Film rating: 4/5
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 0/5
BPM sighting: No

Irascible and lazy, Rupert ‘Ratz’ Kramer is a 35-year-old slacker who plays out his patricidal fantasies through the development of a violent computer game. A chance call from an old flame sends him to New York, where he hopes to sell his creation to a games company, but instead becomes embroiled in events that begin to pose increasingly uncomfortable moral questions.

Part thriller, part psychological family drama, part exploration of German–Austrian war guilt, this film from Michael Glawogger defies categorisation.

Adapted from the novel Das Vaterspiel by Josef Haslinger.

Interesting and believable characters, along with a mysterious script with lots of room for guessing, ensure that you can’t take your eyes of this film. But it turns out to be a slow-burner, with everything building up to a stunning under-egged scene featuring a Nazi war criminal talking about his guilt, fear and lack of remorse. Kill Daddy Goodnight certainly defies categorisation and leaves you thinking for hours afterwards.

Film rating: 5/5
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 2/5
BPM sighting: Yes

Actor–director Baltasar Kormákur calls his modernised version of Anton Chekhov’s play Ivanov a ‘dramedy’, inspired by the likes of Pedro Almodóvar and Woody Allen.

A middle-aged professor braces himself for his second marriage, to an ex-student half his age, but as his guests flock to the wedding’s remote island locale, he starts to get cold feet. After a long ‘white night’ of drinking and thinking, will he make it to the church on time?

Kormákur’s expertly juggled tone – slapstick tinged with darker and more perverse elements of Chekhov – has seen White Night Wedding become one of Iceland’s highest-grossing domestic hits.

“Dramedy” indeed. A heart-wrenching tale of relationships and life told with a just-right application of humour and understated slapstick. As the protagonist lurches towards his wedding day, with flashbacks to the disintegration of his first marriage, viewers are invited to ponder the fragility of human interaction and the way that middle age brings with it the realisation that life is a series of wasted opportunities. White Night Wedding keeps you guessing right up to the penultimate scene, which seems to provide a Hollywood ending, only to have that illusion shattered as the credits roll.

The best part, but? I was riding home from the cinema and came to a stop at a red light. A couple of seconds later another bike pulled up next to me so I looked over and it was … Bicycle Pump Man! However, I wimped out and didn’t get a photo.

Film rating: 4/5 (Scott); 3.5/5 (John Surname)
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 4/5
BPM sighting: Yes

The directorial debut of Duncan Jones (son of David Bowie), this claustrophobic sci-fi feature stars Sam Rockwell and the voice of Kevin Spacey.

Heralding a fresh renaissance in indie sci-fi flicks, Moon eschews big budget CGI effects for slow-burn combustible tension, telling the story of a man on a solo mission on the moon who begins to suffer hallucinations, as he succumbs to the isolation and monotony of his assignment.

An intimate character portrayal in a starkly impersonal outer space setting, Moon is a claustrophobic drama that harkens back to classic sci-fi of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Scott says: Moon is an atmospheric study of life, death, isolation and human desire. Set to a cracking soundtrack that perfectly creates a mood to match the action, and featuring an excellent performance by solo actor Sam Rockwell, Moon lets us imagine the nature of space exploration in the near-ish future and prompts us to question what the implications are for humans’ needs.

The director mostly lets viewers discover plot twists on their own, although a few are rammed home a little too obviously. Once the major twist is revealed the film plays out a touch too predictably at times, but enough mystery is retained to command your attention until the conclusion which is mercifully free of an overblown and trite Hollywood ending.

Moon is a film that will make you look inside and question your own emotions, needs and desires.

** SPOILER ALERT — READ NO FURTHER IF YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW PLOT **

Read the rest of this entry »

Film rating: 2.5/5
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 2/5
BPM sighting: No

From within the straightjacket of a highly controlled film industry, Iranian visionary Asghar Farhadi (The Beautiful City, Fireworks Wednesday) miraculously emerges with an uncompromising chronicle of middle-class Iranian malaise.

A group of friends holidaying on the Caspian Sea play matchmaker between a divorcé and schoolteacher Elly. When she disappears, a sticky mess of seemingly innocuous deceits – some being the product of tarouf, a type of Persian cultural politeness – prove dire in their consequences.

