ADAM GOODALL

5= Submarine (Richard Ayoade); Sleeping Beauty (Julia Leigh)
4. Melancholia (Lars von Trier)
3. The Forgiveness of Blood (Joshua Marston)
2. Rango (Gore Verbinski)
1. I Saw the Devil (Kim Ji-woon)
Horrifically violent and relentlessly stylish, Kim Ji-woon’s big farewell to South Korea (for now) is a visceral journey into the darkest and stormiest night ever put to film. Powerhouse performances from Lee Byung-hun and Choi Min-sik bring an ebbing humanity to the grotesquely beautiful production design and the ruthless, ever-escalating story.

JOHNNY CRAWFORD

5. And Everything is Going Fine (Steven Soderbergh)
4. The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick)
3. Rubber (Quentin Dupieux)
2. Medianeras (Gustavo Taretto)
1. Mysteries of Lisbon (Raoul Ruiz)
If Kubrick had decided to use 18th Century dioramas instead of paintings as the inspiration for Barry Lyndon’s cinematography then he would have ended up with something similar to Mysteries of Lisbon. Ballsy, methodical and innovatively framed camerawork contributes to the most sumptuous, compelling and self-aware five-hour period piece ever.

JUDAH FINNIGAN

5. I Saw the Devil (Kim Ji-woon)
4. A Separation (Asghar Farhadi)
3. Melancholia (Lars von Trier)
2. Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn)
1. The Tree of Life (Terrence Malick)
A movie to polarise audiences—probably because it’s hard to define as a ‘movie’ in the traditional sense— The Tree of Life is more a meditation of ideas, set to gorgeous spells of sight and sound and the most deeply personal and profound experience I have had all year.

GERALD LEE

5. X-Men: First Class (Matthew Vaughn)
4. True Grit (Joel & Ethan Coen)
3. Take Shelter (Jeff Nichols)
2. Melancholia (Lars von Trier)
1. Black Swan (Darren Aronofsky)
Black Swan is quite simply a visceral tour de force, complemented by a stunning performance by Natalie Portman. Darren Aronofsky does not intend to merely please or comfort his audience; instead he astounds them with an unsettling waking nightmare that forms the most truly cinematic film of this year. 

THOMAS COUGHLAN

5. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 (David Yates)
4. The Future (Miranda July)
3. Certified Copy (Abbas Kiarostami)
2. Love Story (Florian Habicht)
1. The Lion King 3D (Roger Allers & Rob Minkoff)
Asante Sana! Squash banana! We we nuga! Mi mi apana—It means you are a baboon and I’m not!

JANE KING

5. Rango (Gore Verbinski)
4. Melancholia (Lars von Trier)
3. Hanna (Joe Wright)
2. Gantz (Shinsuke Sato)
1. Arrietty (Hiromasa Yonebayashi)
If you appreciate earnest escapism and detailed antique animation, this is for you. Directed by Hiromasa Yonebayashi and produced by Japan’s pre-eminent Studio Ghibli, the film is beautifully drawn and an easy favourite for the year. Arrietty is based on Mary Norton’s 1950s Borrowers novels and touches upon important environmental issues while depicting a true fairytale. Arrietty offers all that we’ve come to expect of a Ghibli film—magic, awe, escapism and beauty.

As the release dates of the next instalments in both series draw ever closer, these arguments are growing in intensity and reducing in coherency at an alarming rate. In fact, most reading this who follow gaming news with any frequency will probably be rolling their eyes by this point. But fear not, we’re here only to give an honest first impression of developer DICE’s opus of destruction Battlefield 3, from two people who’ve spent more time with rival Call of Duty games, in all their hyper-masculine glory, than two full-time students really should have. For the purposes of this article, we’re focusing exclusively on the multiplayer aspects of these games, as both series have climbed to the revered positions they hold today by raising the bar of competitive gaming experiences over the last decade. Our experience with Battlefield 3 thus far has been the public play-testing that DICE have gifted to their fans, a “beta” test where an early build of the game is released and combed for bugs and needed tweaks.

Firstly, BF3 is a vastly different experience to anything in the COD series. The intention of realism and weight can be felt throughout everything from the game’s environment right down to the philosophy that when you are playing, you are looking through the physical eyes of a soldier. This latter element is what makes BF3 so chilling a game at times. COD games, in their modern incarnation, are an intense and reliably manic experience that borrows from the setting and mythos of the more explosive and jingoistic action movies. In that sense, they always feel like an action movie: fast, fun and requiring a certain suspension of disbelief. Their multiplayer experience is geared towards shaping your own playstyle, allowing people to be a running juggernaut, static sharpshooter, acrobatic knife-wielder or an all-around jackass. Call of Duty 4 was not the first shooter to introduce these elements from traditional RPG games, though it helped towards making them much more prevalent in future titles. Teamwork among players is definitely possible, even encouraged by some game types, but is not the norm in these games. The lone wolf, if skilled enough, can always prevail. While BF3 retains the veneer of COD’s “XP”, leveling and customisation systems, awards and unlocks flashing past your screen after every round to the game’s signature thumping electronic sound design, the experience under those systems remains true to the original 2001 Battlefield that launched the series into fame.

The feeling I got when I was first dropped onto the ruined Parisian parklands that host BF3’s beta testing was one of wonder. A feeling I haven’t been given by a game in a long, long time. At the risk of sounding like I am throwing myself down at the altar of the military fetishism displayed in this game, I’d say this will be another title that will raise the bar for future games to to come. Like Doom, Half Life, Battlefield 1942, Crysis and Call of Duty 4 before it, Battlefield 3 will set the standard for big-budget shooter titles to meet in the coming years. This is not only because of the (significant) advances in graphical fidelity and how accessible those higher-level graphics are, but because of the interesting new gameplay elements actually being produced by those advances. The lighting engine will cause enemy flashbangs and laser sights to blind you, causing you to physically recoil from your screen at times. Environmental elements like smoke, dust, rubble, trees, light and plants are not just convincing window-dressing, but strategic parts of how you play the game. Needless to say, these elements almost all require some tweaking, but DICE has already begun to list the changes that will be made to the finished product. Battlefield 3 is, quite simply, a culmination of over a decade’s worth of refinement in the shooter genre, probably one that will be difficult to surpass for a few years to come.

To wrap up the fairly pointless rivalry between fans of this game and those of the Call of Duty series, Battlefield 3 is a new and vastly different experience to anything in the COD series, but is by no means inherently better. They are to each other as rugby is to soccer, apples to oranges, Ridley Scott to Christopher Nolan. They are two sides of the same coin. Whether you crave the fast-paced arcade-style shooting gallery of COD, or the realistic and intense leap into the future of gaming that is Battlefield, there is definitely something for everyone this summer.

The prestigious accolades, scholarships to overseas institutions, and her constant involvement in the Wellington music scene, see us meeting just days before she records an EP with her band, The Dreamers. Shrouded in a cloak of self-assurance, the unrelenting tenacity that saw her as a 6-year-old memorize her lines for a school production despite her inability to read, has subsequently seen her go from strength to strength.

Gollan is the first to acknowledge how fortunate she has been “with the experiences I was able to have quite young”. Lending her voice to the Kiwi Kids albums, which were distributed around New Zealand schools, afforded her valuable exposure to recording studios. Her euphonic voice has been fostered via singing lessons that began at the tender age of seven through to thirteen. While they focused mainly on a classical repertoire, her love of jazz, already nurtured by her father, compelled her to croon jazz numbers in her own time.

Now just shy of her 21st birthday, the confidence that she exudes has seen her unperturbed with the sizeable audience that filled the TSB Arena as she serenaded them at the World of Wearable Arts recently. While Wallace states that this is the result of a gradual process whereby “You stop worrying so much about what the audience is thinking of you, and you just start doing it for you,” it could perhaps also be attributed to the adulation she has received in the form of numerous awards and scholarships. Impressively, she has received the ‘Most Outstanding Musician’ and ‘Most Outstanding Vocalist’ awards at the National Youth Jazz Festival, along with the ‘Best Vocalist’ award at the Queenstown International Jazz Festival, and has received and undertaken a scholarship with The Jazz Workshop Sydney.

However, it’s the sensation that Wallace is fast becoming that far exceeds her numerous accomplishments. As we meet, it is only a few days before she enters the studio to record an EP with The Dreamers, which sees her bringing some of her own work to tangible fruition. Gollan, a team player to the very end, is quick to point out that the material was a collaborative effort, though she admits to an apprehensive excitement at the prospect of showcasing one of the songs for which she penned lyrics. The effort that Gollan places in The Dreamers, is put forth equally into her other projects, the Wallace Gollan Trio and her other latest endeavour, though they are “just rehearsing at this stage”.

This coming February will see Gollan relocating to Sydney, where she has previously performed and attended jazz workshops. While this affords her some familiarity and a network from which to draw from, she is intent on making the most of the mini musical empire that she has forged for herself in Wellington, hoping to record an EP of her own work before the end of the year. Conceding that Sydney is merely a “stepping stone” for her before she heads to London, she is understandably “excited about it because you get a bit blasé and safe here”.

While the next few years will see her exploring Europe and other foreign lands, it has already become clear, that although 1951 may have seen Nat King Cole sing ‘Unforgettable’, over sixty years later Wallace Gollan is well on her way to becoming it. *

The dynamic fostered between a couple harmonizing, playing and subsequently bickering, can be seen from the days of The Carpenters and, Sonny and Cher, while more recently The White Stripes and The Kills have tantalized audiences with innuendo that does nothing to solve the mystery of their union.

In every case there is one half of the duo that surpasses the other, enveloping their companion in a blanket of self-doubt and resentment. While Jack White’s charm and Jamie Hince’s high profile relationship see Meg White and Alison Mossheart shunted into the shadows, in the case of the Cults, it would appear that Madeline Follin commands the most attention with her doe-eyes and dulcet delivery.

Sonically, these latest purported purveyors of so-hip-it-hurts rock music don’t appear to be remarkably different from any of their alternative rock contemporaries. Nevertheless, Madeline Follin and Brian Oblivion have produced a tight debut filled with equal parts melancholy tunes and cheery guitar riffs. With comparisons easily drawn to both The Raveonettes and Elliot Smith, it becomes clear after an initial run through of their album that their strength lies not in the lyrical depth of their songs (“tell me what’s wrong with my brain cause I seem to have lost it”), but rather their rugged instrumentalism and innocent enthusiasm. While the more upbeat ‘Go Outside’ and ‘Oh My God’ are bound to be on high rotate at soirees the world over, the universally relatable Abducted, sonically dripping with despondency, is sure to become the musical backdrop for many a bitter separation.

Perhaps the best track, ‘You Know What I Mean’ has Madeline and her Mary Weiss-esque vocals reach dizzying heights, though whether or not this is reflective of their future remains to be seen. Only time will tell whether the Cults are just another brick in the wall.

The formidable Mike Chunn, NZ music legend and co-author of I’m With the Band, a how-to of everything musical in Aotearoa (with Jeremy Chunn and Salient’s own Barney Chunn),

I’m With the Band; How to make a career in popular music in New Zealand
Mike Chunn, Jeremy Chunn, and Barney Chunn
Hurricane Press, Price TBA

I’m With the Band is a sequel to your 1997 publication The Mechanics of Popular Music. Why did you feel that now was the right time to release it? Is it that NZ musicians need a bit of a call to arms, or that the nature of the industry has changed over the past decade?

The industry bears little resemblance to 1997 in its technologies and distributions. They could not have been imagined back then! The slow eradication of the stranglehold the major record companies had is the main shift. And of course the Internet has provided tall platforms from which songwriters and artists can fling their recorded music all around the world. It’s important that NZers realise that their options these days are plentiful.

The book gives advice on every part of the musical process—from forming the band to writing songs, the roles of managers and entertainment lawyers, publishing, performing, and promotion. How did you manage to compact everything in to such an incredibly detailed but easily accessible book? Were there sections you felt you had to emphasize more than others?

We felt it was important to avoid theory. We talked to those artists who have carved out proactive, rewarding careers as well as those administrators who (as well as being passionate about music) have worked like bastards to bring the music of NZers to the people. In Blink—Malcolm Black, Becs Caughey, Ian James—we have gone for a spread across pole positions (as such) to cover the various domains that this crazy, amazing industry has.

You have interviews with some iconic New Zealand musicians—Supergroove, Shapeshifter, Neil Finn…. How would you describe NZ’s musical community today? Do you think there’s still a sense of camaraderie or has corporate competitiveness muddied the waters, so to speak?

NZs musical community is fabulous. There IS a sense of camaraderie amongst those of us who are now in later years (i.e old!). We all knew we had to front up to a nation that in our formative, emerging years was backward and quick to dismiss a belief in the importance of song in the lives of any nation. And NZ, well, we’re a young nation. NZ songs were desperately needed back then so we took it on the chin and wrote and recorded them.

There’s a chapter in the book titled ‘Creating the difference’, where you talk to Ian Jorgensen about the split between ‘live’ bands and ‘radio’ bands. Why do you think there’s such a disparity in NZ between artists who get airplay but hardly do gigs and artists who have huge live followings that almost never get airplay?

