Showing posts with label movies/peliculas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies/peliculas. Show all posts

Monday, August 22, 2011

Report this image

I was doing a Google Image Search this morning. (I love Google Images!), when, among the images I expected for my key word, I saw one that perturbed me. It was a picture of a very young girl, her long hair brushed to cover yet reveal her naked upper body, looking at the camera with all the wrong sort of knowledge in her expression and demeanour. I really didn't like it, partly because another unpleasant site (dodgy in a different way) had got me wondering about the kind of people who found this word significant. I was fairly sure I wouldn't like what I found.

The upshot was a report to Google about a paedophilia site that had slipped through the net. Actually, two reports to Google, and one to Interpol, because I couldn't work out how to do the required digital signature without the help of the extremely kind and technosavvy NZM, who agreed with me about the content and implications of the site, and worked out where I was going wrong.

She also sent me this link to a story in an Australian newspaper, Photo withdrawn after child prostitution claim. It makes interesting reading.

I'm not uploading the photo under discussion because, while I don't entirely agree with the accusation that it shows a mother prostituting her child, I do think that the mother has put the legitimate explorations of a creative artist above the rights and wellbeing of the child she is morally and legally charged with protecting and guiding. How pompous do I sound? I thought so.

But we're in difficult semantic waters here, and maybe, in this case, it's God that's in the details

I believe in freedom of speech. I believe in a free press as an extension of freedom of speech, and a source of informed reflection, debate and action. I believe in the role of the artist as a mirror, and sometimes projector, of society and human values and experience. I therefore have some sympathy with the position of Jeff Moorfoot, director of the Ballarat International Photo Biennale, and recognise the truth of Alistair Foster's assertion that this photograph is "an example of Saudek's interest in depicting "love in its many forms", in this case how a parent passes on what it is to be an adult to her child."

However, I still don't think that the mother should have allowed the artist to work with her and her child to create this image. Artists and parents have different functions, and should have different priorities, and in my view, as a parent, the welfare of your child trumps the needs of any artist.

Basically, I have a serious problem with getting a child to do this kind of work. Who's to know what the child will make of the experience, or what the fallout may be - not least, in this case, from the notoriety she'll attain, given that this high-profile work will soon be all over her school and neighbourhood and, decades hence, will be still be available worldwide.

Let painters and sculptors and photographers "depict love in its many forms", but if we're talking erotic love, then they should consider the reasons underpinning the age of consent in their country, and pursue lines of enquiry that don't involve the actual participation of children.

However, my reservations are not just about children and sexually loaded material, but the whole complex and, at times, oppressive range of adult experience - which they will embrace and learn to deal with in due course, like the rest of us. As I've explained before, I also have the same strong reservations about children in adult movies, either where they have to be able to understand the context on some level, in order to play the role, or they're too young to understand, but are required to be distressed for a scene. Normally, you comfort a distressed child, but it's very difficult to get a shot in one take, so presumably, comfort is withheld until the creative adult's requirements have been met. By whose right? With whose consent? And how did the child come to be crying in the first place, conveniently in shot? Was someone on standby with a camera and mic instead of a bottle or a clean nappy?

And what's our place in this, who pay up for an evening's entertainment? As your teacher said, when you were little and had been bad, Would you do this at home?

Paedophiliacs are bad guys. Artists are good guys, if necessarily a tad selfish in their priorities. But even good guys can overstep boundaries, in which case, in the absence of a guardian angel in this secular age, you'd better hope your mum's got her priorities straight.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

A Trip to the Película Souk

We got a little confused on Saturday, when we set off for the Renoir Plaza de España cinema.

We'd checked the online map, and established that this was one of several cinemas in the area, and by the time we got there, late (my fault), and after dark, we were a bit tense. We found the right place, but La Joven Jane Austen was sold out, so we wandered aimlessly on for a hundred yards - if that - and almost fell over another cinema....... and then another (where Elizabeth, La Edad de Oro, was also sold out..) We were in the cinema souk!

Consider Exhibit A: The Golem cinema map. The Golem is situated, as you can see, at the junction of C. Martin de los Heros and C. Ventura Rodriguez, very handy for the VR Metro station.















Exhibit B: location map for the Renoir Plaza de España, at the PdE end of Martin de los Heros, (very handy for the PdE Metro)........and... if it please Your Honour...









