Hey, my favourite short film from last night's Tropfest won! I left before the judges got around to doing their thing - as picturesque as it was watching the city lights behind the outdoor screen, I was a bit cold and uncomfortable. And a telecast from Sydney feels a bit like watching TV at home. But the films had been, on the whole, great.

Luke Eve's "Australian Summer", my aforementioned favourite, was quite beautiful. It showed two homeless men sitting in an alley, while one of them told the other a story about a wave. The film was a testament to childlike wonder and the transporting power of storytelling, as well as a subtle meditation on the dark realities of homelessness (just a hint of threatened violence at one point). Great acting, too.

My second favourite came runner-up - Nash Edgerton's "Lucky" was a totally blokesy, high-speed thriller involving a fast car and a desert. Sexy, schmick, fun. My favourite idea of the night was from the film "In Your Dreams", which was about the actors who played the parts in a person's dream - getting the script wrong, waving a sausage filled with butterflies, making snide remarks about Freudists. Good fun. There were also some side-splitting funny moments in "The Family Legacy" (a good Aussie cricket film) and especially in "Too Far", which was indebted to "The Castle" but still very, very amusing, especially the last slo-mo scene set to a 1927 track.

Late yesterday afternoon I rocked up to the Melbourne Town Hall to attend a Tram Stop Information Session. As one does. Looking at the posters set up in the main foyer, I realised that travel writer Bill Bryson was due to speak in the main hall, just about the time that I finished. What serendipity! Right place, right time.

The hall was packed with punters, and from where I sat up in the balcony Bill Bryson was little more than a bespectacled speck on the warmly-lit stage. He was entertaining, though, reading excerpts from a range of his work. Bryson has a very nice way of constructing anecdotes to lead up to a punchline, and I was not the only person in the audience chuckling away.

He wasn't profound, of course. In fact, when asked to give advice on becoming a professional writer he answered "Write stuff that people will pay money to read." And everything he said came clearly from his middle-class, middle-aged, comfortably married with four kids background. But that's OK - he doesn't pretend to be or do anything else. So, an enjoyable evening in the company of an enjoyable writer, followed up by laksa round the corner. And I still made it home in time to watch "Cutting It" - the best show on TV at the moment.

The occasion of purchasing a new bookshelf can only mean one thing: a large scale re-arrangement of one's books, and a re-reading of a handful of forgotten favourites. This week, I read Laura Ingalls Wilder's children's classic, Little House on the Prairie.

You know how sometimes you read a kids' book, and you think "Well, I'm sure as a child I would have enjoyed that." And then others still appeal to you as an adult. I think I liked LHOTP even more now than I did as an eight-year-old.

For a start, the structure is perfect. The novel begins with a family leaving their home in a covered wagon. They settle on a random patch of prairie in Indian Territory, live there through a cycle of the seasons, then pack up their belongings and leave again in a covered wagon. I actually didn't want to read the other books in the series because they would interfere with this beautifully complete, yet transient, shape.

The restrained tone of the novel - simple sentences, and an emphasis on Laura and Mary being "good little girls" - is an exquisite counterpoint to the wildness of the setting. Wilder's descriptions of the prairie are quite brilliant:

There was only the enormous, empty prairie, with grasses blowing in waves of light and shadow across it, and the great blue sky above it.

Or:

The days were short and grey now, the nights were very dark and cold. Clouds hung low above the little house and spread low and far over the bleak prairie. Hard little bits of snow whirled in the air and scurried over the humped backs of miserable grasses.

The lovingly detailed descriptions of Pa's work - making doors, constructing a chimney, building a log cabin - were a highlight. Wilder captures the childlike adoration of the father and absorption in the way the world works.

One of the most interesting facets of the novel for an adult is the treatment of the Indian characters. A variety of these are presented: a tall, noble Indian who saves the white people, two "dirty and mean" Indians who steal food, and a "jamboree" of Indians whose terrifying warcries keep the little family up for nights on end. A number of the white settlers voice frankly racist sentiments, but are treated ambivalently by the text. Laura's neighbour Mrs Scott, who is presented as kind but ignorant, says that the only good Indian is a dead Indian. Laura's mother says "I don't like them, that's all" - and her children are left wondering why she has no reason. Pa declares sympathy for the Indian but says that times are changing and the Indians have to accept it (probably the book's position). In the end, however, the Indians keep their land and it is Laura's family that has to move on. Interesting...

