All posts by stevestevelovellidau

When Michael Met Mina – Randa Abdel-Fattah

Book Reviews

Michael – ‘And then, because I can’t hold out any longer, I take a chance, lean in and kiss her. So softly it makes my insides ache.’
Mina – ‘Every time I think of our lips locking, the feel of our tongues meeting, the tenderness with which he held me close to him, my stomach plunges the same way it does on roller-coaster rides.’

I like first kisses, especially when it comes to YA writing. But Michael and Mina’s was a long time coming.

My daughter is rarely wrong. She reads YA widely and recommends – and she was totally right with this one. I did doubt her for a short time. I thought Randa Abdel-Fattah’s story of these star crossed lovers was somewhat clunky in getting up and running, but once it got a head of steam up, this was a ravishing read. Hopefully it will become a favourite of readers of her targeted age group all across Oz – and maybe not just with the female gender.

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Michael is a knockabout lad; typically Aussie – bright, but doesn’t ponder too deeply about stuff. On the other hand, his parents do. They run a ‘patriotic’ organisation called Aussie Values – and Michael goes along with them for the ride. The author portrayed his parents as good, caring people; very moderate, by Pauline Hanson standards. But their operation attracts the far right wing hangers on – those that peddle a message of hate. Michael’s mum and dad tolerate them – and it leads to trouble.

When Michael meets Mina he discovers she’s quite unlike any girl he’s ever had dealings with previously. And as they gradually grow closer, well then, two worlds collide. She’s an Afghani refugee, closeted by a deeply traumatised, but loving, family, who are starting to make headway with their new lives in Oz – until the numbskull element from Aussie Values get involved. All of a sudden Michael needs to make decisions as to where his loyalties lie; in effect, what really are his own values. Are they with family or a beautiful, compelling and intelligent young lady? One who has turned his life upside down.

I thoroughly enjoyed this tome. It throws light on the openings for hate that Abbott, Abetz, Morrison et al created with their recent regime, still sadly lingering under Turnbull. Our present policies are inhumane as well as illegal under international law, but – well don’t get me started. We were once far more tolerant, with this publication from Randa Abdel-Fattah highlighting those Aussies who have lost that side of their national character, as well as those who still retain it. At one stage Michael’s mother states that what’s happening in Australia, on the race issue, is like the soup she is preparing – ‘The dominant flavour is asparagus. I’ve got other spices and flavours in here too because that makes the soup so rich and flavoursome. But they complement the asparagus, they don’t take over.’ When Michael relates this to Mina, she explodes, ‘So let me get this right Michael. Australia is a big bowl of soup and Aussie Values is about protecting the asparagus from an over zealous pepper or cardamon pod.’

As the two main protagonists develop feelings for each other there are the subsidiary narrative lines involving their various mates to be resolved as well. Paula has a crush on a teacher whilst Jane is besotted by one of Michael’s dip-stick mates, unable to recognise that she is being used. Naturally all the strands, including the issues involved in the affection between the Aussie lad and the Afghani lass, are sorted by novel’s end. But even so, the way ahead may still not be overly easy for our main couple. For me, the sign of a terrific read is whether, by the time I turn the last page, I am disappointed that my time with the author’s creations is about to be terminated. I felt that way with this title and I can only hope there is a sequel in the offing. There’s scope Randa.

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And, surprisingly, I found that I had something in common with Mina and Michael, despite the alarming number of decades in age difference. When they first met they bonded over an indie band, the XX. I have their first album and love it. Oh dear, who’d have thought?

The author’s website = http://www.randaabdelfattah.com/

The Summer of '82 – Dave O'Neil

Book Reviews

Dave was pumped. He was afizz with excitement. He was dressed in his very finest New Wave gear. He and his mates had left the ‘burbs and had trained into the centre of Yarra City and were now standing outside the Hilton, yelling out their hero’s name and clutching his latest album. And to their incredulity, their rock god did indeed come out onto his balcony to wave at them. ‘An autograph. An autograph,’ the lads bellowed in unison, holding said album up high and shaking it at the figure spotted above. ‘He disappeared and then a few minutes later walked through the glass doors of the Hilton. Well, walked is not really correct; he perfectly glided across the concourse. He was the coolest guy we’d ever seen. He was wearing a white suit with his tight white shirt’s top button undone and a plain black tie.‘ Figured out who it was? A pop superstar dressed so suavely for those times? Sadly his coolness did not complete the exercise. Once he had glided closer and realised Dave and co weren’t girls, pandering for his attention and perhaps a little something else, Bryan Ferry promptly about-faced and retreated back to his penthouse suite.

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It was the summer of ’82, a very hot summer Dave recalled on an ABC radio interview, promoting this memoir, that I caught recently in the wee small hours overnight. Coincidentally I was nearing the end of my own perusing of his book. In his responses, Dave regaled the listener with some of the yarns I had just finished reading. The opening chapters had our Dave finishing his exams, the results of which were a long way off in those pre-digital years. But Dave was not worried. The outcome was irrelevant for, you see, he was about to become a rock god himself. He was already in a band on bass/keyboards, such was his outrageous talent. The fabulous Captain Cocoa was destined to be the next hot group to emerge from the beer barns of Melbourne to flaunt their chops on ‘Countdown’, or so he insisted to himself. The rest would be history. Ah yes, heady days indeed.

