A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of spending some time with my niece, EMC. She was working on an English assignment – a school play (Children of the Black Skirt) in which her character becomes lost in the woods, only to be found (presumably) dead, 5 days later. Underlying themes aside, I found myself wondering what happened during those 5 days. It reminded me, I told my niece, of the novel and (1975) film Picnic at Hanging Rock, which I saw before I read. As I described the plot to her, I was reminded of how frustrated I was as the film and book ended; leaving us wondering what happened to the missing schoolgirls. Even the release of an additional chapter after the author’s death did little to elucidate the mystery for me.
Somehow our conversation then drifted to another Australian movie of my youth, Gallipoli – coincidentally also directed by Peter Weir. The story of two young men and featuring a young Mel Gibson (before Mad Max really took off and shot him to stardom; and before his life went awry). A tragic tale on so many levels and I have to admit to teariness even as I relayed the story (and its ending) to EMC.
I recall seeing these movies on sale a few years ago and contemplated buying them for EMC, thinking they would go someway to educating her in the history of Australian film and popular culture. But, I had learnt my lesson a few years before when, instead of buying Disney movies on her Christmas list, I took her Captain Jack Sparrow fetish one step further and bought Edward Scissorhands, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Benny and Joon. All three remain in their plastic wrapping, though I suspect one day she will pull them out and watch them as – though only 13 – she is a smart little chickie and has sophisticated but quirky tastes.
The other thing that prevented me forking out my hard-earned cash was that I had discovered (the hard way) that some things do not stand the test of time.
One of my favourite bloggers is The Scrivener’s Fancy’s Avril Rolfe. We have surprisingly similar taste (she used to love Thirtysomething) and must be of a similar age as I find myself nodding at her pop culture references. Her latest blog references the 1982 Australian film, Starstruck (www.thescrivenersfancy.com). Like many other teenagers across the country I loved the film. I also had the soundtrack (on cassette of course) which I came across about 10 years ago. Surprisingly it still worked and listening to my old favourites (Body and Soul and Monkey in Me) motivated me to track down the movie, which I found at a nearby video rental store. What I saw shocked and horrified me. It was terrible. Beyond terrible. A cliché. Surely even at 14 years of age I recognised that? Surely I looked past the quirkiness and cringed at the unlikelihood of the plot and uncomfortable acting? Obviously not.
Similarly, about 5 years ago, before we remembered its name and Fame became famous to a whole new generation, I was flipping through a catalogue and discovered that the TV series was being released on DVD. I possibly squealed with excitement. Possibly. I loved that show. Though the (original) movie shocked my 12yr old sensibilities, I was in my mid-teens by the time the TV series graced our Australian screens and I was mesmerised by the lives of the high school students which were far-removed from my own existence in a small regional Queensland town.
The sale-bins were bare by the time I reached the department store so my always-devoted mother (who still lives in that small regional town) tracked down the TV series for me and I wrenched it from her to insert into my DVD player. I don’t think I got through one episode. Actress Lori Singer - who I liked on the show, but hated cos she ‘got’ Kevin Bacon in Footloose - and her cohorts were unwatchable to my 40ish year old eyes. I don’t think I made it to episode two, so perhaps it improved because after all, it did air for five years….
But, I learned my lesson. Technology changes. Tastes change. Evolve. Our expectations change. Some movies and television shows can stand the test of time. They may be ‘dated’ but the quality seeps through. The Godfather movies, Grease, Taxi Driver, Platoon and even When Harry Met Sally, are examples.
So – I haven’t sent my niece in search of Gallipoli or Picnic at Hanging Rock and I haven’t revisited them myself. Although… it is almost Anzac day here in Australia, so perhaps Gallipoli deserves another visit.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter eggs and rabbit ears
Easter is again upon us and it is supposed to mean more than chocolate bunnies and public holidays. But rather than contemplate what was purported to have happened nearly 2000 years ago, I find myself relishing glimpses of life just 30 years ago.
For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island. Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops.
Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home. My Poppie and step-nanna (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay. Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade. We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach. Our beach.
In those days it was idyllic. Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us. On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf. Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait. Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless. The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.
We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home. A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander. Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds. There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all. A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine. I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer. Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.
Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’. My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me. Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies. So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.
But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement. And eat it all day I did. Easter after Easter. Year after year.
My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two. Purely to torture me, I am sure.
My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny. Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today. They remain my favourite. In those days everything was Red Tulip. No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies.
As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then). Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty. So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside! Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside. I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year. I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.
After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start. Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine. Again and again until it was completely flat.
The result was a masterpiece. The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation. I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them. I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved. Once they were done I probably just threw them away.
Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers. Temperamental rabbit ears. Our old linoleum lining cement floors. And washing machine wringers.
It’s funny the things you remember.
For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island. Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops.
Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home. My Poppie and step-nanna (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay. Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade. We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach. Our beach.
In those days it was idyllic. Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us. On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf. Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait. Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless. The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.
We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home. A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander. Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds. There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all. A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine. I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer. Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.
Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’. My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me. Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies. So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.
But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement. And eat it all day I did. Easter after Easter. Year after year.
My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two. Purely to torture me, I am sure.
My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny. Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today. They remain my favourite. In those days everything was Red Tulip. No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies.
As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then). Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty. So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside! Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside. I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year. I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.
After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start. Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine. Again and again until it was completely flat.
The result was a masterpiece. The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation. I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them. I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved. Once they were done I probably just threw them away.
Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers. Temperamental rabbit ears. Our old linoleum lining cement floors. And washing machine wringers.
It’s funny the things you remember.
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