News broke yesterday of a reunion between Federal Health Minister Tony Abbott and the son he gave up for adoption in 1977.

It seems the situation was this: Tony was 19, and he and his then-girlfriend broke up two months before the birth.

"In retrospect I am appalled at how callow I was," the federal health minister told The Bulletin Magazine. "But you know, that's the way it was."

"I was psychologically unready for parenthood - that is the sad truth about me at that time.

"I just wasn't ready for it."

Now some people have said to me that, given this piece of history, they are surprised that Tony Abbott has such a strict, moralistic position on family values (anti-abortion, wanting to bring back fault-based divorce). Because he's walked a mile in their shoes, Abbott should understand the difficulties faced by struggling families.

But I think the opposite. I think this incident explains a lot. I'm no psychologist, but try this out: a person with lofty moral standards fails dismally to live up to them. He feels guilty, ashamed and inadequate, and tries to bury the memory of his self-defined "sin". He sees other people "failing" in similar areas, displaces onto them his own guilt, and then loudly judges/punishes them.

I think this is a pattern that appears in religious circles a bit, too (Abbott trained for the Catholic priesthood). If Tony Abbott could forgive himself, then perhaps he would go a bit easier on other people facing unwanted pregnancies, or on other couples who just can't make it work. Perhaps the current media attention will allow a structured self-forgiveness to take place.

From an interview of Federal Environment Minister Ian Campbell on Kyoto Day (14.2.05):

Campbell: We are, for very good reasons, showing that using technology, you can in fact, expand the economy. I think one of the things all Australians should be proud of, rather than having people Albanese and Beazley putting us down, going around saying that we are the biggest energy emitter per capita. I mean why would you

Journalist: But we are ...

Campbell: But why would you say it's a bad thing. I mean the solution to that is to double the size of our population then all of a sudden you solve that statistic. We are a very big country with huge energy resources and a very small population. So why would we criticise ourselves for that? Why not say that's a wonderful thing that Australia produces energy, efficiently and exports to the rest of the world. Why would you put your own country down? It's particularly un-Australian.

I've noticed it happening in recent weeks. In addition to the constant complaints from the bleeding hearts, there's been a new kind of criticism of Australia's migration laws. First, there was Cornelia Rau - an (attractive), mentally ill Australian citizen was caught up in the bureacratic immigration system and wrongly detained for months. Then, there was the Liberal senator who called for migration reform. Then, in today's Age, there was an article about the economic cost to Australia of overly harsh, rigid application of immigration controls.

These calls for change come from surprising sources (eg the Liberal party) and focus on new interests - those of Australians. They are not opposed to the traditional rights-for-refugees based protests, but complementary - that is, they should persuade a different segment of the community. I have a hunch that the result will be a loosening in policy and a new era for Australian migration policy. It won't be humanitarian concerns that tip us into this new era, but they laid the foundation.

Fingers crossed, eh, but I definitely sense change in the air.

In pursuit of my limited goal to see the five flicks nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, Saturday night saw me trundling off to see The Aviator.

THREE HOURS AND TEN MINUTES later, I emerged. Sheesh. Directors who are so in love with their projects that they've lost the ability to edit are starting waaaay behind the 8 ball in Beth's book. My book has lots of 8 balls. Anyway, even though the film was far too long, I was never bored - The Aviator was repetitive, but still managed to be interesting.

And there was a lot to like in the film. I loved the mania that energised details of the set - an exploding flash bulb, a shaking propellor, overdone blues and reds. The story made me yearn for more excitement in life (that's a good thing for a movie to do). Perhaps most significantly, I totally got back my Cate Blanchett love. Her last few roles have been impressive but cold and overly technical. Her evocation of Katherine Hepburn was disarming, warm and utterly watchable. An Oscar for that woman, please.

On the other hand, I think the role of Howard Hughes stretched Leonardo di Caprio somewhat beyond his capabilities as an actor. He was great in the "power" scenes (especially taking it to the Senate Committee) but less convincing in the "madness" portions. Since the film was all about Hughes/Leonardo, this was quite a weakness.

Overall I think three stars is a pretty fair summation. Sorry to sound like Roger Ebert.