But until fame came to collect him to lift him up and out of Mitcham, he had endless days to fill in – days when he would move from his trusty BMX to an orange Torana; days when he’d hitchhike from one end of Victoria to another to see a girl who’d whispered in his shell-like, ‘Come up and see me sometime’; days of part time jobs and days of falling in love with a fellow New Romantic. It’s glorious fare, redolent of William McInnes at his best, recalling his own life adventures. I just loved Dave’s book.

Being a stand-up comedian, Dave O’N is expert at spinning stories and his laconic tales stand-up (oh dear) well in print. I sorely miss his fortnightly musings for Friday’s issue of the Age, but cruising my way through this tome was a worthy alternative. There were a few stories I’d encountered before from him, but most of it was fresh to my eyes. In prose worthy of McInnes’ hilarious ‘A Man’s Got To Have A Hobby’, O’Neil lovingly lays out for us all the idiosyncratic peculiarities of his own old man, Kev; as well as the antics he and his brothers inflicted on family and neighbourhood – one even requiring a visitation from the bomb squad.

And we get, through our author, to meet some of the big names of the period – Dave was out and about in the summer of ’82, having close encounters with James Freud, Dave Mason of the Reels (one of my favs too then) and Lindy Morrison, girl drummer for the Go-Betweens. The Models, Uncanny X-Men and the Ted Mulry Gang also feature. Yep – real superstars of the era.

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But there were also a few surprises in store for our hero during this summer. These included a close encounter with mortality, courtesy of his first car. He caught on early that young fellows like him weren’t bullet-proof. His matriculation results, when they finally came in the post, a story in itself, were a shock . As for Dave and his band mates, the road really was a long way to the top if you aspire to rock and roll. But they did achieve one aim – an appearance on national television. Nevertheless, through his band he did receive an inkling of just what life did have in store for him.

It is an easy read and I consumed it in a couple of sittings. His breezy style sucked me in – it’s quite beguiling. And I am hoping there’s a ‘Summer of ’83’. Summer of ’84, ‘Summer of ’85’….

The author’s website = http://daveoneil.com.au/

To Be Or Not To Be

Movie Reviews

Recently, in Melbourne, I was at that city’s eponymous university visiting the Ballieu Library for its mini-exhibition, as it turned out, on the ground floor – ‘TeeVee in the Sixties’. Some great stuff, but too little in scope. Upstairs, though, I noticed they were advertising another showing – to commemorate four hundred years since the birth of Shakespeare. Duly I mounted those steps and entered the several rooms devoted to it. Now this was more like it – something to get one’s teeth into. Unfortunately, due to time constraints, I didn’t really do it justice. It was a rushed, cursory appraisal but I was impressed. I was particularly taken by some of the old editions of his works dated way, way back. And the Bard featured prominently in ‘The Carer’, a movie viewed since my return. It had some faults, but overall I enjoyed it immensely.

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Now I’ve never been a great fan of the Elizabethan playwright’s works, but, of course, his legacy to the language I scribble in is immense. And his words form a fair amount of the script for this offering.

You see, the great Shakespearean actor Sir Michael Gifford is dying – but he’s not going easily into the night. His Parkinson’s is really starting to take hold and he is in need of constant monitoring. However, he is a bugger to care for, thus the quick turnover rate for the girls hired to do so. Gifford is in no mood to consider that, indeed, he is, in a word, finished. Enter the latest in a long line, a would be acting student in the form of Dorottya. Of Magyar background, she is a dab hand at mangling the language. But she does love her Shakespeare, with the added advantage possessing detailed knowledge of her new patient’s interpretations of the great man’s classic plays. Austrian born actress Coco König shines as the carer, gradually wooing the old fellow with charm and her recall of ancient movies. The rest of the supporting cast – Emilia Fox as his frosty daughter; the always sumptuous Anna Chancellor as his secretary/one-time lover and Karl Johnson as the chauffeur/former dresser – are an attractive ensemble and more than adequate.

But this is Brian Cox’s show. The Scottish actor, sprouting Shakespeare at the drop of a hat, is, in turn, pompous, curmudgeonly, horrid and defeated by aspects of the disease – particularly when he loses control of his bowels. There is no gloss presented here about the downside of ageing in the hands of an affliction that isn’t going to let go.

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It is, admittedly, a fairly predictable pathway that Hungarian director János Edelényi takes us on and the final stanza does grate somewhat. The movie perhaps takes its cues from the French sensation of a few years back,’The Intouchables’, but is less life affirming.

Paul Byrnes, writing for The Age, had a great line to sum-up his review perfectly, so I present it as my final word on ‘The Carer’ as well. He says that, between Dorottya and Sir Michael, ‘A kind of love develops, and the movie is never so unsubtle as to state it. Cox’s timing throughout is superb – a comic masterclass that gives way to a temper worthy of Lear. It’s easy to enjoy his playing to the back of the theatre, as she (König) works the front row.’

