I can remember doing it in the pre-digital age, back when I was an analogue man – still am largely that really. To do it in those years the technology, sufficient for reproduction, was unwieldy for my purposes. These days it’s so simple for those who know what they are doing. In days of yore it involved constantly rewinding tape, or repeatedly lifting and carefully lowering a stylus onto vinyl. That’s how one attained lyrics once upon a time. I needed the actual words of songs for several reasons – to prove a point over possible mondegreens; for my personal pleasure in having the words so I could uptake a hair-brush and sing along (you wouldn’t have wanted to be there). But definitely the most significant purpose was to utilise them for teaching purposes – usually to provide kids with ‘poetry’ they could relate to. Something playing on the airwaves for them surely beat verse scribed a few centuries beforehand. My hope was, with the more intelligent of any given cohort, they would then eventually seek out the great wordsmiths of the past for themselves. But then, I was teaching to notionally English as a first language speakers – it being also the language of the vast majority of ‘hits’ they gyrated around to. Imagine had I been a Spanish (or of any other nationality for that matter) pedagogue trying to use the same technique to teach English to kiddies who spoke a different tongue?

Eventually some bright spark decided it would be beneficial for all to actually include the lyrics with the product, a common practice today – and then there’s always the ether. It now seems that forward thinking type was none other than John Lennon. And this is how it all happened.

The story is told in ‘The Living is Easy With Eyes Closed’, an Iberian Peninsula production centred around a Spanish teacher, Antonio, attempting to instruct his flock English through the words of a Liverpool based quartet, of which John Lennon just happened to be a member. Antonio took a journey to a nondescript burg in the south of his country – a trip that solved his problem, as well as that of yours truly. For the bespectacled informer of young people, it was also a journey to happiness – or so he imagined.

Hector, on the other hand, had his life imploding all around him. He was in a rut as deep as the Grand Canyon. With his whole existence micromanaged by mothering, smothering girlfriend Clara (Rosamund Pike) and his workday as a London psychiatrist dominated by weirdo patients, something had to give. He was showing distinct signs of losing the plot, culminating in Hector (Simon Pegg) blowing his gasket big time. Calming down, he decides he is miserable and has to ‘find himself’ – or at least find a happy side to life. To more fully understand the nebulous nature of an emotion largely unknown to him, ol’ Hec decides the answer lies at the four corners of the planet and he has to ‘go find’. Can he achieve it with a gorgeous Chinese lover (Ming Zhao) he meets in Shanghai; a Buddhist monk (Togo Igawa) living atop of a mountain; by doing good works in Africa or maybe by chasing down an old flame (Toni Collette) in LA?

Of the two offerings, the Spanish affair was the pick. Perhaps ‘Hector and the Search for Happiness’ had too much of a kinship to ‘Eat, Pray, Love’, with that colouring my view. I certainly didn’t find it ‘…a rich, exhilarating and hilarious tale.’ as the publicity blurb indicated I would. There were some engaging touches, such as Hector’s propensity to break out his animation chops at various stages. I also enjoyed the performance of Barry Atsma as the not so jaded businessman – the one who shows our hero the pleasures of the Orient. Pike was spunky in her screen time, but I feel Pegg is better suited to chasing aliens and zombies around the countryside. And of course the ending sticks out like a sore thumb. For all his meanderings around the planet the audience soon figures what would truly give the ‘idiot abroad’ true happiness – if only he can think it through for himself.

A far more affecting performance is put in by Javier Cámara as Antonio. He’s nobody’s idea as a handsome leading man, but there is a certain aura about him that some actors, not blessed by manly beauty, can attain. This hero’s life, apart from the joys of teaching, holds little else for him. He is not as blessed as Hector by having an easy on the eye woman in his orb – or even an uneasy one for that matter. For him Lennon is the way out of the rut – and the mop-top just happens to be making a film in his country. Thus he undertakes a journey to pose to him his conundrum. En route he picks up a couple of lost souls – teenage Juanjo (Francesc Colomer ) is at war with his parents and pregnant Belén (Natalia de Molina) is proposed to by Antonio – but he has no hope. Spanish life, at the time, was constrained by the twin towers of Franco and the Catholic church. The film reflects this, but also the resilience of the Spanish populace who manage to survive and display a joie de vivre despite the oppression. Unlike our chalkie, we as audience never get to meet Lennon – but really he’s not needed. Antonio is the real star of this piece. It’s the movie of the two that possesses that fragile commodity of ‘heart’. Dear reader, you can believe every word of fulsome praise the critics have lauded it with. ‘Hector…’, despite its failings, is far from two hours of ill-spent time. The Peter Chelsom helmed product does, though, lack the inherent easy charm David Trueba manages with his sub-titled offering. I know which gave me the greatest happiness!