Dramatis Personae
The Forces of Good:
The earnest, hardworking councillor who has put the motion together.
The procedural specialist councillor who wields the rules as a weapon.
The support act councillor.
The young firebrand councillor in a PLF T-shirt with the brilliant polemic style.

The Forces of Evil:
The brutal, bitchy mayor.
The dull-witted metrosexual councillor.
The slippery ladies - two middle-aged councillors with short grey hair and loose silk clothing, who speak exclusively in weasel words.
The backstabbing councillor, a principled woman who until 11 days previously had publicly agreed to the motion, but who had been summoned by higher-ups and beaten into submission.

Extras:
The old codger with a heart of gold who constantly, and rudely, interjects.
The man from the lane with no name.
The supporters of the motion: political has-beens, failed candidates, people wearing bicycle brooches and hippies. They applaud the forces of good and otherwise maintain a stony silence. Periodically, they mutter that this is "just like Grassroots."

The Setting
Exterior: A grand town hall - the type Melbourne built in the 19th century instead of sewerage systems.

Interior: A room with strange art deco plaster arches, a thin plywood partition, and framed art by children. Several water carafes.

The Plot
Prologue: In which the existential crisis of the play is presented. A man pleads with council for his street to be named. The feel is just like wandering into a U2 song, but with practical considerations - how would his pizza be delivered, after all?

The main action: A motion is proposed that would be a Good Thing. The motion is brutally eviscerated, gutted from the inside by innocuous sounding amendments which rip the heart out of the original motion, substituting a sanctimonious pretence of action for genuine change. There are deft, quick-thinking procedural points of order and show-stopping personality clashes.

Epilogue: Much-needed beers at the pub across the road.

I start my Phud next Tuesday, and I've gone stir-crazy on Amazon. These books look so exciting! I've ordered:

Why Does Literature Matter? by Frank B. Farrell. Farrell defends a rich conception of the space of literature that retains its links to issues of self-formation and metaphysics and does not let that space collapse into just another reflection of social space.

The Postcolonial Exotic: Marketing the Margins by Graham Huggan. Travel writing, it has been said, helped produce the rest of the world for a Western audience. Could the same be said more recently of so-called postcolonial writing?

Institutions of Modernism: Literary Elites and Public Culture by Lawrence Rainey. This book recounts new and startling stories about five major modernist figures and explores why the cultural status of literary modernism became increasingly troubled.

After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism by Andreas Huyssen. I'm getting this for the essay "Mass Culture As A Woman" which is about Madame Bovary.

Academic Instincts by Marjorie Garber. Garber discusses three of the perennial issues that have surfaced in recent debates about the humanities: the relation between "amateurs" and "professionals," the relation between one academic discipline and another, and the relation between "jargon" and "plain language."

I'm also reading Pierre Bourdieu's Field of Cultural Production. So, can anyone guess my topic?

So, last week Stephen Mayne sold his wildly popular rumour portal, crikey.com, for a million bucks. This is bizarre to me, because clashing value systems seem to be at play. Crikey was an amateur site, a forum for the idiosyncratic passions and frustrations of Mayne and his small posse of political insiders. A million bucks is a pretty substantial sum - a canny commercial move. I can only think that Mayne's sale was opportunistic.

The new owners, Beecher and Gribble, say they are going to make the site more professional and accountable. I suppose there's a niche for a website (more specifically, an email newsletter) that goes a bit deeper than the traditional media - but it was the wildly careering, risk-taking character of Crikey that was appealing. I personally found the site a bit annoying and boring, but that's because the minutia of politics just isn't really my thing. I liked the spirit of it. Ah well, we'll wait and see. As Hugh Martin explores, this is an interesting instance of the evolution of net publishing.

It was the proverbially dark and stormy night - the coldest February weather in recorded history, with sheets of rain and a biting wind. Sensible folk stayed on the couch. We made our way, damp and shivering, to Festival Hall. The Beastie Boys were in town.

I was curious to see what sort of crowd the Beasties would pull. Complete bogans, as it turned out - flanny wearing, early thirties, mostly male, almost uniformly unattractive, but cheerful. The concert kicked off with a Mission Impossible rip-off home movie that was filmed backstage and then moved into the hall. Mix Master Mike was stealing a secret record or something - everyone had the giggles. MMM ascended the DJ podium, set the turntable spinning and dropped the first beat of the night, and I was instantly, completely happy. I couldn't wipe the grin off my face for the next 2 hours.