Exhibit C, location map for the Renoir Princesa, just up from RPdE, though not as far as the Golem.... and then again, I have a feeling we might have passed a Yelmo on the way.








I rest my maleta.

In the end, we retraced our steps to Renoir PdE, bought tickets for the Sunday afternoon showing, and duly went to see Becoming Jane yesterday. Even then, we missed half of the opening credits: no-one warned us that - oh rapture - there wouldn't be any adverts or trailers. Yeehah! But this also meant that I didn't learn the film's English title til afterwards, because all the posters are for La Joven Jane Austen, in dubbed Spanish (versión doblada al castellano).

What we saw was the V.O. (Versión Original – in this case, of course, English – con subtítulos en castellano) V.O. is the Renoir/Golem/Yelmo speciality. We had the choice of La Torre de Suso, Qué tan Lejos, La Zona, Caótica Ana, Mataharis, and half a dozen other V.O. Castellano films ; Persepolis or Conversaciones con mi Jardinero (V.O. Francés); and Huella, Once, LJJA, EEdO, Tierra, Promesas del Este, Leones por Corderos and plenty more V.O. Inglés.

I'd like to see Persepolis, and Conversaciones con mi Jardinero (the French ones, in case you're hopelessly confused by now) but I'm not up for a Spanish film just yet, unless it's a shamelessly escapist romp like last year's Bandidas, starring Penélope Cruz and Selma Hayek - that was great fun! Basically, I'm looking for an hour and a half in my comfort zone, which means English, or French, with plenty of visual appeal to compensate for my feeble and tottering Français - so - garden or animation?!

So we went to see 'Jane', and wept through all the sad bits (well, I did, anyway) and came out very sad. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand, it was ok, very handsome, with some fine actors doing a good job of what they had: James Cromwell and Julie Walters as Rev. & Mrs Austen; Anne Hathaway and Anna Maxwell Martin as daughters Jane and Cassandra; Laurence Fox as Wisley, Maggie Smith as his aristocratic aunt, and James McAvoy as Tom Lefroy. But, it didn't hit home for me: not as a romance, as a historical drama, a rites of passage story or a 'biopic'.

One problem is that Jane Austen's been 'done' before, with sharper scripts, more breathtaking cinematography, and more sex appeal. I mean the - to my mind - flawless BBC TV adaptation of Pride & Prejudice; and the Columbia Pictures' Sense and Sensibility, with Emma Thompson's deft, warm and hilarious screenplay - and a superb ensemble cast to carry it off. Both came out in 1995, which is a long time in commercial film-making, but only a blink of an eye if we're considering potential classics of any genre.

Film and literature are completely different media, of course, and it takes a talented screenwriter with a powerful appreciation of both to provide the screenplay that glimmers with the promise of box office gold and critical acclaim. Both P&P and S&S owed much of their success to the sensitivity and skill of their screenwriters, and to their good sense and restraint in making the most of the polished structure, superb dialogue and ironic, compassionate insights of the original novels. Those novels, in their turn, were the product of a meticulous craftswoman at the height of her powers. They don't make chick lit like that anymore.....

So it wasn't a 'Jane Austen'. Was it even about Jane Austen? Or about the marketability of Jane Austen, and of Anne Hathaway, with her US chick-flick (uhuh) box office appeal and an English accent to make Gwyneth Paltrow look over her shoulder in the next anglophile casting session?

I was in no hurry to see this film, I'll confess, because I saw Miss Potter earlier this year; and much as I enjoyed Renee Zellweger's performance - and everyone else's, for that matter - and the touches of magical realism that brought back early BBC Narnia, well... well............ Beatrix Potter's life is well-documented, and the sugar-coating of her parents' perception and treatment of their only daughter irked me. Boy meets girl, boy dies, girl finds redemption in work, and subsequently recovers from broken heart to marry childhood friend and live happily ever after, all in 92 minutes: it's as authentic as any other picturesque image. And Miss Potter was very well done, and I shall no doubt watch it again, and enjoy it more whole-heartedly now that I know what it is - and what it isn't.

But I have a similar problem with 'Becoming Jane'. I don't know much about Jane Austen, beyond the fact that she was a writer at a time when women had very few choices, that she never married (which may or may not have been connected to her being a writer) that she wrote about the world she knew - and that there is a portrait of her. I don't know if the portrait is pencil or charcoal, but I've seen enough copies to know what Jane Austen looked like - and it was probably more Renee Zellweger - or Anna Maxwell Martin - than Anne Hathaway.