‘The Living is Easy with Eyes Closed’ trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uO1jXG38XbM

‘Hector and the search for Happiness’ trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DELCgkntuvw

A long time ago I promised myself never to be tempted to go on a holiday that involved places where freezing cold or arduous pursuits were involved. If these are combined, then it’s double the no-no. And I’ve stuck to that – my holidays involve heat and languor. Recent events have assisted me in sticking to this momentous life decision. First there were those insane trekkers in Nepal being dumped on by the wrath of the Himalayas – and then there was the insane Swedish couple in ‘Force Majeure’ who felt a skiing trip to the French Alps would give endless pleasure to each other, as well as to their two kiddies. ‘Force Majeure’ is a recent release and in it plenty happened to put one off the joys of the piste for life. Even if nothing remotely as sinister as occurred in this Ruben Östlund helmed movie did come to pass, should I have been as foolhardy to have chosen to do similar at some stage in my existence, it would still have been my definition of hell.

Now ‘Screen International’ described this offering to the film viewing public as a ‘…funny, precision-controlled psycho-comedy drama.’ and ‘Vanity Fair’ ‘The most acutely observed comedy of the year.’ This praise, to my mind, gives completely the wrong impression about this Scandinavian effort. If there’s humour to be had with this, I didn’t discern it – and nor did my fellow attendees. At times, at my local art house, I found it a dour slog. It must have been a different movie those critics were watching!

From its opening there is a sense of impending disaster, comparative to the ominous first stanzas of the vastly superior ‘The Impossible’ – the Portuguese product dealing with the Indian Ocean tsunami. In ‘FM’ the cataclysm, when it descends, is very much an anti-climax. Instead, what’s examined on the screen is that which transpires within the dynamics of this family quartet once the danger has passed. For a few seconds it did seem lives could be at risk. An avalanche tumbles down the mountain as our foursome are dining on their resort balcony. They are submerged in what is termed snow smoke. Very scary, but harmless. The mother’s reaction is to protect her children with her body and does so. The father’s is to flee. There’s no damage to life or limb – but then we get to the nub of the piece – the coming to terms with Tomas’ (played by Johannes Kuhunke) seeming cowardice in failing to put his woman (Lisa Loven Kongsli) and imps first. It brings the family to its knees, not aided by the cooling of the children’s affections for both parents. A free spirit befriends Ebba, the mum, giving her food for thought – and some psycho-babble in the form of scream therapy is deemed to be possibly beneficial to Tomas.

The latter is most keen to re-establish his hairy-chestedness and presumably conspires with his missus to bring this about – the viewer only realises this after a most unsettling lead -up to what turns out to be another anti-climax. If you care to sit through this movie it’ll all become clear. The denouement is in the form of a spectacularly terrifying bus-ride back down the mountain at vacation’s end. I felt this add-on was all rather pointless, but the road a novice driver is forced to negotiate is quite a sight – almost worth the movie.

The director manages to create a sinister overtone to the mountainous landscape the characters are immersed in. The family’s accommodation is eerily sterile and minimalist in line with the dread that pervades. Even the technology used to support the recreational activities clangs and hisses in a manner designed to send chills down the spine.

‘FM’ is a long two hours in the movie house, but it could generate a discussion as to the nature of the actions that took place in those fleeting moments of perceived threat. Then there’s only nano-seconds to decide on a course of action. Is it a man’s natural instinct to flee regardless of others? Is it a woman’s to be prepared to sacrifice all for her offspring? Or are responses as varied as is humankind itself? In the end this is a mildly unsettling film and for this viewer somewhat of a disappointment.

Movie Trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJmzTNdY98g

She likes Zach Braff, does my DLP (Darling Loving Partner). She was an aficionado of ‘Scrubs’, a tele show that passed me by – possibly unfortunately given DLP’s descriptions of it. She waxed lyrical on the hilarity of the situations its medical practitioners found themselves in, but also commented that there was much pathos to be had with it as well. My love reckoned the writing in it was first rate, but the star attraction for her was Mr Braff.