The Beastie Boys were relaxed, bouncy and musically spot-on. Their opening bracket included the most amazing version of Root Down (completely different beats to the album track, but really fun) and a rendition of Sure Shot that had the crowd screaming. The stage went black and MMM did some mind-boggling work with wax (he bent the record in half! And did this funny fast thing with his fingers!) and then lo and behold, a platform on wheels decorated with Japanese party lanterns was wheeled out, and the Beastie Boys, dressed in pale blue dinner suits, performed an instrumental set. A screen showed some odd home movies and clips while the Beasties disappeared again, only to re-emerge in orange tracksuits to play another huge bracket of old and new faves.

I think the best song of the night begain like this:
MCA: Oh my God, who wrote this list?
Ad Rock: I dunno, why?
MCA: Man, this is old skool. Like, really (sounds embarrassed).
They shrug. Then they yell: NO SLEEP TILL BROOKLYN!

It was hilarious - the song itself is a complete crack-up, and the fact that Boys no longer even pretended to take it seriously was the icing on the cake. The repartee between the Boys was great all night - they started talking about the after-party, and one of them said Beyonce would be there. Another muttered: "She's so crazy right now". Hee hee hee. They involved the crowd too, with lots of cued shouts and sounds (including the fresssshhhh in funky fresh attire, from Ch-check it out), and appearing on a platform in the midst of the back section for Intergalactic. Their final number is usually Sabotage, but last night they performed it with instruments, giving the song a raw rock edge I hadn't heard before.

Perfect, perfect, perfect. Every song was a happy song. My only regret is that I didn't drag every single person I know along with me.

With Lyn down last week, I predictably saw a large number of excellent films. We also began the world's most impossible jigsaw puzzle, a Frederick McCubbin leaf-filled nightmare that has provoked endless obscenities, but that's another story. This story is about films, and in particular films that have been nominated for Oscars. Some of the nominees haven't been released yet, but I'm prepared to make some early picks:

ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE
Don Cheadle - HOTEL RWANDA
Johnny Depp - FINDING NEVERLAND
Leonardo DiCaprio - THE AVIATOR
Clint Eastwood - MILLION DOLLAR BABY
Jamie Foxx - RAY

I've only seen two of these so far, Clint and Johnny, and it's a truly tough call between those two. Clint creates a magnificent portrait of a rough, tender, yet surprisingly non-stereotypical old man. I won't cry if he wins. But Johnny, Johnny, Johnny - it's the stillness that gets me every time. Magical.


ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE
Annette Bening - BEING JULIA
Catalina Sandino Moreno - MARIA FULL OF GRACE
Imelda Staunton - VERA DRAKE
Hilary Swank - MILLION DOLLAR BABY
Kate Winslet - ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND

Once again, I've only seen two - Hilary and Kate. Kate wins, easy, because her character in ESOTSM is so striking, delightful and compelling. Hilary is extremely good, of course, but a nomination is her reward. Having said all this, and without seeing Being Julia, I want Annette Bening to win. It's a Richard III thing.

Ok, so I obviously have to see Ray, Sideways and the Aviator before I can continue this project. But other early picks include Finding Neverland for art direction, ESOTSM for original screenplay, and The Incredibles for animated feature. If I'm right without even seeing half the films, major kudos. Of course I retain the right to completely change my mind several times.

(PS Lyn has some good Oscar watching links on her page if anyone feels like jumping on board a bandwagon)

It felt like I barely had time to mourn the dashed hopes of Aussie tennis before I was being asked by Channel 10, the Herald Sun and everyone else whether or not I approved of Bec and Leyton's engagement after "only 8 weeks courting", to quote Channel 10. I'm expecting Jason to rupture a blood vessel over the missing apostrophe there.

If I had a $200,000 engagement ring for every 8 weeks courting I've done, I'd be doing alright. I feel a bit ripped off. On the other hand, I don't have to face the prospect of living with Leyton.

Why is he so keen for marriage, anyway? He's like, 23, and flying in the face of national trends. Perhaps, in a sport where glory is fleeting, he craves unconditional love. Unfortunately, after this start, I give Bec and Ley less than four years.