Trailer for the movie = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AC8box-kS9c

Old Dog

Movie Reviews

Julian has a problem – what to do with Truman, his canine companion for many a long year. He has to find exactly the right home for his ageing pooch – not the most Hollywood of dogs by any stretch of the imagination. It won’t be easy.

A huge hit at the Spanish Oscars and applauded at film festivals the world over, ‘Truman’ has now been released in Oz to generally critical acclaim. Taking a leaf from our own ‘Last Cab to Darwin’ and the glorious French-Canadian affair ‘The Barbarian Invasions’, this movie is a celebration of life when there isn’t much of it left.

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Tomás (Javier Cámara) has travelled from Montreal, somewhat reluctantly, to Madrid to say final farewells to his terminal mate Julián, played by the wonderful Ricardo Darín. These two reconnect as Julián’s world as journeyman actor is shutting down. First task is the dog – maybe the lesbian couple will be suitable, or perhaps the predatory widow. A home just has to be found. There’s a journey to be made to Amsterdam for his son, studying there, has yet to be informed of the full extent of the cancer rampant in Julián’s body. There’s the conversation to be had with Truman’s long suffering vet over canine psychology and he has to come to terms with being fired from his job for all the right reasons. There’s also those friends to be dealt with who choose to ignore, rather than attempt to come up with all the right words. It’s all so touchingly done, but in the end this is a tale of two men trying to find common ground and the fullness of friendship in difficult circumstances. Both Cámara and Darin are superb in their roles – a glance between them says a hundred words and only the flintiest of hearts could fail to be moved by this gem, even if it’s not deliberately played for tears. The ailing one faces his demise with a stoic and matter-of-fact mien as he makes a final decision regarding his last weeks.

The only jarring note came with the sex scene that seemed, to this viewer, to be out of kilter and totally unnecessary. The deep distress felt, by his two main mates, towards the end, could have been communicated in a better way than getting their kit off and going for it. But to counterpoint that, the ending is simply perfect as Truman’s future is finally sorted.

As our nation deals with the thorny nettle of assisted death, ‘Truman’ should be in the mix, together with the aforementioned movies and that other recent release ‘Me Before You’, to assist in focusing our views. ‘Truman’ is a film that will linger.

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Movie trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tzQof1453M

Mary, Joan and the Elusive Girl

music

I wondered and wondered and am still not exactly sure I pinned her correctly.
To feel you all around me and to take your hand
Along the sand
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind
Perhaps catch the girl more like, but which girl?

Down through the years and decades Donovan’s ‘Catch the Wind’, through its several versions and umpteen covers, has always been a favourite ditty for me. So when it re-entered my world recently, via a mint new take, listening to it drew my thoughts back to a faraway place when it encapsulated my yearnings for her. But I couldn’t place exactly who that ‘her’ was, but it must have been someone pretty special to get me so worked up that I pined for her in tune with the Donovan classic. Maybe checking out the song’s provenance would assist me in identifying her – for mysteries like it tend to play on my mind. I was sure it would hark back to a time in my life when there was a hiatus – a time when the cupboard was bare, so to speak. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but you see, for a few years I’d lost the art. And it was/is an art and I have always been pretty artless in what appeals to the opposite gender – but since then I have been luckier in my life

Now those of you with memories that stretch back as far as mine may recall the song – or it may have been in a parent’s collection, even if you cannot place its composer/performer. ‘Catch the Wind’ came into being in 1965, put together by one Donovan Leitch who, perhaps understandably, chose to be known around the traps simply by his first name. It reached No.4 in the UK and 23 in the US. Born in 1946, Donovan’s still around, but his glory years were long ago, ’65 till ’69. He was mates with Brian Jones and taught John Lennon how to finger-pick. For a time he had a close friendship with Joan Baez – instrumental in causing my pondering on yesteryear. His string of hits included ‘Colours’ and ‘Universal Soldier’ early on, but then he really hit his straps with ‘Sunshine Superman’, ‘Hurdy-Gurdy Man’, with the biggie being ‘Mellow Yellow’.

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Was I aware of it way back in 1965? I may have been, but at a callow 14 I was just developing my interest in music. The opposite sex, though, wasn’t really on my radar then, so I doubt there would have been much cause for angst over a girl in my Grade 8 year.

Because of label issues, the song was revamped and re-released for a ‘Greatest Hits’ package in ’68. Now this is more like it. The new version was produced by Mickie Most and became a more complex entity. It was probably this adaptation that so caught my ear back then – that so impacted.

Personally, in the opposite sex department, 1968 was a good year for me, having a relationship with two lovely young ladies over the course of that year into ’69 – then came the fallow times. I’d have ‘crushes’, I’d give and occasionally receive ‘looks’ from across a classroom or lecture theatre that would seem promising; conversations that I felt could have led to something. But nothing developed – zilch. Yep. In that period I may have as well ‘tried to catch the wind‘ as had anything remotely meaningful with any of those lasses I had my eye on.

There were several that aroused my passions in my final year of education in Burnie, followed by more whilst at a Hobart university hall of residence – sadly not co-ed. But which one caused me to curl up on my bed in the foetal position with unrequited love on my mind, having ‘Catch the Wind’ on repeat playings. Back then this required frequent lifting and dropping of the stylus, or constant cassette rewindings – quite labour intensive. She was so elusive, whoever she was – just giving me enough to keep me interested, but back then I had become obtuse in reading the signs. My confidence was shot.