So when a trailer for ‘Wish I Was Here’ appeared as a prelude to another movie we were seeing, DLP expressed the desire to make it our next foray to our local art house. For me Braff was an unknown, but as the offering also contained two favourites in Kate Hudson and Many Patinkin, Besides, I adore accompanying DLP to the cinema. With those two actors on board, surely the movie wouldn’t be too bad in any case – and it wasn’t.

So I was intrigued when the Sunday Tasmanian’s film reviewer, Leigh Paatsch, came out and called it ‘…faintly disappointing’, awarding it a paltry two stars – thus, I would imagine, putting plenty of punters off a viewing. Now if one is looking for something with a bit more ‘heart’ – something Leigh P does grant ‘Wish I Was Here’ begrudging kudos for – than the usual generic tinsel town product of comic book heroics and inane rom-coms. you may look to Mr Paatsch for guidance. This being the case, then you would surely opt for ‘The Skeleton Twins’, reviewed on the same page as WIWH. Our esteemed critic accoladed this with four twinklers. So, having immensely enjoyed the underdog, I thought that the higher-rater must truly be superb, it being something that promised a ‘…tale that will resonate (hate that term!) with the perceptive viewer.’ – is he having a go at the average cinema goer? This then was obviously worth a squiz. Neither I, nor LP, were let down by it. ‘The Skeleton Twins’ amply deserved his praise, but I still do not concur with his reticence over the Braff vehicle. To me it wins by the shortest of half-heads.

One ‘Twin’, Milo (Bill Hader) and WIWH’s Aiden (Braff) are both portrayed, initially, as two of life’s losers. As it happens the duo are also failed actors, but Aiden has his old man (Patinkin) providing him with enough of the readies to help support his family whilst he chases his dream. I don’t think Braff, as an actor, is any great shakes, but it was a delight seeing Hudson in a less overt role than her usual ditzy blonde or femme fatale shtick. Mandy P is as reliable as ever, but the role that gave the film extra lustre was that of Joey King as Grace Bloom, the feisty daughter who has to cope with her world being turned upside down when her grandfather’s money runs out. This is due to his battle with cancer/the American health system. Paatsch accuses this movie as being contrived, as it surely was in places and yes, the Hollywood ending can be seen a mile off. But, unlike the product he praises to the hilt, it doesn’t goes beyond the bounds of credulity.

That word – contrived – in my view, would have been better being attached to LP’s more endorsed film. Just how did Milo know where she was and be able to find her in time?. You’ll know what I mean when you see it – and I do encourage you to do so. It was the only jarring note in a great piece that started bleakly, with both Milo and his sister, Maggie (Kristen Wiig), in suicidal frames of mind. Each major protagonists, for various reasons, are overloaded with self-loathing and their means of coping with it are at the centre of TST. Sis is a serial adulteress and gay Milo was involved in something rather tawdry back in his home town, back in the day. It’s to this up-state New York locale he returns to get his shit together under Maggie’s supervision – the blind leading the blind, so to speak. Gradually we, as an audience, warm to these two battered souls. Their duetting and dancing turns are scene-stealing gems. I enjoyed Wiig in this immensely, with there also being an attractive performance from Luke Wilson as hubby Lance – a nuanced turn.

Nah, for my money it’d be hard to separate these two watchable visual creations. Both are loaded to the gills with positive messages about the ‘silver linings’ being there if one is willing to do the hard yards. And so, I am in discord with Leigh P – for each it’s three and a half stars from me.

Trailer for ‘Wish I Was Here’  = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCponfeWNOI

Trailer for ‘The Skeleton Twins’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhULZJDXLaE

There is no better place to be, on the whole planet, than my city of Hobs at this time of year. On a fine spring day, with a whiff of summer on the ether, it’s the epitome of blissfulness.

From up high Kunanyi looked down on our little capital; peering over its organ-piped ramparts on this special morning, the morning of ‘that one day in September’. And it noted that Salamanca was pumping. The Market was teeming, the cafes in the Square were crowded and over around the docks, people were up, out and about. The lads and lasses of the city had dispensed with winter layers and were flaunting summery attire; the tourists were firmly caught up in the laid-back vibe and then Kunanyi spotted a tiny girl. She was gyrating to the guitar twang of a ruddy busker, enticing smiles of pleasure from all who passed her by as she greeted the joys of life in fairy wings and her blue denim ‘queen’ dress. The venerable mountain approved of this tiny apparition, as it did all that was happening in the small city, ever-expanding around its flanks. Kunanyi was most satisfied.