OK, that's a minor matter, but, as the film progressed, with clumping references to Austen's books, and to Hollywood adaptations, for goodness sake; and an increasingly predictable plot, which duly pressed all the usual buttons, I found myself wondering what - of this 'becoming' film - was actually true. And if it wasn't, what I was supposed to get from it? Later, I felt I'd been taken for a ride: relieved of my ticket money for an exercise in patronising, accountancy-driven sub-standard film-making. As a drama it was shallow and predictable. As a period drama it was formulaic. As a script, it got us from the beginning to the end. As a comedy, it was flat. As a tribute it was entirely fake. And as a source of insight into what made Jane Austen the woman, and writer, she was.......... yeah right........... now I can write my thesis.....

As a creative project - well, I hope the caterers were excellent, the weather perfect, and that all those people who put their talent and craft into this project were well paid for the efforts. And they all get to star in a cult indie before next summer is out. There's a lot to enjoy in Becoming Jane, but not enough to disguise the mediocrity of the original premise. Or the assumption that we'll lap it up.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Foreign Movies

I failed to mention Marion Cotillard who played Fanny Chenal in A Good Year. Gorgeous and talented.




What brings her to mind again is a piece in the newspaper about the French language film La Môme (La Vie En Rose in the US - opening in June, but previewing now) It's a biography of Edith Piaf, with Marion Cotillon apparently wonderful in the title role. I like Edith Piaf. I shall watch this movie when it comes out.











I've been looking out for Spanish movies - from Spain rather than Latin America - in Virgin. Penelope Cruz is not just a pretty (sorry - I mean drop-dead gorgeous) face. She works in Spanish, English & French: I know this because Virgin has at least two French language films with her in - and no Spanish ones at all!

And while I'm here - I really enjoyed Sabah, a grown-up Syrian-Canadian variation on My B.F.Greek Wedding. Written and directed Ruba Nadda, it stars the Lebanese actress Arsinée Khanjian who, in addition to being an established talent in her own right, is married to director Atom Egoyan. I'm going to look out for all three of those names in future - but I've promised myself - and Habibi - not to buy any more DVDs or books for the remaining 10 weeks (TEN WEEKS!) of our sojourn here.

Up to this point, though, I thought that all Arab movies were slapstick comedies featuring rubber-faced moustachioed men leaping about in their dishdashas. Actually, that's not true, because there are lots of Arab movies on satellite, but they seem stuck in a timewarp to me - though I'm probably tuning in to Arab Classic Movies.

Still, it's good to see a mainstream English language movie based in Arab culture: after a dozen years here, the arab-western mix is part of my way of life, so I really appreciate some straightforward cinematic storytelling that reflects this. Sabah is not, of course, an Arab movie: it's a cross-cultural piece which inevitably brings to mind other movies about immigrant identity and culture - such as Bend It Like Beckham, MBFGW, and Bhaji on the Beach; but we need cross-cultural film-makers.

I haven't lived in the Middle East, in this extraordinarily cosmopolitan town, for a dozen years, just to put all my experience and discoveries in a box marked 'Foreign' when I go back to Europe. These are not postcard memories to be brought out for visitors, but part of who I am, as English as I am. And I want to see movies that address that.

Uh-oh. Blogging past my bedtime again.

Friday, April 27, 2007

A Good Movie

We just watched Ridley Scott's latest: A Good Year, which has had reviews of the 'nice, predictable, old-man's-going-soft' variety.







It's got Russell Crowe - usually a good sign.





It's got Albert Finney - usually to die for - and Freddie Highmore - also a good sign.




Also Tom Hollander, who I really liked as Mr Collins in the Not-the-BBC Pride & Prejudice.
And Archie Panjabi, who I've never seen before, but will look out for in future.
And Didier Bourdon, Isabelle Candelier and Jacques Herlin as the entertaining live-in force-to-be-reckoned-with. (I've read all the Spanish-based versions of this story!)

It's got French light, French stone, French je-ne-sais-quoi, an entertaining screenplay and some satisfying camera-work. Yeah, of course we were fairly sure how it would end - but it was fun watching it work itself out.