After listening to the tune anew recently, I spent several sessions in my morning bath, trying to figure out which one from that faraway period was her? Who was that girl in the late sixties/early seventies who had me wallowing? She no doubt was someone who I truly wanted to cause me to ‘leave all my blues behind‘ because it so seemed ‘everywhere I’d look…(her) eyes I’d find‘. But it, obviously, was never to be. And eventually, in amongst the suds, I think I figured it out.

In fact, I have previously scribbled about her before in one of my Burnie Tales, ‘Honey’. She was Ellen – not her real name I hasten to add. In fact, Ellen was an amalgam of several girls I knew during that barren period. It was a ‘what if’ tale – what if I had succeeded in attracting her, or even one of those girls, then? In reality Ellen and I never made it to anywhere near the stage of ‘taking her hand along the sand’, for she was drawn to more sporty types – ace footballers and surfer-dudes; the in-crowd. I was no match. But she was one of a number back then – but I seem to recall I was partially attracted to her because she, like me, was a olive-hued sun-worshipper, a habitué of the beaches around Burnie.

The direct reason for this visitation to a song and a girl of long ago was listening to a brand new cover of the former, sung by two glorious troubadours who have been around for a considerable time – in fact one was celebrating her seventy-fifth birthday in concert. In it Joan was perhaps recalling her days when the writer of the tune was her mate, Mary perhaps thinking how fortunate she was to be on stage singing along with a legend.

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Joan Baez has just released a double album of songs, mostly in tandem with a guested notable, from her pomp. I reckon most know of her, if not for her music, perhaps because of her relationship with Bob Dylan. She was an early champion as well as lover. Her biggest hits – surely you will recall her now – ‘We Shall Overcome’, ‘The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down’. I was reclining in the man-cave, listening to the anniversary suite of songs for the first time when ‘Catch the Wind’ lilted into my aural appendages.

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On this she was accompanied by Mary Chapin Carpenter – perhaps not such a familiar name. This artist’s most successful years were from ’89 till ’96. Her triumph was the 1992 collection ‘Come On, Come On’ yielding seven hits on the US country charts. She has won five Grammys over the years, but during this new millennium has largely sunk from view as her albums became deemed not radio-friendly enough, whatever that means. But early this year I purchased her latest, ‘Things that We Are Made Of ‘. I reckon it’s up there with her best.

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And yours truly started trying to figure out who that elusive girl was as the duo trilled to the beat of ‘Catch the Wind’; the one who caused so much early adult longing. On that early spring afternoon, with the sun coming in on me, I was immediately transported anew to those times when I fretted about being left out as, unlike most of my mates, I could not find myself a girlfriend. That’s what came back to me, caused by an old song sung by two consummate performers. Of course, eventually it all changed for me – but in the deep recess of my mind she still flutters – that elusive girl.

Donovan sings the song = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-c9sr_qF8I

There's Nothing Like AFL Footy

Book Reviews, sport

Heartfelt Moments in Australian Rules Football – edited by Ross Fitzgerald
From the Outer – Edited by Alicia Sometimes and Nicole Hayes

My Dad liked Wally Clark. Ostensibly my father supported Cooee in my region’s local footy comp – a club, that, like so many others, did not survive into the new millennium. But, of course, he admired any good footballer playing for our coastal teams. This was particularly the case when they donned the maroon and gold of the North West Football Union to take on the NTFL, from up Launceston way or, more specifically, those high and mighty Cascade swilling southerners from the TFL. If our men managed to beat them – a rarity, but it did happen, celebrations were long, my father was ecstatic and much Boags was quaffed.

outer02Wally Clark and Kevin Murray 1963

Wally Clark was a rover. It’s a term no longer in use, submerged by the generic one – midfielder. Gone are the days of the rover, along with ruck-rover, wingman, flanker, centreman or pivot, drop kick, stab pass, flick pass and so many others. With the saturation coverage of the AFL, today regional football in the south, north and north-west is a mere shadow of its former self. I remember, as a callow teenager, watching Wally Clark when his team, Latrobe (later to boast the magnificent Darrel Baldock as its captain-coach), travelled to Burnie’s West Park to take on my mob, the Tigers. I recall him as a short, close to the ground, beer-barrel shaped player; the captain coach of the coastal Demons from ’64 till ’67. He won the local equivalent of the Brownlow, the Wander medal, in ’65 and no doubt would have donned the maroon and gold – maybe even being selected for ‘the map’; selected in the state side to take on interstate rivals. Occasionally our little island could even match it with the Big V.

In those days our teams would welcome back locals who had made a name for themselves over in Melbourne, such as the Doc. With robust finances, as healthy numbers supported the local clubs, big names could also be attracted to play out their twilight competitive years here. Wally Clark was one such.