That little mite attracting attention was, of course, the Tiges – granddaughter extraordinaire. Darling Leigh and your scribe had travelled into the CBD to meet up with the ‘little family’ for coffee, chats and wanders. On this same morning, across the water in Yarra City, many, many more extended families were rendezvousing for the same reason, along with groupings of friends; lovers even. Later on they would all wend their ways to a great arena to view a contest that would be frenetic and close. Sadly though, the outcome of this battle was supposedly a given. The team from the Harbour City to the north was sure to prevail – that was the consensus around innumerable tables in the coffee houses of the great metropolis that very same September morn.

Similarly, grouped at a table in Doctor Coffee, a tiny establishment in a small arcade running off busy Salamanca, the most likely outcome of the encounter was also being discussed by the two whose hearts are seared deepest with brown and gold – but how to cope with it was the issue. My daughter and I were the sole footy tragics of the fivesome; Leighsx2 caring only in passing for the game – although high hopes are held for granddaughter/daughter. How would we make it through an afternoon that only promised disappointment at the end, with undoubtedly immense personal stress in the journey to that point? We two; well, we each had our own methods of coping.

Later our group parted ways to examine the nearby art galleries and laden market stalls. Your reporter then trekked solo into the main part of the city to lose himself in its bookshops as Tom Jones and Ed Sheeran stretched their vocal chords over the loudspeakers of the mighty ‘G. There a tad under a hundred thousand souls were awaiting the first bounce of the Sherrin. Last year I had conspired to be up in the air for the event – this year needed another approach. By the stage ‘Advance Australia Fair’ ended to an almighty roar, I was enclosed by darkness. This feeble supporter was sealed off in a movie house. I possessed the expectation that what eventuated on the screen would take my mind off what was sure to unfold, or so I thought, across the Strait.

The offering chosen to take me away from a large part of that gladiatorial encounter was ‘The Little Death’ which, according to pre-release blurb, was – ‘Like a deviant antipodean version of ‘Love Actually’. It wasn’t. It never came within a bull’s roar of that classic – even if it did have its moments. Through this ensemble piece I did discover some sexual deviancies I never knew existed. There was the sad, henpecked man (Alan Dukes), whose wife (Lisa McCune) could only arouse him whilst she was asleep. I found this, to be honest, somewhat creepy. The was an over-done running gag featuring a new neighbour (Kim Gyngell) who just happened to be on the register of sex offenders. I quite liked, though, the final vignette featuring a horny deaf fellow (T J Power) trying to communicate with a distracted phone-sex worker via a translator – the latter a luminous Erin James. The most attractive character, to this viewer, was the lovely Kate Box, whose portrayal of the wife afflicted with dacryphilia – she can only achieve pleasure with a sobbing partner – was delightful. Now dear reader, just before you jump to conclusions, there was nary enough titillation on screen involved with all these various couples’ sexual entwinings to attract even the most desperate of the raincoat brigade – visually it was all reasonably chaste, if that not being the case with the kinky premises. I found little comedic attraction to the film’s examination of rape as a fantasy. Despite the partners concerned being consenting – in which case, can it be deemed rape? – it was handled with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I thought its play-out to be just plain distasteful.

Josh Lawson, who wrote, directed and played a character in ‘The Little Deaf’, should be given some kudos for having a go – but gee, with the material and cast he had to work with, it could and should have been so much better. Still, I hope he is not put off by the hammering his product is receiving critically. I trust he keeps on trying to get stuff of this ilk up. One can clearly see the possibilities of better are evident. How he brings the diverse strands all together at the end is clever, but it’s not something that hasn’t been done before. Still, it did its role in getting me trough the bulk, time wise, of an event I was intent on avoiding.

The game was well into the third quarter by the time I reached my car and turned on the radio. To my delight and shock the Hawks were considerably in front. Driving home to the shrill reportage of the commentators, I felt, may only have had the effect of getting me over-excited and distracted, so I opted for the dulcet tones of Sara Blasko to accompany me instead. Once home, in the abode by the river, the television informed me it was three-quarter time and the brown and gold remained in the ascendency. I was still reluctant to view, given what had transpired the previous week, when Port Power came home like a steam train. Watching then I suffered close to a coronary. Fifteen minutes into the final stanza I knew the game was in the bag; that there were to be no last minutes heroics from the bloodless Bloods on this day. I could watch the denouement with Zen calm. I was so happy.