It’s inevitable in an isolated nation with a small population. The radio world is about Top 20 music from overseas—the Anglo-American pop flood. It has been and will always be there. But really—Top 40 radio is about the song in the first instance. So an artist like Zowie will have a Top 10 song in ‘Broken Machine’ but won’t get 100 people to a live show because those who prop up the sales and research at radio for that recording like the song . They don’t care who’s singing it. Whereas an act like Shapeshifter carved out a huge following on live shows. A live show is an event at which the punter thinks—“they’re playing to me. It’s about them and me and those around me who sense and know the wonder and emotional connection that this room is holding for us. That’s unique. And if from there, an artist like Shapeshifter crosses over to Top 10 radio with a song or five then they will be enormous! That’s what happened to Split Enz. Those first seven years established a figurehead of musical exploration and stagecraft… and then came “I Got You” in their 8th year.

You’re the recipient of a Living Legends Award, among others, founder of Play It Strange, and one of the most respected people in NZ music. With so much experience in the industry, what’s the most important piece of advice you have for up- and-coming NZ artists?

You have to be unwavering. You might be booked to play a bar and as you start you see absolutely no-one in the room. You play like there is a full house. You stand and deliver! Watch the World Cup rugby games. A team can be down 50-nil. How are they playing? Do they walk off the paddock ‘cos they think “Bugger this. We’re losing”? No they don’t. That’s why they’re in the team. It’s the same in the world of taking your music to the people. You must be unwavering in your self-belief and musical dedication to excellence. Oh, and you must love your fellow man. Songs, live performance and recording all collide in a perfect way when human relationships are complementary and complimentary. In the end – and I am deadly serious about this—a fulsome and vibrant path in the world of music falls on the relationships you have or make with other people.

Thesis Survivor Stories
Marilyn Waring and Kate Kearins
AUT Media, RRP $39.99

This is such a fantastic idea. What was the trigger that made you think, “We should really do this”?

Kate and I were discussing our supervision experiences and realised that no one had covered the personal journeys of those who complete theses—who are just a fraction of those who initially enrol. I have also noticed that the ‘personal’ stories are those that are of most assistance to others following in the wake of those who ‘survived’. I run a monthly pot luck for a large number of thesis research students, and it’s the getting through each challenge that is most shared, rather than the latest piece of software or the latest authority.

Was it difficult to find people willing to share their stories or was everyone quite eager to come forward?

Kate and I made a list of those who we thought might be willing to share their stories, and approached them, and I can’t remember one person refusing to participate. Every story is different. Every student I have ever had has learned a lot about themselves, as well as a lot about their thesis topic, on the way to completion.

What have you found to be the most common problem, or piece of advice, across the stories?

We have a list of tips at the conclusion of the book. The major mistakes students make is to think they know the answer before they have done the research, and to not understand that a thesis is a full time job. People in either of those categories are unlikely to complete.

Do you think there needs to be a better support system for those undertaking post-graduate study?

A key is to choose the right supervisor, which doesn’t mean the best authority in the world, but an academic with a raft of successfully completed theses. All the post graduate support structures a university offers can’t compensate for a poor supervision team.

Finally, never research a subject you ‘should’ do. I won’t supervise ‘shoulds’. You need to research the subject you are most passionate about. Then you have massively upped the odds you will complete. *

This year they took a step back from the limelight and have produced a record that, while still being everything we’ve come to expect from John the Baptist, might actually be just that little bit more. Shaun Blackwell, the band’s singer and guitarist, shared with me a cup of coffee, his thoughts on British and American comedy, the pros and cons of the RWC, and the process behind the making of John the Baptist’s latest offering, The Great Mountain Haul.

“We put a lot more time into this one, compared with the first one. The last EP was a snapshot of the band’s beginnings. It took only about three hours to record. For The Great Mountain Haul we spent a bit more time in the studio, even though we did most of it live, there’s still a few overdubs and stuff.”

The sense of a slightly more deliberate sound and overall consciousness of what they are trying to achieve is obvious. There is a sense of sophistication in the songwriting that has developed too. While it’s still energetic and firmly founded in the folk and country tradition, there’s a focus on the songs themselves, with little intricacies and complexities that may not be so prevalent in the earlier recordings.
“Yeah this one, for want of a better word, has a bit more thought behind it. We spent a lot more time in the studio. And we went back over the songs, trimmed the fat off them.”
While the songs are stronger and the production and arrangement of them are fuller and more carefully designed, don’t let that trick you into thinking this isn’t the hoedown John the Baptist that can make even the most sullen of suspicious heathens throw their beanies in the air and yell yee-haw! Musically, the songs are often narratives, of drinking, leaving lovers and drinking. The banjo twang and the rollicking snare twitch at your feet like they darting tongue of a venomous frog.

‘Whenever we played we were having heaps of fun, and that’s why we recorded most of the EP live and have the live track on there, to try and capture that energy as much as possible.”

If criticism has been raised against John the Baptist, it’s that they are propped up on old tunes; playing comfortably within genres. Those thinking along these lines probably aren’t going to be forced to change their mind with this record, but then they’re probably the same people who don’t enjoy music per se, but its representational possibilities in a post modern global environment. All of which John the Baptist is having too much fun to care about.

There was one important point that needed to be asked of Shaun though, and I could tell he was getting geared up for it.

If you had to invite three people to dinner, one living, one dead, and a kiwi, who would they be and what would you serve?

Dead: Chet Baker. Before he was addicted to heroin. Yeah he might be a bit more talkative. Yeah and better to look at too, he was quite a handsome man. And his voice? I’d just get him to sing all night. Dead: Miles Davis. I don’t know why I’m choosing all these jazz musicians but I read this article the other day about his explosive wit. And then maybe I’d invite Scribe so Miles and Chet could just take the piss out of him. And, I don’t know, pretty much the only thing I can cook is nachos, so I’d roll with that.

johnthebaptistnz.bandcamp.com

This goes hand-in-hand with the general panic that an almost-graduate in the Arts feels when considering their place in the world. I found myself in mid-rant about how art galleries often alienate their public, when I asked myself “Why do I care?”

Self-doubt is a common ailment of the human condition and I am constantly asking myself if I am studying the right subject or following the right career path. What is the central passion that keeps me trudging up the Kelburn hill every day? What often pulls me back from the brink of madness is remembering what it is that first drew me to study of the visual arts. That inspiration is often found in a single painting.

It is at such times that I remember The Kiss (Der Kuss) by Gustav Klimt. I have been familiar with the work all my life, Klimt being one of my mother’s favourite artists. I have had a poster of this work on my wall throughout my six years of university education, constantly watching over me as crouched over a computer screen for hours on end. I have never studied the work academically, although I suspect that is what keeps my love of the painting going.

There is nothing quite like appreciating an artwork purely for visual pleasure. I often think that is what art should be. Not about the artist’s intentions or the historical significance, and certainly not about the price of the work. It should come down to what it is that captures the viewer on a purely visual level. Not necessarily what is beautiful or spectacular, but what is interesting and grabs our attention.

The Kiss has always satisfied that criteria for me. The work explodes with beauty and colour, from the intricate robe to the bursting meadow of flowers at the couple’s feet. I find the way the male figure leans over the woman and protects her in a shroud of gold, extremely comforting. I am transported in her serenely beautiful face, carried away in a lost moment of joy. There is also something imperfect or unsettling about the work. The woman’s head is tilted slightly too much, to a point that looks uncomfortable. The pair embrace on the edge of a meadow that falls away like a cliff, over which the woman’s feet dangle. These elements create a feeling of unease that in turn adds interest and that keeps the work from ever becoming banal. Just like falling in love, the emotions that this painting provokes are not quite calm or settled.
The work has been described by many as the most romantic painting of all time. However it has never held any false sentimentality, for me at least. It is far too raw in emotion and interesting in unusual detail. Instead it holds a captured sensual moment, which allows me to disappear into a painting and find hidden inspiration. *

In 1981 Mr Key is ambivalent teenager being pressured into picking a side. Ms Clark is being pressured to lay off the protest by her father. Helen goes to protests, John drinks beer. We count down to the final between the All Blacks and the Springboks, and we wait with bated breath to find out how the match will unfold for both the protesters and the passive bystanders.

In 2008, Helen is prime minister. Her commitment to the Labour party has seen her rise to leader and she is attempting to retain her title, but John is closing the gap…
McCubbin has mashed together two hot topics; politics and rugby. The comparison of political race and rugby game is a key part of McCubbin’s writing, and it informs the staging, set and costume. As Helen Clark reminds us; “it’s just what you do to play the game”. The metaphor climaxes with a sublime final sequence fusing rugby, protest, and voting.
This is all played out on a delightful unit set that is full of surprises and the lighting, projections and sound design are impeccable.

There is a fine line to walk when portraying well-known politicians, particularly when blending actual interviews and quotes with fictional conversations. John and Helen are crafted as figures that don’t ignore the stereotypes as much as imbue them with humanity and dignity.

Alex Greig plays a slightly gawky John Key, someone who wants to be everyone’s friend and is inspired by Obama’s use of slogans. To my mind, his reaction against the tour, rather than a refusal to take sides, is a response to the extremities of one side or the other. Harriette Cowan is the perfect Aunty Helen Clark. Her authoritative gravelly voice endeared her to the entire BATS audience within one word. Eerily accurate, Cowan pulls of the public and private Clark with dexterity and charm.

The remaining two cast members play a scattering of politicians, interviewers and protesters. Erin Banks is nothing short of incredible; she plays her bit parts with a confidence and comic flair. Her Gerry Brownlee is a mini-masterpiece and her more human Joan Caulfield (née Anderton) is presented with sensitivity and compassion. Paul Harrop does a wonderful job rounding out the remaining family members and press secretaries.

Rather than affirming one political ideal over another, McCubbin focuses on the human story behind the political games. What vigorous Labour supporter hasn’t wondered what Helen thought after she stood down, and what YoungNat wouldn’t be interested in which TV programme John Key watched the day after his election? Like Taki Rua’s Awhi Tapu, this is provocative New Zealand theatre about our recent past for a 2011 audience. Whether you were for or against the tour, or for or against National or Labour, this play is for us. It’s relevant, it’s hilarious, it’s stylish, and it’s on now. The Engine Room is the sort of play every university student should see.

The Engine Room
By Ralph McCubbin Howell
September 27 – October 8 at BATS

As with the many others which have plagued our species, this war is over a subject both pointless and accentuating of the stupidity of mankind. Sleepless, Reddit-addicted fiends froth at the mouth while vehemently arguing with one another over which blockbuster war simulator to be released this summer will be more supreme. WAR! I am talking of course about the currently infamous Modern Warfare 3 versus Battlefield 3 debate.

In one corner, as the newest iteration of Activision’s yearly Call of Duty cycle, Modern Warfare 3 seeks to appease the masses of gamers who belong to the strange generation of online multiplayer that permits terrible manners and a worse sense of humour. These games are massively popular. Each consecutive release effortlessly shatters the sales records of the last and, amongst said gamers, becomes (as the saying goes) the new black. It’s an immense market, and, while the game itself looks unsurprisingly to be as minimal a departure as possible from its predecessor, Activison have woken up to the fact that people are as competitive and celebratory about these games as any form of physical sport. MW3 will be the first CoD release to work in total accordance with the new Call of Duty: Elite subscription. What this is, is essentially access to a maintained electronic sports community for CoD games for a $50 US per year fee. The subscription includes all of the basic features that you would expect it to, such as lifetime tracking of statistics and social networking options (did somebody say Facebook integration?). While it’s easy to paint this as the latest method by Activision to suck money from its army of loyal followers, the inclusion of more interesting elements, such as frequent competitions with both virtual and real-life prizes, monthly additional content, and professional strategies available to improve your skills make it seem like exactly the service it presents itself as—an option for those who consider themselves ‘elite’ (trust me, they exist) to take their gaming hobby a step further into a well designed, accessible community in which they could become legendary.

In the other corner sits Battlefield 3. To the untrained eye, both of these games look to deliver a homogeneous experience. However, as virtual recreations of modern combat go, there is much more to this comparison than a Pepsi/Coke situation. Where CoD can be seen as a sort of arcade-esque desensitisation of war, with an emphasis placed on arena style level design and pulling off ridiculous feats of skill, the Battlefield series embraces large-scale warfare and realism. In Battlefield 3, real-world physics alter the course of bullets, firefights are sudden and lethal, and structures are entirely destructible. It’s quite disconcerting knowing that, after having spent my entire gaming years safe from danger if hidden out of sight behind a wall, in BF3, an explosion could send the entire building crashing down upon me. Speaking of explosions, unlike MW3, BF3 lets the player pilot a number of different vehicles, including tanks, jets and helicopters. All of this will be delivered on the brand new, much-touted Frostbite 2 engine. This technology is set to raise the bar in terms of the technical strength behind game worlds. BF3 seems to be a perfect initial showcasing of what we can expect of the future in videogame visuals and sound, delivering an as-yet unmatched level of intensity and adrenaline in gaming.

While both of these games have an appeal in their own right, many fans of each have taken the view that the two are mutually exclusive experiences, and are quite up in arms about it. This is not an exaggeration; Anthony Abraham, a Battlefield fan, took it upon himself to buy the rights to modernwarfare3.com before Activision could, and provide both slanderous remarks towards the game and a redirection to the Battlefield 3 website. Needless to say, Abraham found himself slapped with a giant lawsuit. There’s a lesson to be learned here: rampant fanboyism achieves nothing. Let’s just pick one and keep the war to playing the games themselves, eh?