Reading ‘Heartfelt Moments in Australian Rules Football’ and ‘From the Outer’, I found Wally Clark mentioned in both. Here’s Barry Dickins writing on his beloved Royboys in the former – ‘My hero, Butch Gale, rots (sic) (Yes, ‘Heartfelt Moments…’ could have done with more thorough editing) on with a big barrel chest out and lots of people reaching over the concrete race to pat him on the back, he is glossy with Deep Heat Muscle Ointment which I forever associate with courage and determination and agonizing ligaments; his rover trots on next who is wearing the very first example of the famous Flat Top Hair Cut and he is Wally Clark; and Fitzroy fans all yell out excitedly on viewing him, ‘Good on yer Wal!’

Tony Birch, recounting in ‘From the Outer’, had a similar addiction to Dickins for the Roys. Here he is on Wally, ‘As a kid my maroon and navy football jumper warmed me with the number 7 in honour of Wally Clark,…Wally was built like a butcher’s apprentice and played 105 games for the club.’ Later Birch was to forsake Clark for the great Kevin Murray in his affections. I knew Wally Clark had come to Tassie’s northern shores from the VFL back then, but until I read these two tomes recently had no idea that he was the ‘real deal’ amongst the big guns in his day. I checked him out on a VFL/AFL website in the ether and discovered he was a star, playing eight seasons with Fitzroy, giving ‘gutsy and commendable service.’ He debuted in 1955 and saved his best for his team’s unsuccessful finals campaigns in ’58 and ’60. He was their top goal scorer in ’62 with the slim total of 21. But the following year he was back in the reserves, therefore his decision to seek greener pastures elsewhere across the Strait as his powers waned. Yep, my Dad was correct in regarding Wal so highly. He stayed on the coast after retirement and could often be found in footy club-rooms, entertaining with his fine voice. Like the Cooee Football Club, sadly he didn’t see in the new millennium either.

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There is some dross in these two publications, particularly in ‘Heartfelt Moments…’, but there’s also some great wordsmithery as many a notable writes on the effect the native game has had on their lives. ‘From the Outer’ is the better, more attractive publication, with a cover illustrated by the wonderful Oslo Davis. The fairer gender dominate the contributions here, but I loved Jason Tuazon-McCheyne’s item on the formation of the Purple Bombers, a very personal account of the growth in support for the LGBTI community by football bodies across the nation. Sam Pang tells of the day he sat by the Flying Doormat (Bruce Doull) at Carlton’s last game on the Princess Park grass. There was one fine effort that wasn’t all that complimentary of our game. Catherine Deveny would have to rank up there with Keith Dunstan as a footy-hater par-excellence, far preferring her kids to be on computer games than having anything to do with the AFL – to the shock of her Melburnian mates. You see, for someone with no family tradition in the game, growing up in the city was basically a trial. Sophie Cunningham writes glowingly about the Geelong Cats and their frustrating climb, over the decades, to the powerhouse they are today. There’s Alan Duffy’s account of how he coped with, on meeting his new girlfriend’s parents, hearing the words ‘This is a Hawks family, Alan.’ The implied threat involved was obvious – they didn’t seem to care as much about his intentions for their daughter. Also included are reminiscences from role model-umpire Chelsea Roffey, Stan Grant, Christos Tsiolkas, Angela Pippos and Bev O’Connor.

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Alongside Barry Dickins in ‘Heartfelt Moments in Australian Rules Football’ is that great D’ Brian Dixon, as well as Jeff Kennett, Susan Alberti, Chris Bowen and even George Pell. Ken Spillman’s account of the day Lethal Leigh felled Barry Cable is a ripper and we have Richard Allsop recount his favourite Hawthorn moments. He plays tribute to the sublime skills of the indigenous genius of our native sport who is universally simply known as Cyril. Another great, also with a shortened moniker, Roo (Mark Riccuito), is adoringly portrayed by Chris Kenny. Humanising Liberal politicians everywhere is Josh Frydenberg’s paean to his beloved, once mighty Blues. ‘Now a father myself, I have responsibility to pass on that love of the Navy Blues to my little daughter.’

As for my own daughter, I am so proud that Katie is as fervent a fan of the brown and gold as I am. Together we have followed their fortunes in yet another finals campaign, unfortunately an unsuccessful one this time. But what of my granddaughter, Tess? Well now, there is another force at work here. You see her paternal grandmother is a passionate follower of the Hawk’s nemeses from down Corio Bay way and the Tiges, when asked who she barracks for, smiles sweetly and replies, ‘The Cats, Poppy’. And, to my surprise, I don’t care a jot. If she develops the same love of the game as Laurel, her great grandfather and her mother, it is enough for me.

Our Amazons

sport

Very little of the recent Olympics was viewed in our house by the river so not much of it that was positive caught my eye. Drug cheats and athletes, after giving their all, feeling necessary to apologise to a nation for not attaining gold left a sour taste – as did the extremely rarefied expectations of our sports officials and pundits. To me those aspects of the Games were a turn off. But even so, from the little I did espy, one could not fail to be impressed by a beautiful, ever-smiling young lady, Chloe Esposito, who came from nowhere to win the prized gong in a sport few had heard of in Oz. They have now. Modern pentathlon, I would imagine, would be an extremely hard sport to master, with all its various disciplines, so she was superb. And what about our rugby sevens girls? Their helter skelter courage was, well, amazing.