One of the best Iranian films in years – and accordingly well-awarded at this year’s Tribeca film festival – it’s also the final one to feature Golshifteh Farahani, who inflamed controversy by appearing in Ridley Scott’s Body of Evidence, in turn causing About Elly to be banned in Iran.

A well-constructed character study that revolves around the social norms at play in middle-class Iran. At first the characters’ action were difficult to understand as a Westerner, but as the film progressed it became easier to accept why seemingly stupid decisions (from an audience perspective) were the only option available to the protagonists. However, the film lost a bit of momentum towards the end and offered no new insight or surprise; the ending was predictable once the invisible rules binding the characters were revealed. A solid, but not sensational film.

There’s Homer, there’s Sappho … there’s even ΠO if you prefer your great mono-monikered poets to be, you know, alive.

And now, thanks to the literary editors at Coles, there’s Amelia:

The best part was when she rhymed “nice” with “nice”.

Anyway, time for a GrodsChallenge. Whoever writes the best poem about the most unspectacular grocery item gets to lick the cake-mix off my beater.*

Have at it!

* Not a euphemism, you depraved Leftists.

It’s on! The Melbourne International Film Festival launched last night and my personal MIFF ‘09 experience begins tomorrow night. After spending an agonising couple of hours over a couple of pints of Guinness with the festival program, I’ve whittled my shortlist of 30 films down to the 13 allowed by my festival pass and I’m gearing up for two weeks of darkened cinemas, sleep deprivation and awesome international cinema. Just like in ‘05, ‘06, ‘07 and ‘08 I’ll be assaulting you with my film reviews whether or not you want them.

This year’s big questions:

• Will Craig faint in the middle of a packed cinema again?
• Will I finally snap that photograph of Bicycle Pump Man that I’ve been trying to get for four years?

Peter Costello: gone but not forgotten.

It’s quite appropriate that Costello is displayed next to books about fear and chickens

When I was travelling around India a few years back, I picked up a beautifully bound and illustrated “gift edition” of the Kama Sutra. Every tourist does it. Seriously. Shut up.

Anyway, if you’re not too familiar with the ancient work, it’s probably not quite what you’d expect. Forget about the infamous 64 sexual positions — that part occupies only 10 of Vatsyayana’s original 36 chapters and, frankly, is about as useful a guide for lovers as Weekend at Bernie’s is for apprentice morticians.

The bulk of the Kama Sutra concerns itself with how one should live one’s life — not just in lurve, but also in general. Practical advice covers a diverse range of topics, from pseudo feng shui right through to convoluted schemes for seducing your mate’s missus.

Now, I can’t vouch for the quality or authenticity of the translation of the book I rediscovered on my bookshelf the other day, inspiring this post — it was published by Roli Books and now appears to be out of print, and my own Sanskrit has been rusty since I stopped speaking it in the 16th century — but if it’s in any way representative of the genuine article, the Kama Sutra is a work of comic genius.

Don’t just take my word for it, though. Here are three of the book’s best passages, quoted verbatim.

1) On general hygiene:

You should bathe daily, rub yourself with oil every other day, use soap every third day and shave every fourth day. You should do all this without fail and rub the sweat of the armpits every now and then.

2) For the laydeez:

The rules for a courtesan to make a quick fortune are simple:

• First check your man out carefully.
• Secondly, make him fall desperately in love with you.
• Then fleece him well.
• When he’s broke, throw him out without remorse.

3) For mah homies (on which women are the easiest to seduce):

Those who stand at the doorways of their houses; who peer out on to the street; one who steals glances at men; one who is jealous, covetous, immoral or barren. Also those who are lazy, cowardly, vulgar, foul smelling, sick or old.

Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there and be the best damn lovers you can be.

In a startling and disturbing display of musical groupthink, a wide range of waministas, leftards and feminazis are putting aside their “well-known” antisemitism (sic.) to attend various iterations of the Leonard Cohen roadshow this weekend.

Lennie pictured after winning Canadian National Lottery

The depressoleftosphere includes, at last count, Toaf, Tobias and myself. (GrodsCorp’s own Bron has told me she can’t afford it, which is even more depressing when you think about it). Representing the radical centre will be Mr. Andrew Bartlett.

I’ll be going to the Bowral show, which is in a vineyard. Unconfirmed speculation suggests that Toaf and I may well convene over a chardonnay at some point to compare notes and Al Gore tattoos.