It is a pity the same could not be said about director Ian Mune’s handling of Te Movie. He directs with the ugly heavy-handedness of someone unwilling to relinquish their storyteller’s reigns to his subjects. The constant interjections of silly and annoying graphics says less about James and more about Mune, who is clearly enamoured with the fact that computers can now animate pictures. He directs like a child let loose in a filmmakers’ toy shop, playing with everything except his cast of exceptional characters. When the time comes for Mune to flex his emotional muscles he gives us a painful montage of comedians looking glum as they reflect on James’ death, a painful and didactic gesture that would have been the funniest scene in the film had the hapless director not slightly redeemed himself with generous helpings of James’ stand up clips.

Billy T. James was an exceptional comedian whose uncluttered honesty and appeal endeared a nation to itself. Ultimately, Mune’s production is cluttered and dishonest and does its subject a disservice.

Working with Park Hoon-jung’s relentless, perpetually-escalating script, Kim captures a world that’s more waking nightmare than reality. The Korea in which avenging angel Kim Soo-hyeon (Lee Byung-hun) and sadistic murderer Park Kyung-chul (Choi Min-sik) play their vicious game of cat-and-mouse is claustrophobic and terrifying. Walls are caked with nauseatingly vivid colours and kitchens have more in common with torture chambers; outside, the oppressive darkness looms over those safe in their bubbles of light and snow. The brief third act shift to more naturalistic architecture and design is a masterstroke, carrying all of the violence and horror we’ve experienced for two hours into a world frighteningly close to our own.

I Saw the Devil’s immaculate production design, nerve-testing script and perfect central performances from Lee and Choi (again proving themselves two of the best actors working today) feed into the film’s greatest triumph—the ethical questions it asks of an audience that eagerly partakes in a cultural climate that demonises the other without truly understanding them (see Taken). While Soo-hyeon is initially easy to root for, his Neeson-esque resolve and good looks hide a darkness just as repulsive as the flabby, snarky Kyung-chul’s. The frenzy in Soo-hyeon’s eyes as he pursues and taunts his wife’s harried killer betrays his repeated moral justifications; his violent behaviour, deployed in the name of justice, is just as horrific and hollow as that of his quarry. Other films test your willingness to go along with a protagonist’s course of action, but none as effectively as this—I Saw the Devil is not only an astounding piece of craftsmanship but a truly riveting interrogation of what we consider ‘justice’.

There’s no doubt Suskind has a credible reputation; he won a Pulitzer Prize for his work with the Wall Street Journal in 1995, and has previously published several best-selling and critically acclaimed books on the George W. Bush Administration. His integrity is not without blemish, however, and Confidence Men has ignited debate as to the veracity of many of Suskind’s claims. There have been allegations of misquoting, exaggeration, and a plethora of factual errors. The White House has outright denied much of the book, saying it bears no relation to reality.

Despite the uncertainty as to some of his claims, Confidence Men is based on extensive research and over 700 hours of interviews and Suskind has been widely praised for his egregious and eminently readable prose. For those with even a minor interest in the inner workings of the Obama administration, Confidence Men looks a must-read.

The play takes a look at the New Zealand culture from the perspective of a fresh-of-the-boat Malaysian boy, a member of the 1.5 generation (someone who immigrates during their teens, and thus has elements of both cultures as part of their identity). So what makes a New Zealander? And is it anything more than a desire to be an All Black?

We begin by meeting two adults, an Asian doctor and a Samoan alcoholic rugby player, pretty stereotypical fare. Then we head back to 1995 and learn exactly how the two came to be where they are, at the same time typifying the New Zealand childhood of the 1990s. We meet our Asian doctor, Wei Lei (changed to Willy) aged 13. He’s been sent to New Zealand for his education and spends a good part of the play adjusting to the New Zealand way of life. He experiences our customs and our customs department, endures being treated like a zoo exhibit at school and has to get around what there is to eat. Luckily with a smattering of kung fu, the charming Willy learns to fit in pretty well.

Willy and Mook, his new best friend, get busy living the great kiwi childhood. They go to The Warehouse and get a bargain, eat milk bottles, go to Georgie Pie and get excited about Sky Television. This play champions the 1990s kiwi childhood and captures those things that our generation can really tangibly identify with. You know the ‘free hit’ rule? When you stand on those yellow fire hydrants and you get to hit someone? That’s in there. It’s awesome.

The play turns to the question of rugby. The championing of rugby is something I suppose I just have to get used to—it’s an important game (Indeed musing on rugby, Willy notes ‘it was a whole new world and I’d never seen men so in touch with their feelings”).

I was impressed at the collaborative nature of this piece. Playwright Renee Liang has acknowledged the help of many in her programme notes and it was no surprise to me to see Oscar Kightley credited as dramaturg. Kightley, a co-writer of Niu Sila, is a master at the two-hander format and the structure and comedy of Niu Sila have been reproduced here to great effect. The humour of jumping between multiple characters has become really very effective at expressing a New Zealand voice; Wheelers Luck springs to mind as another great example. Liang uses this form and her own brand of comedy to make jokes that don’t rely on bodily functions or awkward situations, a real relief to me.

The play is backed to the musical stylings of Robbie Ellis who is just plain great. The set uses simplicity as the key. The play’s climactic ultimatum (do I want to be a doctor or an All Black?) sees Willy deviate from his previous desire to do right by his grandmother, but the heart warming conclusion and epilogue are lovely. Ending on a message of hope and enduring friendship, The First Asian AB is a genuinely funny, heart warming piece of New Zealand theatre. So before we all graduate and move to overseas, go and see this play.

The First Asian AB
By Renee Liang
22 September – 1 October at BATS

McGinniss has a long history in this kind of personal journalism, having previously authored The Selling of the President 1968, a hugely successful account of Richard Nixon’s marketing campaign during the 1968 presidential campaign. However where that was acclaimed as a classic of political journalism, The Rogue has so far unified critics in their dismissal of the book as a populist biography full of unsubstantiated rumours and conspiracy theories.

The Rogue includes a variety of salacious allegations, involving sex, drugs, and even bad parenting! While Sarah Palin the Presidential candidate might be worried about such an expose, that scenario is looking less and less likely. Meanwhile the old adage that there’s no such thing as bad press speaks volumes, and Sarah Palin the media star goes from strength to strength.

The Rogue doesn’t look set to go down as a great in the pantheon of political writing, but it might make an easy and fun read for those particularly interested in the all-encompassing cultural behemoth that is Sarah Palin.

Eugene Delacroix, Liberty Leading the People. For those who have any grounding in the French Revolution (or have a copy of Coldplay’s Viva la Vida), you will be all-too familiar with this Delacroix classic. The graphic violence of the blood-drenched soldiers in contrast with the celestial, flag-bearing Liberty leaves the viewer with an overwhelming sense of the brutality of the revolution. The painting not only creates a brilliantly visceral visual personification of the uprising, but also demonstrates the tremendous political resonance an image can possess.

Francisco Goya’s The Third of May—1808 is a potent political image remembered as much for its assertion of Spanish nationalism as for its subversion of artistic norms. As the French troops round up and execute Spanish rebels, Goya uses their single lantern to subvert the place of light as the sacrosanct symbol of good in art. Here, light is used to sniff out the heroes in the shadows, to cement their martyrdom in earthy skin tones resilient to the candle’s sickly pallor. It is simultaneously a memorial and a powerful artistic precedent echoes in Pablo Picasso’s Guernica.

Unknown to many as Guerrillero Heroico (“Heroic Guerilla”), the beret-wearing Che Guevara has become an icon of rebellion in the 20th century, as well as a staple fixture on the wall of any student flat. Although the image holds highly political connotations, it is perhaps more reminiscent of Warhol’s Pop Art screens of the 60s than the Cuban Revolution which took place in that same decade. Rather than representing a time and a place, Che has become an emblem of whatever the viewer decides him to be, demonstrating the power of an image through mass circulation, in contrast to what it is supposed to symbolise.

Banksy’s Gaza Strip Graffiti is a potent contemporary example of the power of the political image. Banksy appropriates popular media imagery to make a political statement. Unlike images in the gallery space, Banksy’s media appropriated imagery relies heavily on its geographical context to form a political one. The work, showing two children digging to paradise is a prime example of this—on the gallery wall it would be meaningless, on the wall dividing Israelis from Palestinians it is a powerful political statement.

By 1991, this small, three-piece band from Aberdeen, Washington was on to its fifth drummer and was getting ready to become a part of music history. Even though the band were only together for a short time, Nirvana created music that is still loved by fans and sung by artists today (Miley Cyrus, bless her heart, but for heaven’s sake don’t Google her rendition of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’).

On 24 September 1991, Nevermind, Nirvana’s breakthrough album hit the shelves. The record company they signed with, DGC, estimated that the band would reach perhaps 40,000 units of the album in the USA and around 30,000 in the UK for that year. However, the release of the breakthrough single ‘Smell Like Teen Spirit’ a few weeks earlier, ensured Nevermind album sales skyrocketed. The shipment of records DGC had sent out sold out quickly and the album was unavailable for days in some areas.
It surpassed all pre-conceived record sales that Geffen’s marketing department had guessed and the album reached both Gold and Platinum status by the end of 1991. Nevermind became Nirvana’s first number one album on January 11, 1992, knocking Michael Jackson out of the number one spot in the Billboard charts. By this time, it was selling a ridiculous number of around 300,000 copies a week internationally.

As Butch Vig said, Kurt wanted the album to sound really heavy, as the songs themselves were very simple and poppy. The band themselves shot to superstar status, headlining festivals and spawning legions of imitation bands and a whole generation of grunge kids who looked up to Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain in particular, as their leaders. Other bands from Seattle playing a similar style of music became hotly contested by record labels, eager to cash in on the new sound and style of grunge culture.

Three more singles were released from the album that year—’Come as you are’, ‘In Bloom’ and ‘Lithium’—all of which just added to albums sales.

In 1999 Nevermind was certified Diamond, and has continued on to sell over 30 million records worldwide. It was ranked number 17 on Rolling Stone’s Greatest 500 Albums of All Time. Not bad for a three-piece band who didn’t use any form of auto-tune to record their album.

While the history of the band is well-documented, and the tragic suicide of Cobain saw the band only release three studio albums, their music, and particularly Nevermind, has established itself firmly in the Rock and Roll canon. Nevermind changed the face of popular music, and inspired a generation of teenagers in a way that only a handful of bands have ever managed.

For the anniversary of the original release, a four CD/DVD Super Deluxe Edition of Nevermind has been released and is available now. NOW, I TELL YOU!

Anything they produce will be to some degree defined by the temporal and cultural environments in which they were created. Having said this some art products reference their time and place far more emphatically, and often do so with some form of political or social agenda; the most striking example of this in the 20th century is Pablo Picasso’s 1937 painting Guernica.

Stretching an epic 3.493 metres by 7.766 metres this dystopian, gruesome, yet strangely enticing image defined art as a political force in the in the 20th century through its subject matter and the immediate and visceral international reaction it inspired. Guernica was the name of a town in Spain which was bombed heavily by the Luftwaffe to the point where it was virtually destroyed. The Spanish Civil War began in 1936 and lasted until 1939, providing a testing ground for the new weapons, tactics and technology of warfare that would be put to more widespread use in World War Two. Picasso clearly expresses a sense of profound rupture in this work; a destabilisation of the order of the world as well as the nature of mankind. Cubist and surrealist techniques create an alternate world within the work, one where human life has been reduced to tortured body parts and animals are twisted into demonic, unnatural figures. The smoke motif found across the work is complemented by the glare of the light bulb, casting the world of the work into a fragmented, chaotic space. These stylistic features also imply a human destruction without clearly stating it.

For this work to assume the political mantle that it did in the 1930s, and has retained until this day, the title was required. By naming it after the Basque town dismantled in 1937 Picasso leaves no doubt as to the purpose of the work. Guernica is a poignant and compelling letter to humanity asking to not allow this kind of destruction again. It still holds this political relevance today and is particularly poignant in 2011 in terms of the civilian casualties in Libya, Afghanistan and Iraq. Despite its titular subject, the real political relevance of this work lies in the timelessness of its agenda; it reflects its time and place but also transcends them to assert its importance in the temporal space of the viewer.

The show follows the story of fifty sisters seeking refuge from an unwanted marriage. The fifty suitors then arrive and to take their brides. Tension escalates as both sides prove unwilling to relent, yet one couple in the midst of the struggle seem to find genuine love. The story culminates with a mass murder and the reveal of the one sister who actually wanted a husband. The audience claps out the cast as part of the marriage ceremony with the final message “love is the highest law; man or woman it cannot be wrong”.  This play delivers on many different levels (no pun intended [but actually yes because the balcony is used to differentiate character status]); there is a nice harmony in the technical, acting and direction. Due to the size of the cast, speaking roles are divided between two actors creating an interesting dichotomy of character. This allowed for interplay between the characters as each half could show a separate emotion from her other self or unite to amplify their reactions to other characters.  Linked in this duality by the repetition of each other’s dialogue, these actors worked in pairs to show us the diversity of a characters personality.