It seemed only one team came to play and the Swans, despite their much vaunted supposed superiority coupled with the Buddy factor, were not up to withstanding the challenge presented by my team. The Hawks, in the lead-up, had had anything but an easy season, but they dominated when it counted, generating a number of well reported feel good stories en route. For me, a joke doing the rounds will suffice as elaboration:-
How on earth could the Hawks possibly cope with Buddy at centre half forward for the opposition? Why, the answer is simple – by placing Jesus Christ at centre half back.
Get it? Jesus Christ – that is, his doppelganger, newly minted cult hero Matty Spangher. What, not funny you say? Well, I liked it.

My Hawks are threatening to go for a three-peat next year. Personally, I now want a GF where I can sit back and watch without any stress attached – you know, something like Freo agin the Tigers, or Port up against the Bombers. Two in a row’s enough for me. But now, next weekend, there’s another game I am particularly interested in and have my fingers crossed about. Some very special, dear-to-me people have their hopes riding on it. Go Rabbitohs!

Article – Josh Lawson on ‘The Little Death = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/movies/filmmaker-josh-lawson-breaks-the-final-taboo-in-sex-comedy-the-little-death-20140923-10kel0.html

Mash together the best elements of ‘Being There’, ‘Zelig’ and ‘Forest Gump’; mix in some sub-titles to make it comprehensible for us from its spoken Swedish and what do we have? Well perhaps the movie with the longest banner in some time required to promote it – ‘The Hundred Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared’.

But the banner did appeal to one who usually eschews those films requiring her to decipher dialogue from words appearing at screen bottom – so for a viewing I had the wonderful company of my DLP (Darling Loving Partner) and she giggled and chortled her way through this offering – there were even a few belly laughs. I concurred with a few guffaws of my own. It was a glorious romp of farce and addled history, with a soupçon of pathos thrown in for good measure.

Much has been made of in the reviews of how unrealistic Robert Gustafasson’s portrayal of a man who’s reached the century mark is. Well, I do not know too many of those to judge – although I am planning to make that milestone myself one day. Therefore it is hard for this scribe to make a call on this, but just maybe that’s the point. Evidently the actor/comedian makes a tidy sum portraying old men in his stand up routines around Scandinavia, making him already a well known star in those lands. His portrayal of this escapee from a retirement home has been cinematic gold there for him too. After his character’s fleeing from ‘death row’, the old fella ,Allan Karlsson, accidentally picks up a case load of drug money and the fun begins. He continues his wild flight, pursued by hapless criminal types and an equally hapless cop. There’s some hilarious shenanigans on Sweden’s byways before he circuitously ends up in Bali. We are also given a potted back story of the centenarian’s life on the planet. In these he gets up close and personal with Franco, Stalin, Einstein’s lesser known brother and President Reagan. He also has an aptitude for blowing up huge amounts of varied stuff with dynamite.

It’s all based on a highly successful novel by author Jonas Jonasson. Director Felix Herngren does the mouthful of a title proud with his vivid and at times, audacious adaptation. If you are fortunate enough to view it, wait for the elephant – he/she steals the show. If you’re anything like DLP and yours truly, you’ll get a hell of a tickle out of this Scandi-gem.

Scandi-connections enhance my world.

Winter, 1981. It was a real winter in this other hemisphere, but still one on the cusp of spring, when an euro-train took me to Copenhagen. I remember only a tad of that time, but I recall being very surprised at just how tiny the Little Mermaid actually is. I know there was a journey to a gallery devoted to Picasso and I recall the breakfasts at my hotel – the best of that European odyssey. I remember I had the first taste of sunshine in the Danish capital for many a week and dispensed myself of layers – big mistake in those far northern latitudes. The sunshine was short-lived and I was soon regretting my climatic stupidity. But that is all I can remember of my only venture into Scandinavia.

One and a half decades later I reached out for a salve to a mixed up life and found Merete. She became the first of a collection of pen-friends. She remains in my life to this day. Before my lovely Leigh, she and her letter-writing colleagues kept me going trough troubling times. Once I found my beautiful lady closer to home most of my correspondents dropped off – but not Merete. Eventually she too found a partner for life – but even then did not dispense with me.

Then, at the turn of the millennium, our island and Merete’s homeland became interwoven when a Tassie girl found a Danish prince. On a day perhaps not too distant from this one, a Hobart beauty will become Queen of the Danes, Queen of my Merete. She will charm the world anew.