Three questions:

1. Anyone else going?
2. Anyone planning to post reviews and pix?
3. What is it with teh left and maudlin, Canadian, septuagenarian, zen-Buddhist singer-songwriters?

As part of my membership of the Melbourne International Film Festival I received two free tickets to a preview of Tom Cruise’s new film, Valkyrie, last Monday night. So Spykey and I reluctantly trudged along to enjoy some air conditioned respite from the 35 degree temperatures, even if it meant sitting through two hours of Cruise trying to be all serious and noble and shit, and not even attempting to soften his American accent to match his German character.

The film was okay. There were some nice tense sequences, it was reasonably edumacational and historical, and the visual style was appealing. However, the drama was hideously overblown, there was too much creative license taken with the true story to Hollywood-ise it, and Tom Cruise was, well, Tom Cruise. Even if his eyepatch did differentiate this performance from all of his others.

Two stars, Margaret.

But Jim Schembri loved it…

…a fast-moving, dramatically satisfying, surprisingly engaging tract…

…and broke his pants.

Looking resplendent in his starched uniform, Cruise plays Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg with a muted heroic swagger.

Clearly it’s the “resplendent” Cruise with his “muted heroic swagger” that raised Schembri’s rating to three-and-a-half-stars.

Jim Schembri: “You can raise my rating anytime, Tommy.”

There really is nothing I can say about this. Well, I can, but it mainly consists of words like “fucking” and “cunts”. 

So, caption time. Tell me, Grods Readers, what are these two big dickwads thinking in this photo ? Or you can just caption the photo. No winners, just the freedom to go crazy.

The title of this post? It’s from the brilliant “The Mateship” from the Keating! The Musical, er, musical. You can watch it here.

Unlike some bloggers, I do not consider myself “as educated as it is possible to be“. That’s why I was looking today for some avenues to self-improvement on the Illawarra WEA’s site today.  Naturally, I headed straight for the “Barista” section, thinking that even a “silvertail leftist” could afford to save a few quid by brewing at home with the Gaggia.  But even I was shocked to find a course offered under the title of “Latte Art”. The description alone may well get wingnuts burning torches outside the gates of  ”Illawarra Innovation Campus” and hurling stones at its curvelinear glass facade:

What defines a good coffee in today’s cafe society? Of course you need to have good espressos and silky, textured milk but it doesn’t stop here. To achieve excellence in your lattes, put some art on top! This class is designed to teach participants the various techniques involved in creating the perfect latte art. A pre-requisite is that participants must have completed the Coffee Appreciation course or are experienced in creating a consistent crema

So readers, in the interests of my political education and morning alertness, should I enrol?  What about my lack of prerequisites? And should I  keep a course journal for GrodsCorp? The decision is yours.

A lost play by Sophocles has just been discovered:

It tells the chilling story of one man’s journey from rational conservatism to Latte Left after accidentally giving his mother the old bone job. Here’s hoping the QC doesn’t take legal action against Sophocles for stealing his idea.

Episode 4: Craig heads outdoors for a classic summer event — the great Aussie BBQ.

Rate this episode at YouTube.

I’m a huge Batman fan, okay? I used to watch reruns of the old TV series when I was a kid and I remember my dad taking me to the 9.30pm session of the 1988 Burton/Keaton film when I was in grade six. That film remains a classic to this day despite the average Burton sequel and the atrocious Schumacher abominations that followed. And like so many other people I’ve been blown away by Christopher Nolan’s reinvention of the franchise, loving both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight.

But it has to be said (and I’m cowering in anticipation of the lynch mob this sentence will provoke) that Heath Ledger doesn’t really deserve a Golden Globe or an Oscar.

You see, I think that any chump with an ounce of acting talent could’ve grabbed a hold of a character like Nolan’s Joker and done amazing things with it. Even John Surname could’ve done a passable job. If anything, the screenwriters, make-up artists, production designer and director deserve equal recognition for the Joker that appeared on screen, because all Heath had to do was show up, put on some lipstick, croak, do crazy eyes and lick his lips. And the thing is, less is sometimes more — there are scenes in the Dark Knight where Ledger is actually overacting. For the love of Ceiling Cat, Heath, stop doing that open-mouthed lip licking thing!

But Our Heath is dead and we’re not allowed to say naughty things like these. So please forget that I said anything.