Asian influences are used to dramatise emotion through movement. As the women denounce their ties to their betrothed and label the male as “a biological accident” they throw themselves bodily to the ground in anger repeatedly to heighten the emotion of the scene and gave each actor a new platform to emotively express their character situation. The music was incredibly informative of the pace and tone, denoting the gravity of a speech through the tsuke or a gong leading up to a climax or punctuating the movement sequences, such as the women’s anti-men dance. The stage was set in traverse which perfectly linked the growing and then climactic conflict to the audience, heightening the movement of an impressive fight scene. For a group whose goals were to embody a ‘replication’ of senses through movement and rhythm and to do this by interweaving Asian and Western theatrical forms, I say this is a success.

Big Love
By Charles Mee
October 4 – 8 at Studio 77

Death By Cheerleader follows a small cheerleading squad who will stop at nothing to get to Dubai to support the All Blacks in the 2015 Rugby World Cup. The reason for their desperation though, far from patriotism or loyalty, is Jessica’s (Amy Walker) throbbing desire to ‘get it on’ with Tane Smith, the Sonny Bill Williams of 2015. So Jessica pulls her daughter, Dakota (Julia Hyde), from her books and into a cheerleading suit, and springs Lucy (Claire van Beek) from a psychiatric hospital to form The CheerBlacks. And so begins an hour of risqué, cheer-tastic fun.

The narrative really seems to be a vehicle for some truly impressive dancing in some truly revealing costumes. Every so often the narrative pauses, and the three actors perform moves of such a quality they could be stolen for the next Bring It On film.

Anyway Jessica has readies her squad to support the boys in black, cue a Rocky style training montage set to the Rocky theme song (involving an erotic spray tan dance). Then we’re off to Dubai (signified by two blow-up palm trees brought on stage to the tune of Pussycat Doll’s Jai Ho) and the girls do their very best to cheer on their team. This is when the death the title promised rears its head.

Each of the three members are dangerously deluded in their own cheer ways; Jessica is a 28 year old (Okay, 28, and not a year older. Okay?) Mega-bitch; Dakota is dealing with a (non-existent) weight problem and an overbearing mother; and Lucy is a (compelling) mad lesbian murderer. I thought I knew what it is to ‘cheer’ but these girls seem to live ‘cheer’; it is not so much a form of dance as it is a lifestyle. The dangerously huge smiles and exaggerated moves extend beyond the dance sequences and into the whole story. I’d really like to see what happens if these three just dropped the cheeriness for a moment or two so we could find out just where their delusions stem from.

The play is fun; the set is cute (a mini Astroturf rugby pitch) and the lighting suits the party atmosphere. But let’s get real for a second here; there is no sport like rugby in New Zealand, and it is no surprise that plays about rugby have popped up in the theatre. Yes, it was inevitable, this is theatre pitched at the fans who like their art themed. The character Lucy said it best; “this is rugby, culture has nothing to do with it”. So if you’re like me and have foreign supporters littered all over your lounge, take them to Death By Cheerleader. But only if Dreamgirls is full. Cheers.

Death By Cheerleader
Created by Julia Gyde, Claire van Beek and Amy Waller
20-24 September at BATS

Who knew a cockfight could be so delightfully entertaining? Earlier in the evening, as I entered the Paramount to experience the treat that is Monster Burlesque and ascended the stairs amidst fairy lights and music, I felt that I was walking into a darker and infinitely sexier world than the one I’d left on Courtenay Place.

The atmosphere of the colourfully costumed crowd in the foyer was one of playful anticipation and in my immediate vicinity I spotted a pig, a horse and a rather intimidating green headdress which made me wish I’d donned something a bit more daring than beige heels. Fanciforia Foxglove, a rising star in the world of burlesque with a hip-to-waist ratio that is assured to make your head spin, greeted and entertained me and my partner before ushering us to our seats. A hush crept through the audience and our MC (Gene Alexander) warned us in silken, sultry tones that what we were about to see would arouse and amaze us. The truth of this claim, as the roosters leave the stage to thunderous applause, is apparent. Although the cinema screen, hidden by a black backdrop, prevents the acts from playing the depth of the stage and there is little in the way of set, this does not detract from the incredible talent and sumptuous costumes on display. Billed as a “late night variety show with fur and teeth”, variety is exactly what we are presented with; from Maria Dabrowska’s incredible contemporary dance routine and an intensely creepy gag about a little girl (Tanya Drewery) and a chicken, which had me gagging a little myself, to the more traditional burlesque of the outrageously divine Venus Starr and Vaune Mason, the performers captivate us with their energy and wonderful showmanship. I hope that Wellington is lucky enough to be graced by such joyous romps more often.

Monster Burlesque
8 – 17 September at Paramount Theatre

Being a spiritual sequel to the 2001 success Deus Ex, the expectations of fans loyal to the original bear down on it from all directions. On top of that, it has to allow any newcomer to the series to dive straight into the universe and its characters. On both accounts, I’d say it succeeds magnificently. Being set nearly 30 years before the time of the first game, synthetic and robotic augmentations take the place of the more ambiguous nanotechnology that were the focus of Deus Ex. You fill the shoes of Adam Jensen, head of security for biotechnology firm Sarif Industries, who, thanks to your former lover’s research, are about to make the drug-dependence and rejection syndromes that have plagued mechanical augmentations a thing of the past. Sarif is attacked by mercenaries armed to the teeth with the very same augmentations the company produces for the world at large. Your friends are left dead and you very close to it. In order to keep you alive, your boss David Sarif replaces your arms, eyes and much of your internal structure replaced with the robotic proxies and augmentations that he designed. And thus starts your journey into the world of Deus Ex: Human Revolution, one of revenge, intrigue and bad-ass cyborgs.
Human Revolution is a smaller, yet denser, package than its predecessor. The city hubs and mission areas smaller and more streamlined in design, but also more varied in their dimensions and packed with conversations, text, items, and an enormous amount of detail. The gameplay is just as tight as the game’s design, (nearly) flawlessly integrating traditional first person combat with third person cover system, allowing you to shift between playstyles at the touch of a button. As in the original, the number of ways to approach any given situation is vast enough to encourage a second or third playthrough. Or you could take my approach, and mine the entire area for hidden paths and experience before moving on. Most challenges provide at least three or four ways to circumvent them, with the exception of the very Metal Gear Solid-esque boss fights. Both the guns blazing and sneaky-sneaky approaches are equally enjoyable, though towards the latter parts of the game choosing either one or the other becomes pointless from a gameplay point of view, as the skill-tree system ladens you with so many skill points that you end up with the vast majority of the augmentations available to you two thirds into the game. This far from breaks the game, but it could use a little more balancing out in relation to difficulty and how insanely overpowered you become.

As for the game’s story, it does a good job of holding up the atmosphere of intrigue the design aesthetic is built upon. Though some of the plot twists and character arcs announced themselves long before they were “revealed”, being strung along from one side of the world to the other, uncovering layers of conspiracy along with the protagonist Adam Jensen is, for the most part, an intesnse and enjoyable ride. The appeal of Human Revolution’s story comes more from the suspense rather than the reveal. Much to my delight, the “science” aspect of this science fiction game was not neglected in the slightest. Texts and emails providing detailed insight into the science of the augmentations that are the focus of the story from the start. This kind of context for everything from corporations, characters, historical events and scientific discoveries does an excellent job of giving the universe of DX:HR the verisimilitude that makes it so affecting.

It is also a game that borrows heavily from the many games that build the foundations of its gameplay and aesthetics. The level design and stealth gameplay are heavily evocative of the Metal Gear Solid series, the robotic and augmentation design leans very strongly on Japanese anime and manga, most noticeably Mamoru Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell. The city of Hengsha, a two-tiered superstructure built solely by one of the in-game corporations, instantly bring you back to walking the streets of Midgar in Final Fantasy VII, one of publisher Square Enix’s shining beacons of light from a time fondly remembered. The Detroit of 2027 reminds so much of sci-fi classic Blade Runner that I expect the cars around me to rise up in a cloud of steam and synth. Some of the time, they do. All of these influences are present yet not overt enough to take away from the originality of the developer’s vision, making you feel right at home in the world they have created.

The easiest is to pay the $15 admission fee. The cheapest is to wait in line on a Sunday afternoon for free admission. But what if you want to bypass the long lines? According to the feminist art group, Guerrilla Girls, your best bet is to strip down in order to hang out (or up) with your fellow (male) peers. Only 3 per cent of the artists are at the Met are female, while 83 per cent of the nudes are of women. How can we hope to have an honest dialogue about gender in art, when one side insists on doing all the talking?

The Guerilla Girls parody famous works like J.A.D. Igres’ 1814 masterpiece Grande Odalisque to highlight art’s misogynistic focus on the highly idealised female nude. Although her exaggerated features are no doubt a focal point, the Odalisque’s form is dwarfed by the imposing presence of the male gaze, with Ingres adding an extra vertebrae, framing her as the “ideal” woman. Her pelvis practically spills out of the frame, sensually luring the viewer in to Ingres’ fantasy and allowing the male viewer into the otherwise forbidden world of the harem, reserved for the likes of sultans.

While the male perspective is obvious enough, how is a woman supposed to interpret such a work? As a viewer, she is undoubtedly struck by the painting’s technical splendour and adherence to realism. As a scholar, she cannot help but decipher the various symbols present in the painting. However, as a woman, she is denied the visceral sensation a man would experience. Rather than constructing her own meaning, the female subject is merely the bearer of meaning. A woman viewing the Odalisque sees less of herself in the female figure before her, than she does of the male hand which constructed it.

In the two hundred intervening years, the female image has undergone a massive change. In the hands of powerful self-portraitists like Rita Angus and Frida Kahlo the female image was controlled and perpetuated by the women whom it depicted. But what of the men who painted women, were they stuck in the misogynist mindset of centuries past?
In 2001, Lucian Freud read an interview in which Kate Moss expressed a desire to sit for him. Freud contacted Moss and sittings were arranged. The painting that emerged, Naked Portrait, depicts an uncharacteristically sexless Moss, reclining and resplendently pregnant. The result points the way to a contemporary male gaze of the female nude. Freud, armed with every painterly tool, constructs a work of honest brutality for an age where idealism has moved from the gallery wall to the pages of Vogue. It is almost difficult to credit the work to Freud, as Moss is clearly as in control of her image as the man holding the paintbrush. Although there is a male gaze here, it’s Moss who is in control of what we see. Again, the frame acts as a window into the female nude, but Moss’ awareness, both of her own form and its strength in a world dominated by popular culture, balances the former gender power struggle.

Set a few years into the future, Melancholia tells the story of two sisters, Justine (played by Kirsten Dunst) and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), sifting through their abundance of personal issues as the end of the world draws near due to the imminent collision between Earth and a planet called Melancholia.  Dunst entrances with her portrayal of manic-depressive Justine, a woman who, after months of severe turmoil, seems content with the fact all life will soon be obliterated. Dunst’s understanding and portrayal of the cold, nearly-emotionless husk that life has reduced Justine to is chilling and utterly engrossing. It is to her credit that by the end of the film our feelings towards the character remain mixed, at once applauding her realistic fatalism and decrying her heartlessness towards Claire’s obvious anxiety.    

However, what really elevates Melancholia to a level of cinematic greatness is Von Trier’s sublime mastery of the aesthetic. The opening ten minutes of the film is one of the most visually arresting pieces of film I have had the pleasure of witnessing, the horror of total destruction brought to life in stunning beauty. While the film meanders during the middle, the truly epic ending draws the audience back in, and is unequivocally much more emotionally resonant than the endings of many disaster films.  

Despite the rather glacially-paced middle portion of the film, Melancholia has reaffirmed Von Trier’s status as a visionary filmmaker. He expertly mixes interesting characters, with a supreme mastery over style, to form a film that lingers in one’s mind long after the credits have rolled.

Sex appeal. Physical fitness. Charm. Social skills. Sexual competence. Liveliness. Skills in self preservation. According to senior Sociology research fellow Catherine Hakim, these seven traits make up erotic capital and are the keys to a happy life—if you’re a woman. Hakim’s latest book, Honey Money: The Power of Erotic Capital derides feminism for stigmatising and shaming females who exploit their sexuality and physique to gain power, while simultaneously chiding those who “fail to make the effort”. Hakim’s manifesto claims to be an avant-garde repossession of the patriarchal paradigm by embracing conventional standards of beauty and achieving power through womanly attractiveness. It seems that if you can’t beat the chauvinists, you can always out-sexism them. This is not a lucid, well-evidenced argument about the liberating value of pornography and prostitution—which Hakim supports by reassuring us that pimping is a “win-win arrangement” and underscoring it with a just-trust-me tone. This is a book that asks women to give in. Denouncing the “unfounded” feminist assumption that women may actually prefer equality in domestic duties, salaries, and employment, Hakim’s guiding belief is that “becoming an ‘idle’ full-time housewife is a modern utopian dream for most women”.

Consequently, one of her ‘academic’ criticisms is aimed at the European Commission for basing female equality statistics on equal pay, personal incomes, and workplace segregation, which apparently panders to a feminist agenda and denies the agency of women who do not work because their husbands are wealthy. Equating corporate employment with success in life, Hakim makes the broad statement that overweight people are less likely to be successful than the slim. She bases this on studies that show that the latter group is employed in the private sector and the former find themselves relegated to public sector work. She rationalizes that fat people have only themselves to blame for this apparent failure and says nothing about the bigotry that such a study presupposes. At one point, she bizarrely concludes that because all sex workers are attractive, attractive people must therefore gravitate towards professions in the sex industry where they can profit from their erotic capital, the result being that strippers, call girls, and phone sex operators “acquire a heightened sense of their own value as a person.” She gives no evidence to support this assertion, probably because none can be found.