We liked it.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Femmes (et hommes) d'un certain âge..... plus plus!

For a school project I have been looking for representations of life in old age in mainstream films. We all know that in a predominantly visual medium dominated by Hollywood box-office values, middle-aged female characters generally function as background or minor counterpoint to male protagonists. And if you're an actor over sixty it seems to me that you have two character options, picturesque or grotesque - either in a rocker or off it - arf!.......sorry........
Oh, and there are always deathbed scenes.

There are honourable exceptions in the middle years: contemporaries of Kathy Bates, Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon and Diane Keaton have enjoyed these women's screenwork for decades, and will always want more. English stage actresses Helen Mirren and Judi Dench have broken through good and proper, and Maggie Smith's up there having a great deal of fun, I think. Jessica Tandy - very talented - became everyone's favourite little old lady in Batteries Not Included, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, and Driving Miss Daisy. I can't remember, but I would imagine she was in Cocoon, too, with husband Hume Cronin. Hopefully, the Talk-To-The-Hand generation will get over Lindsay Lohan and the vacuous Hollywood Teen Diet and find their own A-List to grow up with.

Still, but, however, (second cup of coffee, here!) I wish that those of us who can't get to her stagework could see more of Judi Dench's phenomenal range. Unfortunately, casting directors seem to have filed her under T (Terrifying) subset steel magnolia/rose/gardenia, bitch-queen, bitch-goddess. Yes I know she does them so well, but, Newsflash: Judi Dench can do sexy, sparkling, vulnerable and very funny as well as formidable and ferocious; more people should get to see that! It was such a treat to see her and Maggie Smith in Tea With Mussolini, and Ladies in Lavender.

I was struck by a newspaper feature describing this as the Silver Foxes' Oscar season because Helen Mirren, Judi Dench and Meryl Streep are all up for honours. An industry commentator cautioned against seeing this as reflecting a more inclusive attitude within Hollywood, because affluent teens and twenty-somethings remain the target market. More telling is the increasing DVD market: apparently, we creakies would rather stay in than go out, and, being blessed with the patience, wisdom and home theatre systems that come with advancing years, are content to wait for movies to come out on DVD. In fact, it appears that distributors are now trying to take two bites of the apple at once. There have been rows in Germany and the UK recently, with cinema chains withdrawing films because of near simultaneous DVD releases which disregard an unofficial convention of a four-month gap between cinema and DVD release. Good grief, could we grown-ups count for something in big 'ol forever young Califo'nia?

Anyway, I have been trying to find a copy of On Golden Pond (a film I have avoided since its release) for its portrayal of relationships across generations, or Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, or Grumpy Old Men, for their inversion of ideas of what it means to be old. (I don't think they're quite ready for Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson in Something's Gotta Give, or Barbra Streisand's 'relationship counselling' sessions in Meet the Fockers. Plus, getting fired won't look so good on my CV.) No joy.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of working with 11-14 year-olds, it makes no difference that their actual grandparents are educated professionals with driving licences and laptops, or practise yoga, or come with them on family skiing holidays; nor that they have full use of all limbs, teeth and faculties, and a sense of humour to boot. Oh no. Say 'old man' or 'old woman' to a twelve year-old, and s/he immediately doubles over, clutches an imaginary walking stick, and commences shuffling and hacking round the room, glaring through narrowed eyes at everyone else; the epitome of the Old Man in the fairy story:

(This is actually the commedia dell'arte character Pantalone, the 16th Century stereotype of the grumpy old man!)
















...or the Old Crone of the fairy story.


(This painting is by Atanur Dogan)
















Perhaps I should add that this is an age group for whom Keanu Reeves is old, and who respond to the pop music music of two years ago with rolling eyes and gasps of disbelief - of course, they may have a point about that........ ;)

Anyway, I resorted to the 2003 Disney movie Secondhand Lions, which stars Robert Duvall, Haley Joel Osment and Michael Caine, and which I'd heard good things about but never actually seen.

(spoiler alert!) It turned out to be


..........an engaging redemption movie
in which a rootless boy finds
a family and a sense of himself,
and the old man finds a new
reason to live............
Ok, you can look now!




