Around the same time as Danish royalty was meeting a Taroona lass, there came a literary invasion to rival that of Harry Potter. ‘The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo’ intrigued her way into our lives, a precursor to the world’s love affair with ‘Scandi-noir’. Much followed in the acclaimed trilogy’s wake as the books morphed into movies and the Scandinavians started to punch well above their weight in popular culture. On our screens, big and small, as well as in print, those countries just south of the Arctic Circle are giving the world something it cannot get enough of. They say imitation is the highest compliment, but when the rest of us try to emulate their unique product – well, we simply fall well short. We cannot replicate that distinct ‘feel’.Whereas ‘Harry’ largely passed me by, all this snowy, frigid fare has had me hooked too. Out of all its offerings my personal favourites have been ‘Borgen’, ‘The Bridge’ and ‘Lilyhammer’. Can we link those dastardly pillaging and raping ‘The Vikings’ in with all this ‘Scandiness’ too? These lands of ‘the long winter night’ are on to a good thing and long may we be in their thrall as they continue to mesmerise us with it.

So when Jessi Adler Olsen’s ‘The Keeper of Lost Causes’ reared up at my local art house, I trundled off for another dose. The dourness of the lead actor is this film’s hallmark. Wallander’s life history has nothing on this guy. He’s been shot by love and shot by bullet. He manages a whole movie without an upward twitch of the lips – well, maybe perhaps just the merest of hints before the end credits rolled.

In this there was a touch of ‘The Bridge’ and its glorious pairing of two police sleuths when Ol’ Sad Sack is joined in cold case investigations by Assad, a Muslim (Fares Fares) – one who initially dismally fails to lighten Carl Mørck’s (Nickolaj Lie Kaas) burden, despite his best efforts. I am hoping this film will be the commencement of a franchise – I want to see much more of that miserable bugger Mørck up there on the silver screen.

Pretty soon the unlikely duo, operating more by hunch than evidence, are in a race against time to save the bacon of a feisty dame (Sonia Richter) who’s endures years of incarceration in, of all diabolical prisons, a pressure chamber. The cinematic audience goes along with them on a masterful ride of red herrings and derring do. Gradually the iciness from Mørck towards Assad thaws somewhat as the action component ups the ante. Substitute the frozen urban landscapes for the bayou of ‘True Detective’ and you get the feel of this fine thriller. Its great stuff – but then one now expects this from the these nations fringing the North Sea and Baltic. It is as ‘…superbly gripping…’ as its pre-publicity blurbs laud so, if subtitles do not faze you, ‘The Keeper of Lost Causes’ beats most Hollywood offerings of the same ilk hands down.

Official trailer for the ‘Keeper of Lost Causes’ = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mBi0cRnaVM

Stillness. I love the stillness, the quietude that enhances my life these days. I’ve found it by the river under Dromedary; I’ve found it with two canines overlooking Anderson Bay. It is something I used to crave during my teaching days.

Music has shaped my world for so long now and once my life was full of it. These days not so much. Back in the day, if a choice occurred between stillness and my latest CD, the latter won out – so there was little place for the former. In my working life there wasn’t time for both of them – but now there is.

And in John May’s life stillness dominates. My stillness, in no way, compares with his. His world is all quiet, hushed, anally still, buttoned-up, beige, constricted. He’s made it small and narrow. It is devoid of colour – and the people he has most affinity with are even stiller than he. They’re so still that, in fact, they’ve ceased to exist. May is the council’s cleaner-uperer of unclaimed, unloved decreased persons. He does right by them – attempting to track down any remaining relatives – if he’s successful he largely finds them an unfeeling, unsympathetic lot. They rarely want to get involved in any funeral arrangements, leaving it up to John May. And he does right by his individual corpses, giving them something tailored to what he has gleaned about them. He takes pride in his work. It is his life. He keeps a scrapbook of his clients – all those stories, but in the end there was no love, except what John May had to give. He has a music collection devoted to including just the right song for each for sending off. He does his best.

Of course he is defeated by his own humanity, The bean-counters decide it all costs too much – in time and money. Efficiency is afoot and John May is soon to be out of a job. He is deigned one last case as a send-off. In our world of streamlining and consolidation there is no room for someone tied to the past, to the ways it has always been done. There’s no room for a man such as John May.

Enter his last still, Billy Stoke. John May is going to take his time fleshing out the bones of this one’s life tale, this last person entrusted to his care for the last rites. John May embarks on a journey tracking down his family members in person, rather than on the blower. John now begins his revolt. He encounters Billy’s people – people that will change John May’s life, albeit briefly. As they bring colour to his world, so the screen gradually becomes infused with brighter hues as John May unbuttons himself and leaves himself open to possibilities. Gone are his dowdy suit and tie. Leading the colour charge is Kelly Stoke – a luminous Joanne Froggatt from ‘Downton Abbey’ fame. A tentative bond between the two develops – there is hope of a less still existence for John May.