The book is equally as dismissive of men’s capabilities to function as autonomous human beings. Keenly endorsing the scientifically disproven theory that all men constantly crave sex, Hakim’s ‘male-sex deficit’ explains that women’s erotic power is a valuable asset precisely because of an innate male impulse to give in to sexual desire. It’s the caveman rape defense all over again. Following this logic, thirty-something women are at risk of losing influence over their husbands because of “too much time spent raising children” and not enough time in the lingerie store. Unsurprisingly, considering the thought process informing the book, Hakim’s ‘erotic capital’ theory does not apply to holders of xy chromosomes. Hakim doesn’t even do men the courtesy of acknowledging the numerous and damaging stereotypes around masculine beauty, and glosses over this by implying that beauty is women’s domain, and the only one where they can be truly victorious. Hakim never adopts a defeatist stance towards the current system of privilege—indeed, everything she writes praises it as a sort of Darwinian motivator. It begs the question- if men can’t escape their insatiable libidos and women must become manipulative she-devils, who wins?

Though Hakim’s book came out last month, it’s the result of a thought trend that’s been developing over the past ten years. In her 2006 book, Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture, Ariel Levy presents her take on the disturbing development. More than simply a reiteration of destructive representations and expectations, Levy details how women have embraced retro-sexism, objectification, and clichéd bawdiness as markers of empowerment. The New Yorker staff writer was compelled to author the book after a survey in The New Statesman confirmed her suspicions, citing that 63 per cent of 15-19 year old British females aspired to become glamour models, with an additional 25 per cent considering professions in the sex industry. This is not to say that Levy aims her criticisms at the industry itself, but at the types of misogynistic implications proffered by an increasingly misdirected culture. The popularity of such programmes as Girls Gone Wild and The Girls Next Door represent an increase in content which depicts females as manipulative, jealous, insecure sex objects who compete for the attentions of men. Cosmetic breast surgery has increased 700 per cent between 1992-2004, and vagina ‘rejuvenation’ surgery has become frighteningly common. “It isn’t that sex sells, or the sex industry”, Levy says, “It’s that the sex industry has become every industry”. If women really thought of themselves as sexy, intelligent, funny, and empowered, Levy argues, they wouldn’t need to manifest it though avenues that have perpetuated the majority of female repression. She explains that female sexual freedom has become confined to an “incredibly specific form of sexual expression [the ultra-consumerist porn-star ideal]”. This form is an inauthentic reproduction of behaviour seen from porn stars and lap dancers, who perform in ways that gratify popular male desire by and large because it’s their job. Increasingly, the emulation of their performance—and the bleaching, waxing, and physical transformation that goes with it—has become the standardised method of showing female empowerment. While Levy is adamant that she doesn’t “pity or hate or exalt sex workers”, she maintains that their new place as sexual benchmarks is problematic precisely because of the performative aspect—“they are being paid to impersonate sexual pleasure and power.” None of this seems new, until you consider the scale of the issue. Now more than ever, states the book, women are internalising and colluding in their own domination, mistaking the gains achieved through feminism as proof that they can’t possibly be manipulated anymore. Essentially, raunch culture has replaced the housewife mentality of the ‘50s.

One might ask, where’s the fire? Surely people can see through the sexploitation agenda, and those that disagree should be free to make up their own minds. The issue here is the distortion of choice, as both books make very clear. Feminism, at its core, rails against a patriarchal system that uses sex and gender as a form of dominance and subjugation. In the same way that racism thrived in the manufacturing of slavery, and bigotry allowed for religious persecution, patriarchy privileges maleness—typically white, straight, rich maleness— and punishes those who either don’t fit the criteria, or those who do but incorrectly perform them. It works in tandem with other forms of oppression and social stratification to recreate and revalidate itself. Feminism as a philosophy aims to deconstruct this system so that differences in gender won’t play a role in the distribution of power. It hasn’t always succeeded. Misappropriation and misrepresentation have resulted in man-hating, fanatical connotations which have been impossible to shake. The result of this confusion has been the creation of an environment where erroneous notions become more harmful because they’re promoted by the very people they victimise. This is one radical conclusion. What’s yours? *

From a very young age we are taught to accept a raft of preconceptions of gender and we accept them as truth. One figure in the last two years who has made a career out of challenging the traditional visual ‘normalities’ of gender is Andrej Pejic. He is an Australian model, born in Bosnia and Herzegovina, who has recently blown apart the fashion world with his fresh brand of androgynous style. He made worldwide headlines for the New York Magazine cover when he was shown topless with a traditionally female hairstyle and makeup ensemble. There was a considerable backlash about whether this was appropriate, as it could be interpreted as female nudity on the cover. I do not want to get into the politics of this, but I do think the image itself is startlingly beautiful due to its composition and in its function as a challenge to preconceptions of the masculine aesthetic. The use of makeup and hairstyle is accentuated by just how pale and blemish-less Pejic is. He provides a canvas for designers and artists to create looks which work because they contrast with the blank slate he provides. The image is composed to frame the head and torso which is a familiar technique for fashion magazine covers. However, by showing Pejic’s upper body as nude, the image goes against the way the viewer interprets gender. This image unsettles me because it does go against the way I been programmed to approach gender but I welcome that challenge. Andej Pejic is one symbol of the way that art can be used to alter preconceptions and in the discussion of gender he is doubly important

Formed in early 2010, the band have since consisted of young trio Scott Maynard, Jeremy Hunter and Al Green, and have recently added two new members Matt Maynard and Mike Isaacs .Central to the band’s sound is bassist and primary songwriter Scott Maynard, formerly of fellow Wellington band Tin Soldiers—and when I meet him along with fellow member Jeremy Hunter, Hunter is quick to point this out, although equally clear is that all three members contribute creatively. “Scott writes the bulk of the tunes, you know, basically the song but then we kind of get to play around with it and everyone sort of gets to have their musical say on it, which is cool.” This is a band who thrive on jamming sessions and when asked to elaborate on the songwriting process Maynard is not interested in a formulaic process: “I usually have a couple of songs I’m working on at a time, sometimes I have a basic idea and lyrics and melody, and then just bring it in and everyone kind of fleshes out their parts, and sometimes I like to try and arrange more of it.”
The EP itself is a delight, and touches on the Phoenix Foundation and Fleet Foxes en route to Fuyuko’s Fables’ own particular brand of satisfying folk pop.

Aptly titled opening track and standout “Buildings” builds the tension with a long slow introduction built around Maynard’s delicate vocals before dropping into a satisfying mid-tempo groove driven by Al Green’s percussion. The soaring Grizzly Bear-style vocal harmonies that drift in and out are a constant feature and set the tone for the rest of the EP.

“Drag ‘em” is a rollicking folk ditty that morphs into an introspective ballad, with Maynard imploring the listener to “whisper to me the secret to life”. Both Maynard and Hunter assure me that the band spent a lot of their early days exploring their vocal abilities and playing around with harmonies, and nowhere is that effort more rewarded than on the effortless second half of “Drag ‘em”. Meanwhile, the faster sections of the song are a taste of just how much fun Fables can be when they suppress their slow-tempo tendencies and jam out.

The band describe third track “My Oh” as “the pop song” of the EP and it is undoubtedly the most straightforward and commercially likely slice of New Zealand pop. Maynard’s sunny vocals breeze over a simple up-tempo beat and the track carries more than a hint of the Phoenix Foundation’s melodic sensibilities about it—and I love the Phoenix Foundation. At a little under three and a half minutes it is easily the shortest track on the EP—the others all breaking the five minute mark—and seems destined to become a gig favourite.

“My Oh” and its successor were the first two tracks recorded for the EP, but the contrast in tone couldn’t be greater. While “My Oh” is immediate and catchy, “Coffee Shaped Treat” sees the band embrace their psychedelic tendencies and produce a slow burning piece of freak folk that, while respectable, ultimately feels out of place among the other tracks of the album, particularly coming as it does directly after “My Oh”.

I’m a sucker for a great title, so closing track “No Such Thing as a Green Fox” instantly caught my attention—and my interest was rewarded. It’s the longest track present, and captures everything good about Fukuyo’s Fables including probably Maynard’s best vocal performance. It’s only apt that it is a final harmony of all three members’ voices that brings the short EP to a close.

The EP is available from Fables’ official Bandcamp page (fuyukosfables.bandcamp.com) on a ‘name your price’ basis, and the boys have nothing but praise for the format. “I’m glad we went the ‘pay what you want’ model, at least we get a few dollars coming in. I think it’s very legit, especially for local bands…. There’s a lot more music these days being made just for the sake of it rather than money, which I think is cool.” Limited physical copies will also be available and were in fact being printed as we spoke.
Fables are playing with Big River Chain at SFBH on Wednesday21st September to celebrate the release of the EP. Entry is free and the drinks are cheap so there’s really no excuse not to go along and check out what this impressive group can do with an expanded lineup and a live setting.

Set against a landscape of ambiguous American accents, the performances occupy a fluctuating space between slap stick and domestic melodrama – pain and suffering is alienated by the repetitive physical accomplishments of the operating table. Emma Smith (as Catherine Givings) and Geoff Simmons (Dr Givings) both have moments of well earned laughter, but their emotive relationship is a jarring fabrication. The company appeared to be waiting on cues, a routine of going through the motions. The stage is engaged by an intricately established living room and workroom (separated by a door), a very tidy looking set of period-inspired furnishings including piano and lamps, but used little. The lighting changes often with mild effect, and is rarely synchronised with the sounds of electricity switching on and off.

But these criticisms cannot begin to compare to the flaws of the text itself. I am determined had every extended metaphor been removed from that play, whilst fifty percent of the material would be gone, the plot would continue to function admirably. In a likewise manner, had several of the characters and their subplots been removed, it should be observed that not only is the play shorter, the jokes funnier, and the cues sharper, but fundamentally the purpose of the work becomes more apparent.

In The Next Room or ‘The Vibrator Play’
By Sarah Ruhl
7 – 17 September at Gryphon Theatre

And bands. In fact it seems that the number of bands it’s housing currently outweigh their native koala population.

Self-described ‘happy-noise’ act Esc hails from the vast, cultured plans of the Victorian capital. Like a lot of post-post punk bands, Esc has clearly taken on board the 80s guitar twangs brought to us by Joy Division (& The Smiths, alongside the usual suspects) – lead singer and guitarist Max Sheldrake even somewhat physically resembles Ian Curtis. However looks aside, Sheldrake actually sounds a heck of a lot like some Chris Knox and Shayne Carter hybrid love child, his tone and phrasing just screaming from the basement of post-Nun blues. It works well. Guitarist Milo Lou’s musical phrases swirl around the space in reverberant chromaticism, the drums vary from the depressive post-adolescent bass afforded by the toms, to the screeching of the crash cymbals. And they do it oh so well. Now, I tend to get blase when bands/whoever starts screaming over screeching guitars – it can often fall flat in the mix, however track ‘Anastasia’ demonstrates Sheldrake’s vocal ability to avoid cliche and still totally sound prominent in the mix, like a genuine ‘glass case of emotion’, or whatever.

If I’m being nitpicking and a member of the music police (…Sting, exclusive) the drumming could perhaps experiment with drum patterns on all his drums more and not rely so heavily on the cymbal – but to be fair, there’s nothing wrong with the straight and simple style executed by drummer Tom Smith. His patterns are still gauged with energy in all the right places and work in aesthetic tandem with Bonnie Knight’s dark and straight bass lines. I think this is where Esc differs from other post-punk bands: the energy, be it recorded in a studio or live still carries the same high-level intensity, which in my eyes is pretty crucial for the genre’s success. Okay, yes, any music’s success – but in Esc’s case the band members all carry this intensity to a standard which makes all this musical dark and twisty emotion believable and honest. It’s awesome.

One of my favourite ‘Esc-moments’ is in the break down in ‘Liable’ in which Sheldrake’s synthesised voice has been prolonged and is layered and layered to generate harmonies and vocal accompaniment not dissimilar from Thom Yorke wailing, over the cymbals crashing (yes, I know, I know, it’s just this thing I have about cymbals) – it makes so homogenous a the sound, and so clearly attributive to their influences while retaining a their own twist, they could be mistaken for a younger Straightjacket Fits.

There is a lot about this band that I like – they pull off post-punk without resorting to cliché musical formulas which are just masked with a crap-load of distortion because they either discovered Ibanez guitars at the age of 13 or now only listen drone metal after hearing Boris’ Pink (ps sorry Boris fans, I know Pink is a great album). Yes, Esc sound a lot like a Flying Nun love child who lives between the split homes of Thom Yorke and Joy Division, but I would be really interested to see what would happen if they became more electronically-inclusive and Smith took a My Disco/Phil Selway approach to his kit, treating the cymbals like less of a cover for more interesting beats. Esc are a high-energy, timbre-ically interesting, that tick all the right boxes and I believe that if they continue to experiment with post-production and space within their records, their music will be the kind that the next generation covet due to their limited release.