Living in the middle east, I had mixed feelings about the content of the story-telling sequences, but given their tongue in cheek Boys' Own Hero style, I decided to run with it. All things considered, this an upbeat and entertaining family film with warmth and humour, and the storyline is bolted together pretty well!
If the core is somewhat hackneyed, Robert Duvall invested it with something more in his role as Uncle Hub. (He made his screen debut as Boo Radley in the 1963 movie To Kill a Mockingbird, which I watched just two nights later. I must find what else he's done.)
I noted, but didn't watch, a feature on HJO (playing Walter) entitled An Actor Comes of Age. I hope that this is the case, and that now that he's older, he will be allowed to break the typecasting and extend his range.
Michael Caine had a pretty good grip on the accent, and a very nice handle on the character of Uncle Garth. I really enjoy his work, from the classic Get Carter to Little Voice to Miss Congeniality, and now this. Lovely. (BTW, if you saw Stallone's Get Carter, forget it. A travesty. No comparison. Michael Caine gives the performance of his career inthe 1971 Get Carter. Go get Get Carter!)

I did find a sequence I could use, so I'm happy.

And finally, girls, look to the future with optimism, and never underestimate the appeal of the older man......

To Kill a Mockingbird

I love the novel.














Last night I watched the film.













Classics, both.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

Sigh Baby Bunting

Twelve year old Dakota Fanning's new film Hounddog is causing controversy, not because it contains a rape scene, but because it is Lewellen, Dakota's character, who is raped. The little girl out of Charlotte's Web!

Either she is too young to be able to handle such material, or she isn't.

Either she should never have signed up for this project, and her family and agent have failed to protect this child from commercial exploitation, emotional trauma and moral corruption, and are guilty of setting an arbitrary closing date to her childhood; or she is perfectly able to deal with this material, and her family and agent have thoughtfully and courageously given her the opportunity and support to do work of this nature and standard.

Just as Venus and Serena Williams' father recognised and coached their talent.
And Wolfie Mozart's supported his.

If you have an extraordinary talent amounting to a vocation, an unquenchable desire to play tennis or the violin, to act, swim, compose, paint or write for hours and hours, day after day, for years, because that is when you are most alive, then perhaps you would find what the rest of us think of as a normal childhood confining, frustrating and unnatural?

Is Dakota simply exceptionally gifted, a very young and dedicated actress, with a wisdom beyond her years? Or is she an exceptionally gifted young actress who has been fast-tracked out of childhood by the projects she has been allowed to take on? And if the latter, is this good, bad, or just another variation on real life, so if she's fine, then the rest of us should get off her case?..!

One of her previous directors described Dakota Fanning as 'seven going on forty'. Hounddog director Deborah Kampmeier, whose personal history forms the basis of this film, calls her an 'old soul'. I am almost persuaded that she is indeed just fine with this project. What kind of reaction she may face from her peers remains to be seen. And the press are all over her, with judgements and headlines about her family and her agent.

Other girls have been here before. Eleven-year-old Brooke Shields played a child living in a brothel in Louis Malle's Pretty Baby. At fourteen, Jodie Foster was nominated for an Oscar for her role as a pre-pubescent prostitute in Taxi Driver. Both coped with their roles and the fall-out therefrom, and have grown into well-balanced, creative professionals. Dakota's parents seem very caring and careful of both of their daughters - though I imagine many people will revise that opinion now. Fingers crossed for this extraordinary young actress who comes across in interviews as a wise child, a real professional, and a lovely kid.

This article in Slate raises some questions beyond the immediate 'Should she/they or shouldn't she/they?

How about this: But the truth, as anyone who has recently been to the cinema knows, is that Dakota Fanning has been making dark and creepy movies for years. Over her seven-year career, she has become a small, blond embodiment of America's fond hope that scarred children can be restored to childish innocence. It was only a matter of time before the trauma she faced would be rape.

.,...... In the intensely violent Man on Fire (2004), she is a neglected, love-starved child who is kidnapped for ransom money, and watches her beloved bodyguard (and only true friend) get brutally shot in front of her as she cries his name. She is later rescued, but he dies for her. In Hide and Seek (2005) she plays a troubled 9-year-old whose mother has recently died; terrible things happen, but in the end, she appears to find some relief from her emotional suffering. ... In The War of the Worlds (2005), she watches as aliens destroy her world, transforming it into a landscape literally flowing with blood, and her father kills a man in order to save her life, while she sits nearby. She is brutalized and subdued, but by the film's end—when she reaches the cozy brownstone where her mother is—she appears ready to be absorbed again by the consoling rhythms of domesticity; one feels that even her toys are intact.

