Earlier this year I attended a showing of a local artist’s collection of nudes. I talked to the dauber for a while, but never bought myself to ask him how he found such a stunning array of subjects, prepared to disrobe for him, in a smallish place like Hobart. Did he need to go out into the Elizabeth Street Mall to find ‘real’ women in order to reach their ‘essence’ through his gifts with a paint brush. This book set me wondering about that question I refrained from asking again.

Two Australias

August 30, 2015Movie Reviewsstevestevelovellidau

There’s no greater contrast in our land than between sun-bedazzled Sydney, on its harbour, to sun-blistered Broken Hill, on its slag-heaps where the bush gives way to the desert. As well, there’s also no greater contrast in our land as between the denizens who populate those two burbs. Our premier city has its fair share of suited and befrocked sophisticates as befits the cosmopolitan metropolis it has become. Contrast that to the knock-about, laconic blokes and sheilas of Silver City. And there’s no greater contrast between the pair of movies we have under the microscope here – Brendan Cowell’s ‘Ruben Guthrie’ and Jeremy Sims’ Outback road trip, ‘Last Cab to Darwin’.

Both, in this scribe’s view, have their faults But, overwhelmingly, both were highly respectable offerings in terms of quality. The cinema going punters thought otherwise, though. For an Oz effort the former wasn’t a complete disaster earning good dollars during its run – in the hundreds of thousands. But LCTD creamed it at the box-office with earnings now up above the three million mark and climbing. Although most of us reside in a coastal necklace of large cities, from ‘Dad and Dave’ to ‘Crocodile Dundee’ to ‘Last Cab’, give us a good yarn about bush yokels and we’re suckers for the taking. The Outback, don’t you know – that’s where the true-blue Australia is.

Ruben Guthrie is an ugly man, not a likeable fellow at all – and that’s perhaps the problem. Australians have adored Michael Caton ever since he added new phrases to our lingo in the magnificent Aussie battler tale of ‘The Castle’. The promise of another fine turn from him bought us to the multiplexes in our droves. We weren’t disappointed. He is superb as a guy at death’s door. He doesn’t want to do the hard yards to an unseemly, painful demise and who can blame him? In the period the movie is set the Northern Territory legislature had just introduced a law permitting us to put ourselves, legally, out of our misery – to have the same option as we would bestow on a well loved pet. For a nano-second, before Howard and his cronies decided it was their right to play god as pollies are wont, a government finally had the courage to stick its nose up at the far right and do the humane thing. It didn’t last long, did it? But it will happen, eventually.

As Rex couldn’t face a cruel death he, being a taxi driver in the Outback NSW town, took one last fare – himself. He’s off to Darwin in the hope of a gentler exit. What eventually transpires; the characters he meets en route and a stellar performance from the lead makes this such a rewarding experience – a beaut effort at the genre our local industry does best. No need to be all arty-farty. Leave that to the countries that excel in that. It won’t bring the average joe in. Stick to what we know and our film-making can be viable. This is one that’s all heart, with an ending that will make one leave with a smile – despite its subject matter. We can only hope that a few of our leaders view it and at least contemplate allowing us a choice in the way we would like out time to be bought to an end. Once upon a time we were the land of the fair go.

There is a grim outcome for Rex, the cab driver, but there’s much joy to be had with Sim’s product here. The supporting cast are particularly fine, especially Nigali Lawford-Wolf and Mark Coles Smith. Jackie Weaver’s role, despite some critical displeasure, is okay as the euthanasia-ing, proselytising doctor. The aforementioned jack-of-all trades, Cowell, has a brief cameo and the other John Howard features. Even Bristle (Brian Taylor) gets a guernsey.

And the ‘…thirsty comedy about a man on the rocks’? It is also worth a bo-peep when it comes along on some small screen platform or other. Ruben is an A1 party animal, with Sydney’s hedonistic lifestyle giving him an immense playground in which to indulge himself in a sea of grog and other ingestibles. He possesses a palatial home, a European model as prime squeeze and he’s killing it in his advertising job. Trouble is – his life choices are also killing him. Eventually he wises up and sees the need to go on the wagon – but can he prevent himself from slipping off at the first whiff of a martini olive? It’s a journey he has to take – one that is never short of interesting as he battles his demons and as with Rex’s bull-dust adventures, there are interesting companions to meet en route. With competent performances from Robyn Nevin and Alex Dimitriades, as well as from the doyen, Jack T, who also puts in an appearance – plenty of life left in that old dog – the film is well served by its supporting cast. As is well documented about Brendan C’s own life, the film, as well as the play from which it derives it roots, is pretty much autobiographical. The question then is why didn’t he just play himself? Perhaps it was too close to home, but nonetheless Patrick Brammall is a perfectly adequate substitute – an actor starting to make a mark after his performance in ABC’s ‘Glitch’. He is initially convincing as a drunk out of control, before events conspire forcing his character to reassess himself as a person.

Worthy also of mention is the lovely work Sarah Blasko has done with the soundtrack (she must be just about due for another album). I liked ‘Ruben Guthrie’ As it was chosen to open this year’s Sydney Film Festival, I am patently not alone. But the people who really count – those lining up for tickets at the box office – well, they largely bypassed it.

As LCTD did for euthanasia, so RG does for binge drinking. At the conclusion of the latter offering Ruben has to make a snap decision that so many in similar situation also have also had to face. Unfortunately, in the instance that Rex so poignantly highlights in his trip to the Top End, for those in similar circumstances today there is no choice now on offer. We have a bit of maturing to do as a nation.

‘Last Cab to Darwin’ website = http://www.lastcab.com.au/lastcab.com.au/Home.html

‘Last Cab to Darwin’ trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdzkJL37db8

‘Ruben Guthrie’ website = http://rubenguthrie.com.au/

‘Ruben Guthrie’ trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyaE_L3TghI