Recommended Listening: Everything on their soundcloud, particularly Anastasia, and Last Leaf Left. soundcloud.com/escband

With the re-opening of the Auckland Art Gallery to the public on the 3rd of September 2011, a national institution that meets global standards has been introduced to our cultural environment. This bold statement may cause some disagreement within the art world and beyond. After all, our national collection officially comes under the banner of Te Papa. We have other great regional galleries, museums and other collections that showcase our heritage and history of art. However, the AAG is unquestionably the largest and most significant collection of art to be on display in New Zealand. This is not just a question of quantity either. The AAG presents jewels of New Zealand art in a building that can only be described as spectacular, but also showcases these pieces in a way that had the crowds at the opening night buzzing right until 10pm.

It is not every day that you are greeted at the door by a director of such an institution but I was lucky enough to be handed the gallery catalogue by none other than Chris Saines. Other members of the crowd passed him oblivious to the contribution that this man has made to the project that started over eight years ago. The gallery has increased its display capabilities by at least 50 per cent. In the past it was only able to display 3 to 4 per cent of its collection of over 15,000 items and was forced to turn down large exhibitions. The opening also provides a sneak-peek of the astronomical gift that the gallery will receive from Julian and Josie Robertson, which will be the largest ever made to an art gallery in Australasia. The collection will be on show for eight weeks and will not be seen again in the gallery until the gift is finally given under the deeds of the will agreement. The professional security guards that occupy the rooms of the Robertson collection are a clear indicator to the public of the significance of the works that they are about to inherit.
For that is what the minds behind the huge renovation want the public to understand. This is their gallery, their space, their heritage. They want to contribute to the cultural development of New Zealand, encourage curatorial excellence and maintain an international standard. However they also want to engage the audience and invite those who are intimidated by the art world and all the elitist attitudes that have traditionally gone along with such an institution, to feel welcome in this building, to ask questions and connect with the art works.

If opening night is any indication, this goal is achievable in the new space. The place was packed all day long and was a hive of activity. Music constantly wove in and out of different rooms, from a string quartet in the Victorian room to a jazz band wafting down the main atrium. This perfectly accompanied the clear crowd favourite, the installation that dominates the forefront of the building, a sculpture by Choi Jeong Hwa titled Flower Chandelier, 2011 which was commissioned for the space. The chandelier is made up of magnificent flowers that come alive in all their falsity, as the bright colourful fabric and metal rustle while the blooms open and close. It is really something that needs to be seen, and the postcard I picked up in the gift shop does not do it justice.

Colin McCahon was slightly over-represented, something to be expected in a New Zealand institution that once employed the infamous artist. The more traditional pieces in the collection, largely seen in the Victorian rooms and the upper galleries, pale in comparison to the modern collections but again that may just be a matter of taste. The majority of the works that were gifted by the Robertsons did not blow me away, other than in their impressive price tag and journey that they took to New Zealand in a private jet. These are really minor criticisms and I am scraping the barrel to find them. I’m sure that a great amount will be said about the re-opening, at least amongst academics, and more criticisms will be found and the missed possibilities for this space will be discussed at great length. Nevertheless, I was absolutely blown away by this re-opening. It is a treasure trove to be explored and truly something to be proud of. Blooming fantastic, one might say.

Florian Habicht (documenting and acting himself) is a New Zealander living in New York. After encountering a beautiful woman on the subway, he decides to film their love story. The film, or at least the first two acts, can be divided into two distinct parts—those in which Florian the filmmaker takes his handycam walking round the streets of New York, asking ordinary New Yorkers for ideas on what to film next, and the scenes in which these suggestions are movingly or comically interpreted to create the dreamlike love story of Florian and Masha. It sounds complicated, but it’s (at least initially) gloriously simple; a love story written and filmed simultaneously, on the streets of New York.

This balance is so wonderfully simple and seductive, it lulls both the audience and filmmaker Florian into believing it might possibly be permanent. Then Masha, still ‘acting’, pauses and tells Florian, ‘you know I’m still acting’. Galatea leaves her podium, Pygmalion is bereft; Florian and his audience seem equally shocked that they could have been so gullible as to believe this state of self-perpetuating filmmaking could sustain the dream forever, but that’s the point. For both love and cinema, it is all too easy for us to get caught in self-perpetuating dreams of illusion, trapped within ourselves rather than communicating with each other.

Habicht’s film is successful because it eloquently and emotionally serves us these dreams while subtly undermining them, reminding us they can never be sustainable or true. His simple formula articulates the painful truth, that all love stories are part documentary and part fiction. This perfect dichotomy, both within the film and in real life, can never last forever.

Given that, it’s to Nanni Moretti’s credit that his latest film doesn’t go with the easy targets—the satire at the heart of Habemus Papam is far more nuanced and intelligent than taking broad pot-shots at the church’s paedophilic priests and damaging stance on condoms in Africa. Indeed, it’s all the better for not dwelling on the problems we already know.
With Habemus Papam, Moretti, an ardent left-wing activist and one of Italy’s most popular filmmakers, tells the story of Cardinal Melville (played by veteran Italian actor Michel Piccoli), an old, genial Italian voted to the Papacy by his peers, all of whom don’t want the job. Terrified by the gravity of his new office, Melville refuses to take to the balcony and greet his flock, leaving it to his fellow Cardinals to try and help him out of his rut. The film’s greatest asset is Piccoli, who gives an outstanding performance as the doubt-ridden Pope. Piccoli gets to the heart of Melville’s anxieties with warmth and good humour, presenting a portrait of a man struggling to reconcile the demands of his office with the knowledge that he is no different from the millions of Catholics he’s been elected to lead.

Piccoli’s performance, in many ways, ties the film together, but it isn’t strong enough to hold together an increasingly meandering second half. Moretti splits the story in two, dedicating equal time to Melville’s adventures on the streets of Rome as he tries to resolve his issues and to the travails of a psychoanalyst (played with altogether too much bluster by Moretti) trapped in the Vatican after being brought in to treat Melville. While there is light comedy and good-natured satire to be had in the image of cardinals playing volleyball like schoolchildren, it feels like a diversion from the main event and goes on for far too long in the scheme of things. Ultimately, however, Habemus Papam is a well-measured and astute dramedy that manages to undermine the Vatican by making the Pope and his cardinals seem human. *

Habemus Papam will be screening at the Italian Film Festival. The Festival will be running from 12 October until 30 October at the Paramount Cinema. For more details, see italianfilmfestival.co.nz

Initially I was sceptical, especially given the quote on the cover was unattributed, which gives rise to the real possibility that it had been proclaimed by some drab middle-aged Englishmen whose idea of excitement, in the absence of having any paint to watch dry, is to watch old replays of Geoffrey Boycott at Lords scoring ten runs in two sessions. Happily, though, it is an essential read for any sporting fan, even for soccer hating Origin diehards.

Fever Pitch outlines author Nick Hornby’s lifetime of football obsession supporting Arsenal, the team everyone loves to hate. A common misconception among many New Zealanders is associating hardcore football fandom with hooliganism, a misconception possibly created by films like Green Street Hooligans. Rather Hornby’s 1994 work provides the reader with a cynically witty insight into the heart of a true football fan. He writes of a game which at first served only the purpose of providing him with a surrogate father, an ideal replacement for his emotionally distant original. However, by the ‘80s football had become so profoundly important to him that Arsenal’s poor performances in the league resulted in a spell of depression so severe that he was referred to a psychiatrist, only for such chemical imbalances to quickly subside when Arsenal wins the league in ’89. Another compliment for Hornby must undoubtedly be his coverage of a diverse range of footballing issues, and especially those arising from the game’s relationship with modernity. The Heysel and Hillsborough disasters, racist cultures, football broadcasting politics, and violence on the underground are all on the agenda.

The book also highlights some wider sporting themes (hence why every sports fan should read this). Why is it that sporting fanatics choose to invest their lives following teams who inflict such emotional harm on them? Hornby’s answer is that there is no choice. Like the needle addict, choices may have been made long ago—something to fill in the time on a long Saturday perhaps. But now there are no choices, only brainwaves ordering the captured body to soldier along in the pouring rain to watch Arsenal play out nil-all draws against Wimbledon. No longer is chasing the high about fun, a view well summarised by former Stoke City coach Alan Durban (who Hornby quotes) who famously proclaimed ‘if you want entertainment go and watch clowns’. All in all, Fever Pitch is, despite its somewhat depressing and pessimistic tone, undoubtedly an excellent read.

Probably not but, from judging this EP by its cover, I think I was expecting to like this album. Especially when coupled with the fact that it’s called Cereal, cereal being one of the better staples of breakfast, which happens to be one of my favourite activities of all time. So far so irrelevant.

From the get go this record was just what I was hoping it would be; melody and musicality buried under the pile of rubble it brought down upon itself in sadistic self deprecation. It’s ballsy and intricate but it has depth that moves it away from being music written for a genre or from any two dimensional inspiration, and that variation carries it for 30 minutes where otherwise it might have gotten a little tiresome.

The band sounds tight and enthusiastic; everything sits well with everything else, and they sound like they understand each other musically. It’s also lyrically adventurous, something that’s dangerous, as it can easily turn a good song or album and make it ridiculous. It proves that there is a strong element of honesty that runs through the entirety of this record.

While it may not be groundbreaking, or necessarily a cut above others of the same ilk as these guys, it’s still a hell of a lot of fun, and has the polished air of a band that are in that fantastic, hard-to-hold-on-to place where they have been together long enough to really be a band, while still having the enthusiasm of a young bunch of guys enjoying what they’re doing and the music they’re making.

There is a lot of pressure on a play that endeavours to tell the story of New Zealand’s most hated politician (ever) in an election year, but National-bashing to a BATS audience is a bit like preaching to the choir. Thankfully, Slouching Towards Bethlehem doesn’t pick on Muldoon, but rather Dean Parker has done an amazing job telling the story of a man, and capturing a bygone era of political and social relevance.

David Lawrence has gifted his audience a real treat. The play is divided into three acts, ‘Pretender’, ‘Prince’, and ‘King’, signifying his ascension to the political throne. We move through Muldoon’s life rapidly; characters and years are introduced with signs held by the cast and are disposed of as fast as they change costume. Personifying political cartoons through boxing matches, song and puppet shows, Lawrence creates delightful images that the audience lap up.

Phil Grieve, who stretches his politician muscles even as we enter the theatre, is an impeccable Rob Muldoon. The play opens to “Now is the winter of our discontent…” from Richard III, and indeed we are treated to Muldoon growing into a figure not unlike the unlikeable, manipulating monarch. Grieve plays an unapologetic and confident bully with relish, insulting audience members with minimal effort, and yet is thoroughly engaging, even to one of ‘those university types’. Parker has crafted a Muldoon who thrives in front of an audience; he has a way with words, a confidence, and a self-assurance that deserves our respect (if not our affection) by the play’s end.

If Grieve is the leader of the National Party, the young and enthusiastic company are the army of researchers, speechwriters, and makeup artists that make a leader look good. Kitted out in the latest Chuck Taylors, these actors work incredibly hard playing 50-odd characters. Period and character are indicated minimally, but their characterisation is delightful. Jean Sergent is lovable as Jerusha Brown and Kirsty Bruce is particularly memorable as Norma Holyaoke.

Set, props and costume adorn the stage and music is seamlessly integrated. The houselights stay on throughout. I am curious why the stage right wall is dominated by a banner advertising The Bacchanals, a bit too much verfremdungseffekt for this reviewer.

In an election year political diatribes are inevitable. Facebook statuses, Dom Post headlines, 3 News picking up on every bit of dirty laundry in politicians’ laundry baskets: people have a multitude of ways to convince the fence-sitters of which box to check. Slouching Towards Bethlehem’s political point is to remind us what it is we’re voting for and what leadership is.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem
By Dean Parker
31 August – 10 September at BATS

Allegedly withholding both food and water, news of the canine’s starvation and subsequent death soon spread across the globe, sparking international outrage. Criticism has since stimulated discussion on the controversial extent of conceptualism; simply put, is death ‘art’? Sketch is Kate Morris’ reply.

Sasaki, Japanese resident artist in a Wellingtonian gallery, is approached by Nadi, a young dying woman who wishes to have a box built in which she shall spend the remainder of her life*. Meanwhile, money-laundering gallery investor Bernard, accompanied by sidekick in tight white trousers, awaits the birth of a cultural masterpiece. Shit goes down—and it involves secrets.

A scathing review of the ‘superficial art world’, every aspect of the play seems to oscillate between caricature and emotional intensity. Sonia Yee, Alex Lodge and Ralph Johnson (Sasaki, Nadi and Bernard respectively), perform heartfelt roles in an otherwise exaggerated satirical environment. Their collective performances are tender but marred by an overwhelming cast of loudmouthed art worldians. However, the tables are soon turned: Nadi, Bernard and Sasaki become increasingly sour, and some of the artsy folk have been secretly lovely all along. Whether this is a decision of direction or text I do not know, but I was left confused as to whom I should pity most.

And it doesn’t improve with the stage. Dappled across BATS’ black floor, strips of white tape indicate various rooms within the gallery, names included. Despite my personal longing for Cluedo gags, the actors preferred to cut corners and straddle imaginary walls. In every respect it looked fine, but should one choose to employ such a device I recommend you adhere to it. Lighting, sound, and costume design are clean, but that is where it ends.

P.S. It was the girl in the glass box with the disease. *

*Find this interesting? Check out Cornelia Parker’s 1995 The Maybe in partnership with actress Tilda Swinton and/or Antony Gormley’s Blind Light installation, 2007.