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But there is another team sport, newly emerged, that is turning heads and leaving many, including myself, open-mouthed in awe. Here the girls have had the audacity to take on another arena that was formerly the preserve of the fellas and start to make it their own. No, not the cricket. Forget about that – although they are quite gobsmackingly proficient with bat and ball too. No, it’s our own native born game, Aussie rules!

Now the new AFL national women’s league is about to take off in ’17, but, on a night during the pre-finals bye, we had a foretaste. And it was wonderful to behold. The D’s took on the Doggies – and for four quarters they went at it, full throttle. For me their display was a joy for these ladies possess the same gut running, kicking to position and pack-marking prowess as the opposite gender. Their hands are as quick and their brand is open, with speedy transition. And from their marquee players names are emerging to rival Bontempelli, Dangerfield and Fyfe. Here are two:-

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Daisy Pearce. Do read Martin Flanagan’s paean to her. When she’s not sizzling around the ‘G or Etihad she’s nursing – being a mid-wife in fact. Evidently she brings as much passion to that as she does chasing leather. Already she has a Hodgean ability to read the play, direct traffic and enter the fray to make a critical difference. She magnetises the eye on the footy field.

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Moana Hope – If you haven’t already done so, i-view Australian Story ‘A League of their Own’ from Monday, August 29. It deals with this power forward’s relationship with Susan Alberti, the Doggies’ vice-president. One would expect that the Melbourne socialite would have little in common with the heavily tattooed battler from the other side of the tracks, but she sees in Moana something special – as we all should do after watching her on their episode of this Auntie staple. But there’s nothing frivolous about Alberti – she’s all substance. As well as being a strong advocate for the women’s league, we know she is not afraid to put her money where her mouth is as she took on the odious Sam Newman after his appalling attempt at humour with Caroline Wilson his target. Alberti has developed an affection for Ms Hope who has come out of retirement with the formation of the national league. Moana is a whiz goal-kicker with her hard leading and accuracy. This electrifying young lady is the prime carer for her disabled sister and is working hard to set up a business to ensure her family’s financial future. She is simply inspirational, as are all these incredible girls who love our game and play it with such mesmerising fervour.

Martin Flanagan’s article = http://www.smh.com.au/comment/tonight-well-see-one-of-australias-best-footballers-in-action-20160902-gr76b2.html

‘League of their Own’ Australian Story = http://www.abc.net.au/austory/content/2016/s4525813.htm

Tassie Wild

art and photography

In truth I preferred the old Wilderness Shop. It was more down market and therefore a more comfortable fit with me, I guess. I’ve scribed before on the putoffedness of some of the galleries around town for the likes of me. Wild Island doesn’t quite have that effect – I will still enter and peruse. It, though, has far less stock than its antecedent and the prices are beyond my budget, apart from the occasional card. But then I am not their preferred demographic and topping it off, unfortunately my walls are full. Still, there’s no question they are offering an outstanding product from some of our island in the southern seas’ leading camerasmiths, craftspeople and daubers. So don’t let me put you off. If you haven’t already done so, go in for a squiz, particularly if you do have some of that wall space going. Support local talent please.

So I made one of my rare visits last month. I didn’t purchase anything, but there was, as always, much to admire. On leaving, my eye was drawn to a brochure because of the work of art it featured. It was advertising the store’s latest exhibition, so I cast my eye around the shop in case I had missed the painting during my initial once over. It wasn’t there, but when I examined the card, I realised I was one day too early. Too me the painting portrayed seemed to perfectly capture Tasmania’s winter experience, particularly enhanced by the fact that it was of a snowy wilderness right on our doorstep.

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So, duly, a week or so later I went back to see Michael Weitnauer’s ‘Snow Series – Mount Wellington’ in its glory. I was not disappointed – it is a terrific piece, even when measured up against some some great stuff from camera snappers who also took my attention, such as Loic le Guilly and Rob Blakers. Going out to art exhibitions reasonably regularly, I was already quite familiar with Weitnauer’s oeuvre, but this was the one item that projected his abilities for me more so than what I had previously espied.

In an on-line bio the artist states he is strongly influenced by Fred Williams and with ‘Mt Wellington’, even an untrained eye like mine can discern that in a thrice. I remember going to a showing of Williams’ works in Melbourne, if my memory serves me well, but being underwhelmed by much of his product. But then I turned a corner to a room of his desert landscapes and was immediately transfixed by their power and beauty. Had anybody captured the landscape of the Aussie heartland as well? And Weitnauer’s take on kunanyi had the same impact. Added to its entrancing allure is that we, as Hobartians, look at the mountain’s magnificent ramparts everyday.

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The artist’s surname indicates he is of German heritage and he has spent much time there and in other European locations. He states he is influenced, as well, by some of his homeland’s leading contemporary painters. He has won some serious gongs, including the Wrest Point 2002 Art Award – one of my favourite yearly exhibitions. Weitnauer has been, several times, a finalist for the Glover. His solo shows often sell out – and no wonder. The Hobart born, UTAS educated, practitioner must now rate amongst the island’s most prominent painters and I would definitely include ‘Mount Wellington’ in the art gallery of my mind – the only place I can hang it, given my circumstances. I’d love to look at it daily, but will have to make do with the small facsimile blu-tacked to the wall in my man cave.