Be prepared – the end of the movie is devastating, but joyous at the same time. I had difficulty coping with what happened, but the guy a few seats a way was an absolute mess because of it. Bring tissues. And my goodness – the ghosts. The ghosts were magnificent.

Marsan, in a role perfectly fitted to his features, is so still – it’s almost heartbreaking. He is sublime in this. His is a face we all know – those many of us who watch quality British product – but with this movie we’ll forever be able to put his name to that face. He’s done quality work in the past – ‘Ray Donovan’, ‘Happy Go Lucky’ and ‘The Disappearance of Alice Creed’ – but this, undoubtedly, will be his signature role.

‘Still Life’ is a movie that will linger in the consciousness. It is an exquisite piece, worthy of its long list of gongs already garnered. It deserves even the highest. Its sensitivity, attention to the detail of human nuance are a credit to director, Umberto Pasolini – best known, prior to this, for the glorious ‘The Full Monty’. For capturing the stillness of one man’s life, hopefully this will now be thought of as well when his name is mentioned. It is a masterpiece. It received a ten minute standing ovation at the Venice Film Festival. I loved it to bits. Simply wonderful.

Still Life Official Site = http://www.palacefilms.com.au/stilllife/

I only found two years of it tough going – my first and last – and with the latter, it was really just that final term. For the first time since 1974 I was struggling, having some difficulties managing my classes. The kids were in danger of winning. In footy parlance – I knew I couldn’t front up for another season of that so I put myself out to pasture. Luckily, I was past sixty. Sure there was, over my duration in education, cohorts of students I didn’t look forward to – as well as a few individuals I couldn’t connect with and whom therefore also gave me bother – but I was always on top, doing my job reasonably well and actually teaching my charges something. Towards the end I did struggle with other aspects – the damage NAPLAN was doing and the unreasonableness of it, the convoluted reporting process, winters, the imposed inability to be innovative with curriculum – and then there was that close call on Boat Harbour Beach, regarding student safety, that gave me the heebie jeebies. But always, right up till the death, I was king of the classroom – and loved being thus.

So my experience was a far cry from what I read in the Trent Dalton article, ‘Class Warfare’ in ‘The Weekend Australian Magazine’ (July 18-20, 2014). What a dire, sobering picture that paints. The abuse of the teachers interviewed was so alien to my overall experience in the gig. It seems now my former fellow professionals rank alongside police and prison officers as our country’s top mental stress claimants. So many are afflicted by ‘…smear campaigns and panic attacks and online trolling and knife threats and teachers locked in storerooms and false accusations and depression and suicidal tendencies…’ Would that have been me too had I battled on?

Like me, Jack (Clive Owen) and Dina (Juliette Binoche) were the king/queens of their respective classes. Their charges were ‘normal’ – not perfect, but non-threatening and at the start, sort of engaged in what was going on. In this school the teachers’ voices were dominant. No, the problems the pair were having, like mine towards retirement, weren’t student based. They were struggling with their own demons – for Jack, once a prominent wordsmith, it was the grog and writers’ block. Now he is reduced to exposing students to the great canons of literature. Newbie, dour Dina, with a reputation of iciness preceding her, is suffering from a creeping debilitating disease making it increasingly difficult for her to paint, thus her need to earn extra cash passing on her skills to the younger brigade. Neither have the fire that burns any more to be at the top of their pedagogical game. Jack’s position is becoming particularly tenuous. As a result of somewhat one-sided banter – in Jack’s favour – between the two, along comes and inane idea toenthuse the student body with a contest between the word and the image, thus the film’s title – ‘Words and Pictures’. What starts as a tease becomes a school wide obsession, motivating the kids to produce output of heroic proportions – as if!

Yep the narrative is pretty naff. Fred Schepsi has made many a better movie than this. That being said, in the characters of Jack and Dina, there is a sort of dynamic going on that raises it above the admittedly pretty low bar of typical Hollywood rom-coms. You know, ditzy blonde eventually wins the heart of buff-bodied, but wayward hearted, male lead. These two veterans do more than simply go through those sort of motions. As one would perhaps expect, this is more mature playing to an older demographic – and more considered in nuance. If only it had a better framework for the actors to work with

In a way this movie is a throwback to the screwball comedies of tinsel town’s golden era – the outcome is a given, but there’s much fun getting there with all the antics of the leading participants before the final kiss and happy ever-afters as the credits roll. Those were purer times and the Aussie director’s offering is redolent of that period.