Sketch
By Kate Morris
6 – 17 September at BATS

Tasew is an Ethiopian-born teacher, author, poet, and public speaker. After fleeing from unjust imprisonment and political persecution, he spent eight years in a Kenyan refugee camp before coming to New Zealand in 1999. He is also a graduate of VUW and Outcast marks his fifth publication. *

Outcast: The Plight of Black African Refugees
The Red Sea Press $39

You used to be a lawyer and now you’re writing thriller novels. Do they go hand in hand? It seems like there are many instances of lawyers branching out into this area. Why thriller novels for you?

I never set out to write thrillers to tell you the truth. I just set out to write a story and they just sort of turned into that I guess because deep down I find that interesting. I really care about writing characters, it’s really fun to have the high stakes that peels away all of the facades that people put on and see what’s going to happen. An example I like to use is a shameless theft of a great quote from an Alabama writer named Joshua Jackson who says “If you want to introduce your readers to the people you’ve built, put all of your characters into a locked room and set one of them on fire.” Which when you think about it is genius because somebody is going to try to kick down the door, somebody is going to freak out, somebody is going to put out the fire but it is not till you put them into that type of situation that you see who they are and what they do. I would describe my books as character-driven thrillers, not because I have any literary aspirations but because I really enjoy building interesting people and putting them through their paces and thrillers are a great way to do that.

One thing that links all four of your novels is the rich and detailed characters that you create. Iron House is certainly no exception to this, with characters such as Michael and Julian, who are dangerous but in Julian’s case also quite fragile. What is your process for creating characters like these?

The simple answer is simple imagination and lots and lots of deep, uninterrupted thought. I mean what kind of person is going to be interesting enough to drive the type of story that you wish to create? In Iron House it is obviously a very hard charging story, it’s the most violent thing I have ever written. Most of my books are not like that and so I needed really specific types of characters to make that happen. The trick for me is really ‘what motivates them?’ If at the end of the book the reader is going to look back and say “I believe the character would have done those things”, which is not the same as saying “I would have done those things” but that character would have done those things. You really need to get down to the heart of what makes those characters capable of that type of action.

You talked about how Iron House is more violent than earlier works, however there is also the romance between Michael and Elena. Do you find it difficult to mix action and romance into a novel without compromising the essence of a thriller?

I don’t find it difficult. It is always a question of proportion of course. What is interesting about Elena is that she is very specific in her role. She is the only truly innocent person in the story. In a story full of villains, conflicted characters and people who have done bad things, Elena is a pure soul. I really wanted a mirror against which Michael would have to view the person he has become. He would have to gage the value of the man he was and so much of the story is not just about the depth of the feeling between these people but the manner in which Elena reacts to the truth about what Michael really is and the exploration of whether or not she can except it. Can she move beyond it and still love him or is he lost to her forever because of the things that he has done? It gives the chance to provide additional tension to the story and you know whether or not it’s a thriller, tension has to be present or else it’s boring and flat. That is the primary thing, there has to be some tension, some question about what would happen with these characters and so it is maybe a more wholesome kind of tension in the book, as opposed to some of the more violent tension.

What is your writing process like? Do you have every detail planned out before you put pen to page or is it more organic than that?

It is entirely organic. I don’t have a clue what the story is going to be when I sit down to write it. I have a very strong sense of who my main character is and the emotional issues that have to be addressed. I usually have a strong idea of the opening scene and that is it except for maybe some sense on where that character will be by the end of the book, not in terms of the resolution of the story but in terms of his emotional growth. The story requires many things but first and foremost the story arc has to be compelling but deeper than that you have to have a meaningful growth of the main character. For instance, Michael can not be the same person that he was at the beginning of the story, same thing with Elana and same thing with any of the other major characters. They all have to change through the course of the book. I might know how I wish these characters to change but not the route by which the change will occur. There are those authors who outline and know exactly what they are going to do but I grope and hope, a year long sustained leap of faith – that is really what it is.

You have a penchant for winning awards for everything that you write. How do you handle the pressure of fan and critic anticipation?

kind of learnt early on that you might please 99% of the people but there will always be at least 1% that are unhappy. Maybe it is 90/10, maybe 50/50 – it would depend entirely on the book. After my first novel I had written about 90 pages of my second novel before I realized that it was not very good. The reason it was not very good was because I had stopped taking chances because of this awareness of critical response. The King of Lies worked because I look chances on everything. It was a very fearless project for me because I did not think I would ever get published. By the time I started writing Down River, I knew what it was like to be on television, I knew what it was like to be in Time magazine and to be talked about by people with opinions. Even though most of those opinions were good, they were not universally good and so I realized that I was censoring myself in a manner that led to very boring fiction. Safe writing leads to boring fiction, it’s that simple and I was playing it very safe. I had to figure out a way to turn off the switch and not think about those kinds of pressures and really just think about the story. I had to start Down River all over again, I kept the first three pages, which were good, and by the time I got to page 90 again I knew it was working. It was because I had somehow found my way to a place where I didn’t care. Well that is probably not entirely true, there is a time to care and it is not when you are writing. It is once the book is finished and you know that you are going to be in People magazine on Tuesday, I find myself caring very much then but I can’t let it affect my writing. The only thing I give myself from my awards is when I have my doubt filled days, which are many; it is easier to move through them when I think about what has happened with my past books. People have come back loyally for subsequent books, the awards have been great, each book has outsold the other and so it is a kind of superficial confidence builder to get me over the rough spots.

You said that while writing The King of Lies, that you were not sure if it would be released. Have you ever written anything else that has not made it to the publishing stage?

Yes, I was widely unpublished for about 12 years. I wrote two novels, one while studying for a master’s degree and another when I was in law school. They shouldn’t have been published, I can see that very clearly now but I was widely rejected; agents, editors turned me down all over the place. What I noticed though was that the last chapter of the second book was ten times better than the first chapter of the first book and so the learning curve seemed to be going in the right direction. So when I found myself, two or three years into my law practice, with a non-working wife and a brand new baby and talk of a second, I knew that it was kind of a crossroads for me. I knew that I could be a halfway writer/ halfway lawyer, just as I had been a half student/ half writer or I could make a decision that I was going to be one or the other. So I quit my law practice and gave myself a year to get published, just knowing that two years later it would be ten times harder because of kids and responsibilities and being further into my career. It took eleven and a half months to write The King of Lies and I started looking for work that day, but not as a lawyer, I became a stock broker instead and it took me four years to get published but that is the book that changed everything.

Which of your novels do you feel could be adapted into a film the best?

I think that Iron House is the easiest to adapt because it is very action orientated and Michael is such a powerfully developed character, he would be great for someone like Mark Wahlberg for instance, as Mark is the kind of actor who can do action with depth and he would be wonderful as Michael. I have always believed that Last Child, which was my previous novel, would make the most compelling film as there is just so much depth in the story and the character’s growth is so compelling and wonderfully complex. The problem is that the main character is thirteen and movie studios can pretty much calculate how much they can sell foreign distribution rights for based on who the lead actor is. So if it is Brad Pitt then it is going to get 2 million in Germany and 1.5 million in England and so on. They know how much or their investment they can recoup before they shoot the first scene. If it is an unknown child actor, and I think the kid from Super 8 would be perfect, is not as bankable as he is still a bit unknown. I really think that Iron House would be a no brainer.

Each of your books have been written as a stand-alone story. Have you ever considered writing a series?

I have considered that, in fact I think that Michael would lend himself very well to a series. I have left a few doors open in the story that I think could walk him through into a sequel. I have avoided series really for two reasons. One, there are a lot of good series out there and so it is highly competitive. Two, I have not written a person that I am willing to live with year over year yet I think. The only way you can tell compelling fiction is to really care about your character to the point where you explore a lot of the hidden depths of the character. I would imagine that after three or four books it would become very difficult to find new depths and unexpected responses and I think that is so important. There is a lot of interest to a possible sequel to Iron House and I think that Michael could be compelling enough for another two or three books maybe. I have another book that I am writing which is very different which I will have to finish before I do another Michael book.

Even with your first release you seemed to have mastered the thriller genre. Have you ever been interested in trying to write something completely different?

I have and I probably will at some point but I come from a business background and it is important to be aware of the business of publishing. Part of the route of lasting success is to not shock the market place too soon, not to confuse the readers and those who buy my books be they chain retailers or independent book stores. People have a pretty good sense of who I am as a writer and what I do but if I came out with some more general fiction or a horror story, suddenly people would not have as clear a view of me. Once you become bullet proof (and I am close but I am not quite there) then you can experiment. The best example of this is John Grisham, some of his best work was experimental I think. He wrote Painted House, which is a very literary novel. He stunned me with how different and wonderful it was and yet his fans never doubted for a second that he would come back for another legal thriller. While I will never get to the place that Grisham has, I would like to get to an equally safe place where my readers understand what I do and are willing to give me the benefit of the doubt on something different. In fact I have a great idea for a horror story, based on a short story I wrote about twenty years ago. I would like to attempt a more general sort of fiction, to see if I could build the same tension without the types of thriller elements we were discussing earlier, where you could stretch your characters with meaningful stakes that were not necessarily life or death.

I’m With You is the first album since One Hot Minute to not have key member John Fursciante cranking the guitar as he has, again, left the band and gone on to pursue other ventures. I know a few of you out there will be thinking that without John Frusciante the band is not going to be anywhere near as good…allow me to persuade you otherwise.

I’m With You deals with some pretty interesting themes; mostly mortality, and has some funny rapping lines courtesy of front man Anthony Keidis; “Hustle me bitch and you’d best beware/Don’t try and tap your round peg into my square”. I am listening to the album as I write this and every now and again I hear the occasional lyric like that of the above mentioned, which shows that they have retained their humour.

It’s easy to see that new guitarist Josh Klinghoffer feels quite at home with the band’s musical direction, having started off as the band’s live guitarist and musical collaborator with John Fusiciante on his solo work.

One of the major differences on this album though is that you don’t get the distinct falsetto that was provided by Frusciante. Klinghoffer may be a good guitarist but he lacks the I-just-got-kicked-in-the-crotch-by-a-goat voice that harmonized so well with Keidis’ on the bands other albums.

There have been mixed reactions to I’m With You with some people thinking this album would be the band’s swan song, especially has both Flea and Chad Smith have other bands of their own that they are involved in. However, with European tour looming, their 10th studio album seems to have proved the opposite of this. I’m With You is also a nice breath of fresh air in amongst all the auto-tuned, drum-machined glitter puke that has been cramming the CD shelves. You can hear the musicianship through their playing of real instruments. At some points in the album, you can even hear Flea make silly quips at the start or end of some songs. You have to turn it up a bit, but they are there.

I’m With You is an album full of songs that require you to get up and groove, like the aptly titled ‘Dance, Dance, Dance’ and the honky-tonk stylings of ‘Happiness Loves Company’. There is also the cow-bell heavy ‘The Adventures of Raindance Maggie’, which doesn’t have enough cow-bell if you ask me. There are also songs that are great to just chill out and listen too whilst having a cup-o-tea like ‘Ethiopia’.

Good summer listening. Hope you are persuaded.

Despite this and the obvious potential they hold for success outside of the Wellington music scene, they exhibit a healthy awareness of the trappings of the superstar ambitions that many a New Zealand band hold. They are well aware of the fine balance that must be maintained between aspirations and appreciating their present situation, acknowledging that it’s “important not to place all your energy and focus on distant ideas of success in the future, because you can have goals in your mind but if you spent all your time driving in one direction and really going for it, you cant have that pleasure…” that is to say the satisfaction from playing a really good show or having someone call you “the most joyous band” they’ve ever seen.

While this doesn’t rule out any future potential to showcase their abilities to an overseas market, they are adamant that it could only work if each and every one of them could commit to it. Certainly, underneath the diasporic element of St. Rupertsberg belies a mutual understanding and respect for each other, which aids their collaborative efforts, allowing them to pull together and add to each others existing material to nurture and coax out the gems that are embedded in their collective consciousness.
Manoeuvring their way in a largely male-dominated industry, they avoid any “gimmicky” semblances by overshadowing the fact that they are a girl band with their incredible musical prowess. They avoid any chance of a musical cacophony by seamlessly integrating every voice and instrument into the mix to create songs that are so sonically soothing they assert the necessity of each member of St. Rupertsberg.

They are one of the few bands that sound just as good, perhaps even better, live as they do on a polished recording, with the vigour they employ to whip the crowd and themselves “into an excitable frenzy”, clearly communicated through the five meticulous compositions that feature on their EP Seasonal Glimpse. From the upbeat ‘Summer Jams’ to the harmonic ‘So Way Oh’ the EP is their self-described “party mix”, which is complemented perfectly with the final track, ‘In Albania’ which is reminiscent of Beirut’s The Gulag Orkestar.

The diversity afforded by such a large group and the element of collaboration that permeates their ethos lends itself to the result of the exquisite musical kaleidoscope that is Seasonal Glimpse.

Well, if The Guard is anything to go by, you don’t do it by nicking the best elements of your brother’s film and tacking them to a derivative buddy cop script like some kind of half-assed Lego house.