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Artist’s website = http://www.michaelweitnauer.com/

The Third Script – Stories from Iran, Tasmania and the UK

Book Reviews

edited by Shirindokht Nourmanesh, Rachel Edwards and Sean Preston

‘And can you guess which country I come from?’

I was on the 109, heading down to go on a-wandering around Port Melbourne. I was excited – the romance of a new tram-line experience. What would I discover? Little did I know that, as I embarked that tram, I was soon to sit next to the best experience of the day. I didn’t notice her initially when a seat became free as our crammed conveyance clanked its way up Collins towards Southern Cross. It wasn’t until she whispered quietly to me, ‘Can you you let me know where to get off for the Melbourne Convention Centre?’

I turned to face her – and what a beautifully stunning woman it was returning my look. Olive skinned, richly rouged red lips, shining brown eyes and gleaming hair – quite breathtaking. Clearly, judging from her exotic appearance and accent, she was from a faraway origin.

I explained to her that I was not a local – that I was from Tasmania in fact, but I knew for certain she was on the right tram, even if I was unsure of exactly which stop she required. Then an ever helpful local interrupted and gave her that information. It was then I asked her for her provenance and she asked for my take on it.

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I had bought the ‘Third Script’ along with me that day. I had only a few stories left to read and I expected to do so in a coffee stop at my destination. – and as it turned out I found a most delightful one, the Urban Garden Espresso on Bay Street. The Transportation Press publication had been rewarding reading. There were only a couple of contributions I hadn’t completed as they were, in my view, too try-hard at being edgy that they lost this particular reader. For me the pick was ‘The Punchline’ by Londoner Lisa Fontaine. It was a take on an old chestnut, but a strikingly original one. You know the one, where lovers part but agree to meet some time in the future to see how they were travelling; how their lives had turned out. Fontaine’s tale was decidedly real world, devoid of Hollywood gloss; grittier and much the better for that. Robbie Arnott’s ‘The Tiger Quoll’ (be warned, the end is gruesome) threw light on a blight on our society in the way we lose so many of our young people – men in particular. You know where this is going almost from the get-go, but it doesn’t make it any less powerful. Zane Pinner’s ‘Sing kunanyi’ did, in contrast, have a big surprise in store. I suppose it could be considered a comment on the current cable car dispute – a no-brainer in my mind. I am pro, to the disgust of many of my associates. Pinner’s alternative suggestion is far-fetched, but with David Walsh in our midst, who knows? I enjoyed the result very much. Nottingham’s Matt G Turpin gave us ‘Tom’s Eyes’, taking a salutary look at the underbelly of all those Med resorts the Brits flock to due to their appalling weather. It’s the saga of a friendship turning to dust over that other blight, drugs – but in doing so delivered a rattlin’ good yarn. And lastly, picking the eyes out of the tome, was ‘In the Afternoon, the Goat has All the Answers’ (Ramin Zahid) from the Iranian selection. It told of an ex-pat superstar from that country, residing in the US. Today’s Iran is a far cry from when she was in her zenith during the days of the Shah and that is bought home to her when she gets up close and personal with a human right’s issue emanating from her homeland.

And that, dear reader, should give you the answer to the question posed to me on the 109 that Friday morning in Yarra City. I really had no idea of this gorgeous person’s origin. For me the beauty chatting away to me could have hailed from anywhere around the Mediterranean shore across to the sub-continent. But then she proffered up the answer herself, ‘I know. You’ll never guess. I am from Iran.’

Yep, a coincidence. I explained to her I was reading a publication containing stories from her country of origin and withdrew it from my bag to show her. She was plainly excited at this and examined it intently, exclaiming her recognition of some of the authors. She snapped away at the book with her mobile, saying she’d definitely try and get hold of it for herself.

I had little time left with her as we had turned the corner into Spencer with her departure point being just up ahead. She related to me that she’d been in Australia for just six years and was proud to say she was now a citizen. She loved the freedom afforded to her by her residence here, particularly by the city I was visiting. I expressed my abhorrence at the behaviour of many of our politicians and how appallingly such as her were treated by the cold-hearts who drone away behind desks in government departments, given the often grotesque conditions in the countries from which they flee.

All too soon the tram was lurching to a stop and she gifted me a radiant smile as she said her thank yous and farewells. Then those shining eyes were lost to mine. I watched out the window as she became lost in the Southbank masses, but for a moment in time we had bonded over ‘The Third Script’ and I am thankful for that. It made a fleeting connection with a ravishingly beautiful and intelligent woman who will no doubt grace our land of democracy, making a worthwhile contribution; as do the vast majority of her ilk, despite the small mindedness and prejudices in some pockets of our community. I didn’t even get her name, but she’d left an indelible impression – I only wished we had more time for the stories she could tell.