This is not a film that will resonate down through life’s journey, but watching it, one day after the aforementioned article appeared, it was a pleasant enough salve to the ugly view of the guiding profession that piece of reportage portrayed. Afterwards, for an instant of time, I wanted to be king of the classroom again, like Jack and Nina. Then sanity clicked in.

Movie website = http://wordsandpicturesthemovie.com/

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
I wonder why, in my sixty plus years, I had never encountered her. I thought I was across all the great poets, particularly those of the last century. But her name had never entered my orbit. Despite her literary prominence she had remained invisible to me all this time – that is, until the movie. Then I had to move from screen to page – and with the wonders of the digital age, her stunning verse has opened up to me. Of course the movie gave what I discovered in the ether some added lustre, but it only concentrated on one of her two great love affairs. Here’s what I found out of this gem of a composer of words.
Poet Elizabeth Bishop was gay – lesbian at a time when it was shrouded off to the sidelines. Perhaps not regarded as being as prurient as its male counterpart, participants were still either shunned or treated with overheated curiosity. Born in 1911, Elizabeth had a fraught childhood that left her somewhat scarred and wary of the world. Her father had a premature demise when she was small, also causing her mother’s already fragile mental state to collapse and become as dead to the child, as a parent, as her spouse. Elizabeth had physical ailments to contend with, as well, all her life – asthma, a nut allergy and eczema. Despite her semi-orphan status she was a gifted student at school, discovering at an early age to use written words to their advantage. With them she could see her way forward in the world.

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

 
Early on she formed relationships with Mary McCarthy and fellow poet Marianne Moore. Her collection of verse, ‘North and South’, was picked up for publication, eventually coming to the attention of Robert Lowell. They met; he liked what he saw and read, so paved the way for her into the upper echelons of the American authorly establishment.
In 1951, at the age of forty, her life veered off in another direction. She fell in love twice over. She had an urge to see the Amazon and travelled to South America to do so. Here she became enamoured of Brazil – its culture and people. Simultaneously she became deeply enthralled by one of its leading citizens. Her heart was stolen by the prominent architect Lota de Macedo Soares. With this duo of addiction providing her first true happiness in life, her poetry soared, so much so that her signature collection, ‘North and South – A Cold Spring’, featuring poems old and new, won the 1956 Pulitzer.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

 
It is this period of the wordsmith’s life that the Bruno Barreto directed movie, ‘Reaching for the Moon’, focuses on. Delicate rose Elizabeth meets the swarthily feisty Lota and her world is turned on its axis. They fall intensely in love and into bed – although the film’s handling of the latter is almost chastely realised. As Elizabeth’s health and mental state improve, if not her alcoholism – so Lota’s does the opposite. She has been caught up in Rio’s toxic politics, whilst trying to complete her dream, the Parque do Flamengo – a beach-side swathe of parkland – now one of the world heritage listed city’s prime attractions. The relationship between the two women disintegrates into a fug of booze, depression, adultery and ultimately, for Lota, suicide – after fifteen years with her poetess.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

 
The movie is based on a Brazilian best-seller, ‘Rare and Commonplace Flowers’. With this film their story will now reach a wider audience, for reportedly the book, with its convoluted machinations of the ruling class of the city of Ipanema and Copacabana, is impenetrable to anyone other than that nation’s readers. Aussie actress Miranda Otto and local fellow thespian Gloria Pires shine in this cinematic offering, but the narrative itself is largely paint by numbers. The fecund surroundings of the lovers does cast a spell. Of course, Rio cannot be otherwise than a star turn in the piece. In this place the two women’s love is perhaps more readily accepted than in northern climes, although they still have to be on their guard.
Times change – and despite the worst efforts of our unfortunate Prime Minster, the world is now more comfortable with non-hetero activities. ‘Reaching the Moon’ is of another time and place. Not a great movie by any stretch, but well worth time spent on it for its tale of two remarkable women.
After Soares’ passing Bishop gave up on Brazil and returned permanently to the US in 1970. She took up painting. By now she had met Alice Methfessel and loved her for the remainder of her life – the following poem is dedicated to Alice. The poet also took up painting and left us the worse for her passing in 1979.

 
Breakfast Song

My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavoured mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I’ve grown accustomed to?
—Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it’s true.
It’s just the common case;
there’s nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.

‘Reaching for the Moon’ trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=654X8V2bwA0

Bishop’s art work