The Guard is the debut directorial feature John Michael McDonagh, the Niles Crane of the McDonagh family (his brother, Martin, most recently wrote and directed the outstanding In Bruges), and McDonagh indelibly owes a debt to the “in-yer-face” theatre and cinema of his brother (among others). It’s there in the brusque, comically ignorant lead; the eloquent, bloodthirsty upper-class antagonists; the snappy, expletive-laden dialogue; the vulgarity; the irrepressible Irishness. Truth be told, though, The Guard does give hints of doing good by the legacy of In Bruges and Martin McDonagh’s many plays, largely thanks to Brendan Gleeson. Playing the “unconventional” Sergeant Gerry Boyle, a Garda in a coastal Irish village who indulges as many vices as he can, Gleeson is a sheer delight to watch. Not only does Gleeson nail Boyle’s broad, uncouth persona, he subtly draws out Boyle’s unshakable belief in doing right by the people around him, giving the character a human element that could have been easily lost among the drugs and the prostitutes.
However, The Guard never rises above being a superficially entertaining genre exercise due to McDonagh’s script. Aside from Boyle, the characters, most notably a trio of aloof, drug-smuggling villains, feel less like people and more like loose concepts slinging banter at each other. Furthermore, that banter doesn’t sparkle with any regularity, McDonagh dropping clichés and wordy one-liners that only serve to pad out the space between the genuinely funny exchanges. The Guard appropriates tired genre tropes without doing anything exciting or interesting with them and, while an agreeable way to spend 90 minutes, it ultimately finishes as it starts—an exhibition piece for Gleeson’s considerable skills and little else.

When, however, I managed to locate the large building right on the footpath with a sign saying FRED’S outside, it was instantly enamoring. The room is warm and inviting and feels like somebody’s awesome lounge, well, maybe if that somebody lived in some sort of tiny castle or church but still—it feels like a space for bands to play in and be appreciated.
Unfortunately my time-consuming inability to find where I needed to be led me to only see the last few songs of Timothy Armstrong. Those two songs, however, lead me to predict I will be attending the next Timothy Armstrong show.

Craig Elliott was up next. My first impressions were that he looked like a mixture of Robin Pecknold and Mads Mikkelsen, and sang like an Elliott Smith who had just run a kilometre or two. All of which endeared me to him, and came together with a captive audience and the ingratiating setting to give his sparse, minimalist folk room to breathe. His subtleties were subtle, and his music and performance grew with an organic ease and comfort that made it seem like Craig and his cohorts were enjoying themselves, which in turn made everyone else enjoy themselves.

Paperghost came up next, after I had a brief stint outside in an attempt to find some food (highly unsuccessful), which saw little change to the people performing. The music too maintained a low-fi, understated quality, though more effected and electronic. What was instantly noticeable was the strong vocals and a foundation on melody that permeated the set. He manipulated his sounds with a level of sophistication that the soundscape fitted perfectly with his songs and he carried them with ease. Though technical difficulties cut the set short, it was all thoroughly enjoyable.

On entry to the City Gallery I was informed that the entire gallery is currently only accessible to those who are prepared to cough up $10. This shocked me to my core as a regular visitor to the gallery, which is managed by the Wellington Museums Trust and funded heavily by the council, as generally it is free apart from special and visiting exhibits. My initial outrage at being asked to pay anything to enter MY public gallery softened into a wry sense of sorrow as I walked back towards the waterfront. Standing in my way was a colossal statue of a man effortlessly conforming to the golden ratio and ‘Southern man’ masculine stereotype while lifting a massive gold rugby ball towards the sky. This cultural monstrosity speaks to the heart of the issue at the gallery just next door in Civic square. The two images used to advertise the exhibit tread an elegant yet terrifying line between utilising the Dusky Maiden stereotype and just using images of Pacific Islanders in order to sell some kind of fucked up notion of a paradise in the South Pacific. It is absolutely no coincidence that this exhibition and the statue have just arisen in the two-month period leading up to New Zealand’s hosting of the 2011 Rugby World Cup.

I am in no way attempting to attack the Cup, it should be quite a blast. What saddens me is the way we feel a need to construct a false image of our culture and attempt to rampantly market it to anyone who moves. The strangest example I have observed so far is the McDonald’s ‘Pavlova’—“because it doesn’t need to be a special occasion to have a pav”. Well,I’m sorry, McDonald’s, but yes, yes it does. To have an American-based company parade this kind of faux patriotic rhetoric is, in my eyes, deeply pathetic. Have we come to the point that the best way to advertise our cultural heritage and our current national identity is under the shadow of twin golden arches?

All three of these instances in Wellington paint a picture of severe cultural cringe in New Zealand; a kneejerk response to the impending flood of overseas tourists that are about to inundate our shores.

N.B. I don’t have a spare $10, and for a show created with a large portion of public money, I don’t expect to have to pay anything. The exhibit is probably amazing, I just couldn’t afford to see it; that in a way, is a review in itself.

From the personal writings of Lady Mary Ann Martin, Meek has created a superb testimonial to the early colonisation of New Zealand, with the vitality, beauty and humour for which he has become so acclaimed. Mrs Martin, a Victorian woman of good heart with an unfortunate disability, departs England for the brooding shore of New Zealand, where her husband—the nation’s first Chief Justice—awaits her. An extraordinary tale of self preservation, our heroine must learn a land, a language, a people, and herself.
Laurel Devenie’s portrayal of Lady Martin is as jolly as it is sombre, accompanied by the quixotic Victorian curiosity we may nowadays deem shrewd. She is clever, understanding, and infallibly British, maintained by an engaging tenderness and honesty. Devenie’s consummate presence on stage generously complements Meek’s diary-like text that is delivered in miniature anecdotes, stops and starts.

It is therefore unfortunate that the stage itself cannot uphold what is an otherwise enchanting piece of theatre. Tony Rabbit’s intricate orchestration of steel ladders—four large panels shall we say, the two farthest back ascend heavenwards, as the front two incline towards each other, creating several A-frame passages parallel to the audience—while looking very impressive, are rarely used and essentially act as a means to fill a large stage. Their saving grace is the delicious pit of sand and stones in which they stand, adding contrast in texture and colour; an extended metaphor for the meeting of cultures and/or generations, perhaps…? John Gibson’s sound design often serves to heighten the impression of an environment, but at times becomes all too intrusive or unnecessary.

As Director Colin McColl writes in his programme, “it’s a great pleasure to be back showcasing two of the brightest young stars of New Zealand’s theatrical community”. And this is very true. Arthur Meek and Laurel Devenie are powerful talents to be reckoned with, ‘nuff said.

On the Upside-Down of the World
By Arthur Meek
24 August—10 September
Downstage Theatre

The world is counting on our heroes to retrieve a legendary MacGuffin that can be used to dispel the radiation from Earth, an action that—as we all know—will bring back the oceans, the forests and the non-Japanese earthlings. The only problem? The device is on a planet guarded by an armada of some really nasty aliens. Oh, and it may not actually exist.

Space Battleship Yamato is a perfect example of how one’s expectations going into a film can shape their experience. By any reasonable measure, Yamato is a bad film. Set in a visually indistinct world realised with costumes, set-design and CGI that belong in an after-school TV show, it’s a failure aesthetically. The dialogue ranges from unspeakably silly, meaningless jargon to sickeningly earnest clichés and some worryingly neo-fascist glorification of Japan’s past. Furthermore, it’s unaware of its own ridiculousness and derivativeness, unfolding with a completely straight face. This super-seriousness is clear from the first ten minutes, the movie having the audacity to give an unidentified character an incredibly emotional death scene and expecting us to care. Then there’s the narrative recounted above, the kind of nonsense that can only come about when a terrible storyteller tries to condense a rich world into a single film. I’m unfamiliar with the manga and anime on which this is based but I’m sure it deserves better.

That said, something astounding happened in the third act. The patrons of the Paramount, spoiled by Malick’s and Miike’s latest and unsure how to take this travesty, erupted into riotous laughter. Misinterpreting the pre-movie hype, I had been expecting a genuinely good film and had been equally bored and enraged from the opening scene. However, in Yamato’s Armageddon-esque climax, I couldn’t help but join in on the ironic appreciation. I’m not saying that one of the most expensive Japanese films ever made can reach the same level of unintentional transcendence of something like The Room, but when this comes out on DVD I might just rewatch it, drinking every time the camera dramatically dollies in on a character’s face.

Isla and Josephine tell the story of a group of people in an Auckland retirement home where no one seems particularly at home. Nina Reihana has her bags packed to be taken back to her family, waiting for her nephew to come. She strikes up a friendship with the quiet Alice, a young girl who has come to get to know her dying grandmother, Mrs Lemon, before she passes. The Ja’mie-esque Karen steals from the residents and toys with high-strung Clint, who has created a stamp to brand all members of the Shady Meadows clan so they will never be lost. Heather, the Kath and Kim-esque manager, deals with Sukhdeep’s issues of racism from the guests while Glynn faces a visit from her 16-year-old granddaughter who has come with her boyfriend and their newborn baby looking to cash in on their grandmother.

Confined to a chalk square in the centre of BATS, the set is minimalistic and sparse; two red chairs are the only other adornments. This aids the quick-change style of theatre which, along with comically brilliant performances, details the characters. Isla’s and Josephine’s physicality and adaptation of the voices morphs them smoothly from character to character; especially in the inspired moment where Karen fondles Jason’s hair, two characters both played by Josephine.

This charmingly clever play makes us look at the generation gap and consider the worth of rest homes for the elderly. The treatment of the residents to seem like inmates who can’t escape, whose lives are confined to a small chalk square, makes us examine the idea that these places shouldn’t be the resting place for the elderly who “come here to die.”
Beautifully constructed and skilfully performed, this show was a delight to watch from its opening to its close.

Chalk
By Isla Adamson and Josephine Stewart-Tewhiu
23 – 27 August at BATS Theatre

Firstly, do your eyes a favour and check out the Fiona Pardington photographic exhibition titled …Immortally Yours at the Suite Gallery on Cuba St which will run until 17 September. Pardington created the six pieces in Paris while completing a Laureate Artistic Creations Project with the Musee du Quai Branly. The lush floral subject matter is captured by Pardington in an intimate and slightly dark nature. It may surprise the viewer to find out that these blooms are actually fake silk flowers from the markets of Paris.
Secondly, the New Dowse Art Museum presents Knitted & Knotted, an exhibition that for the next three months will celebrate this institutions famous love of the daring and the craft. These are two words that do not normally go together, yet when you see the knitted Jesus, you will surely understand what inspires the New Dowse to support artists that continue to surprise within the contemporary craft world. Runs from 27th of August until November 20th.

To counteract the crochet and floristry, the National Portrait Gallery will suffice all your masculine sensibilities with the opening of an exhibition that celebrates our national sport in portraiture. The Match, a collection a portraits of New Zealand rugby players by David Matches, takes a raw approach to capturing players moments after they leave the field in jubilation or battered and bruised. Admission for the first time is $5 and can be seen until the 16 October.

Finally, if for some reason you find yourself heading up to the City of Sails be sure you check out the re-opened Auckland City Gallery. The buzz that surrounds this opening rivals that over whatever Kate Middleton is wearing this week.

Neither can you stand inside the smoking chamber at Mighty Mighty and inhale it, nor can you run the risk of it leading you down a sordid road which inevitably ends in dumpster habitation. Right?

Don’t be so naive. I’ve been a Sims addict for the past sixteen years and, to this day, am in no way clean. My addiction began, as many do, in the rancid pit of youth that is the schoolyard. It was during those hazy days of the 90s that an object of awe and power entered the classroom; a computer (or ‘cumpooper’, as the less articulate so enjoyed calling it). Despite being deprived of the internet, dial-up or otherwise, this beige box of mystery was installed with Sim City 2000 and that, I’m afraid, provided me with a taste of the heady delights which power over virtual beings could bring. Although my classmates and I experienced joy in founding these tiny, gaudy cities and setting them up with infrastructure, economy and a plethora of public parks, there inevitably came a time when the civilisation’s harmony offended us. What we had so painstakingly created was too perfect: it had to be destroyed. Flood, fire and famine were sent to erase all evidence of our achievements and, sated, we would begin again.

Fast-forward a few years and, having been deprived of all Sims-related activity for some time, I believed myself free of the urge to build, control and annihilate. Then Sims Life Stories was thrust upon me by some well-meaning relative. Within that brief exchange of “Merry Christmas, Louise—I hope it isn’t too much like playing with Barbie Dolls” I was sentenced to nights spent in front of a laptop screen filled with the lives of carefully constructed, aesthetically magnificent and blissfully happy characters. Their destinies were my responsibility and it was a charge which I was powerless to ignore. I have a rough idea of how many hours I clocked on that game, shackled by my own weakness and god-complex, but am too ashamed to reveal it. Suffice to say that the generations of Sim families under my care were experiencing more successful jobs and relationships than I was. A moment of terrible realisation came to me at 3.20am, while trying to balance one recently divorced Sim’s relationship with her estranged daughter and the demands of her business career, that I might have some sort of problem. With shaking hands and a heavy heart I removed the disk from my laptop, stowed it away in the case which once shone with such promise, and placed it in the kitchen draw labelled ‘miscellaneous’, which might as well be a black hole for all the luck you’ll have finding anything you place in it ever again.

Despite not having touched Sims in the past seven months, and I have support people who can attest to that, I’m still an addict. The cravings never really disappear, you know? When The Sims Medieval became available earlier this year I nearly relapsed, and that’s something I’ll have to combat for the rest of my life. If any relative should offer you a taste of Sims at some celebratory family gathering then I urge you to refuse. Learn from my sorry tale because it isn’t at all like playing with Barbie Dolls.