Transportation Press website = https://transportationbook.com/

le Carré Rules

Movie Reviews, Television/DVD review

Back in the day I was a le Carré man – did you know his real name is David Cornwell? I didn’t, so I just thought I’d throw that in there. Anyway, I felt ‘The Spy Who Came in From the Cold’ was a rattlin’ good tale, so I stuck with him for a while. And for a time I was entranced by him in print – the way he disentangled the suspenseful webs of intrigue he wove into his narrative. But then, I guess, I must have struck an offering that palled and so went off him, moving on to other literary heroes.

But I’m back now, hooked again on le Carré. This time it’s not his tomes. It’s the filmatic adaptations thereof. The first of these, recently, for the big screen, was ‘Bridge of Spies’, with Tom Hanks. Leigh and I caught it on DVD sometime after its cinema release, so when I read the excellent reviews for ‘The Night Manager’, I was soon purchasing it on the same format. Unfortunately we do not have immediate access to non-free-to-air television.

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And yes, what a yarn that was too. It appears that the producers of it felt, in their wisdom, to make some changes to JlC’s original as he wrote it way back in the dark ages – 1993. Our version commenced with the Arab Spring in Cairo. There was another change as well – his male Burr became Angela, played by a gloriously pregnant (in real life) Olivia Coleman – one of my favourites after her regular stints in ‘Rev’ and ‘Broadchurch’. She’s an operative in the higher echelons of MI5, or some such, possessing a strong suspicion that above her some of her superiors are not exactly playing the game according to the rules. Our eponymous night manager, played by Tom Hiddlestone, Taylor Swift’s latest squeeze in case you’re interested, is handsomely debonaire. He runs the after hours show at the Egyptian capital’s Nefertiti Hotel. He’s drawn into a web of intrigue via the beautiful Sophie (Aure Atika). Alas, she’s the current squeeze of shady Freddy Hamid (David Avery) who is buying arms from the world’s most evil man, Richard Roper. Here we have Hugh Laurie (‘Fry and Laurie’, ‘House’) having great glee playing a nasty bastard. Sophie has secret documents that the UK government would be incredibly interested in possessing as they implicate connections between Roper, a covert arms dealer, to prominent Britishers. Sophie is desperate and needs the assistance of the night manager, Jonathan Pine, to photocopy them – immediately entangling him in messy conspiracy. And he falls in love/lust with the lustrous lady, despite knowing full well her dangerous connections. She is soon dispatched for her treachery by Roper and his crew of scruple-free thugs. Then there is a hiatus and we rejoin Pine much later at an exclusive alpine resort where Roper and his entourage come to stay.

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Now I suspect some of the joy Lawrie had in making this television series was down to his fictional squeeze, played by our own Elizabeth Debinki. His icy blonde and statuesque Jed is stunning in various revealing costumes. She sort of knows that evil is afoot in Roper’s camp, but doesn’t confront it until she too falls for Pine. My, this actress is luminous up there on the screen and no wonder she has two men in raptures over her. It is hard to take one’s eyes of her. I certainly wanted to hit the rewind button when she was on view. And, speaking of camp, ‘Rev’s’ Tom Hollander, plays Lance, one of the uber-crim’s main advisors and the most unsavory of characters. He eventually falls foul of his boss as events reach their crescendo.

‘The Night Manager’ is A-grade stuff, thoroughly engrossing and just made for binge watching. Le Carré’s original here was adapted by David Farr, the writer for ‘Spooks’ – a series I’ve never watched, but intend to once I work my way through ‘The West Wing’ and ‘The Sopranos’ – if life is so long. And as for Ms D, can’t wait to see her in ‘The Kettering Incident’. For the eagle eyed, evidently the great man himself, le Carré, puts in an unacknowledged appearance in ‘The Night Manager’ as a diner.

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Perhaps not quite the rip-snorter that the above is, as it turned out, next I was off to the movies to see ‘Our Kind of Traitor’. Based on a 2010 novel by the author and directed by Rebecca White, again dirty business is going on as couple Perry (Ewan McGregor), an academic, together with Gail (Naomie Harris), a barrister, are on holiday in Morocco, being drawn into another web. Here they end up getting involved with charismatic money-launderer Dima – a stellar performance by Stellan Skarsgård – yes, poor pun I know. He’s a right scene stealer in this – and of course there are dodgy connections with the English upper echelons in this too. Trouble is, Dima’s having second thoughts, is about to go whistle-blower and the Russian mafia are hot on his tail. For reasons I didn’t quite get, it seems our couple are the only souls that can help him escape their clutches, with, for them, this quickly taking priority over resurrecting their floundering relationship. Who knows, perhaps they thought a little cat and mouse with the mafia would be of benefit. Soon, again for reasons I didn’t comprehend, Dima becomes Perry’s hero, so much so he is willing to risk life and limb for the turncoat – anything, I guess, to avoid saving his marriage or returning to the stifling world of English academia.

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Still, for all its leaps in logic, ‘Our Kind of Traitor’ is well worthy of a viewing on some format now its cinema run has concluded. It does pale against the previous adaptations such as ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’ and ‘The Constant Gardener’. Five television series and ten films have been made of le Carré’s books – that just leaves around a dozen or more to go. Hopefully, another take on his oeuvre is not too far away.

Trailer for ‘The Night Manager’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-ZcaKdvML8

Trailer for ‘Our Kind of Spy’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N5k4FBGtbMs