Of course, she's also done Dreamer and Charlotte's Web.

However, watching Man on Fire, I could not separate my response to the trauma faced by the character Pita, from my awareness of the 10 year-old handling those scenes, that dialogue. Whenever I see a film, or an episode in a drama series, where child actors are involved in scenes of great violence, cruelty or distress, it troubles me. Occasionally there will be a baby crying in its cot, scarlet and tear-streaked: how do they film this? Who explains motivation to a six-month-old? Is colic a useful quality in the neo-natal actor?

Do parents simply stand back until the shot has been completed satisfactorily, before giving baby a cuddle and singing him a lullaby about his college fund?

What about the toddler standing crying its heart out? Or standing there on the verge of tears. An eighteen-month-old faking heartbreak to order? (Not to be confused with emotional blackmail which is a learnt skill!)











Just one more thing. Remember when Haley Joel Osment cornered the market in the melancholy and the downright miserable (Sixth Sense, AI, Pay It Forward)? In addition to wondering how he coped and, after a while, anticipating the likely mood of any film he appeared in, I remember thinking that he had been cast as much for his vulnerable look as anything else.

I have since become convinced that for a child actor to have a megabucks Hollywood career, as opposed to being cast as Lost Boy 3 or Bad News Bear 17, it helps to have a particular face shape - heartshaped, or with a fine jaw/pointy chin; pale, pale skin; and almost preternaturally wide-spaced eyes. Fey. Elfin. Vulnerable. The sort of face that conveys desolation, fear, pain and grief well, i.e. truthfully (cos the kid does have talent) and attractively, i.e. without doing anything unappealing like turning scarlet and producing noxous fluids from various orifices.

Because Dakota Fanning is not the only child working with dark material: children's movies inhabit a safe world, but in many adult films, children are victims, part of the 'everything' which has to be destroyed so that Hero will take on Villain in a good old-fashioned 97 minute orgy of bullets, car/helicopter/motorbike/roller skate chases and explosions. Our modern fairy tales.

I had a little gallery by way of illustration, but it seems to have e-vaporated. The faces belonged to Dakota Fanning, Haley Joel Osment, Elijah Wood, Christina Ricci and Winona Ryder. Some of them could be siblings, depending on the angle of the photo. I don't mean that the children themselves are gloomy and prone to depression. There are plenty of happy smiling pics. In fact, Dakota Fanning gets my award for World's Best Smile. She's absolutely beaming in most photographs.




















But - if it's ok for these children to play roles in films about domestic abuse, violent crime, cruelty and ignorance, how can we draw the line at sexual violence? Surely, to return to Dakota Fanning's latest film, it's a little late to start worrying about the erosion of her childhood innocence?

To be honest, I'm more concerned with the implications of the Vanity Fair (March 06) Tom Ford photograph of the then 12-year-old in Chanel frock, styled in glam-grunge with those direct, worldly-wise eyes. (Pity Scarlett Johannsson & Keira Knightly, who probably wish they hadn't done that cover!)

This is the age of Manga, and the big-eyed innocent adult child. Of androgynously alluring 'ageless' fairy art. Of three, four and six year-old girls in scaled down adult fashions, with bare shoulders and belly buttons; and teenage girls and young women attempting to live on 3 calories a day to achieve a boyish - androgynous - Size 00. Of children in First World countries being surrounded by images of sexuality, and being sexualised younger and younger, while Third World countries are fighting to eradicate child marriage and enforce a minimum age of consent. Of international paedophile rings and Internet porn, anxiety in the vestry, and front page 'candid' tabloid photographs of knickers straining over celebrity crotches on the lowest shelf at the newsagent's, next to the children's comics. It all adds up to a dangerous blurring of the border territory between childhood and adulthood.

People have always been fascinated by sex. Of course! Sex is a natural part of life, no more nor less, but it has become a dominant, perhaps the dominant cultural theme in the west. Between consenting adults please. There have always been teenage preganancies, often the result of consensual sex, despite minimum legal ages and statutory rape laws. Rates have been falling, as a result of better sex-education and realistic public health attitudes to contraception. Nowadays, though, our healthy, well-nourished children reach puberty younger and younger, with 9 year-olds sprouting in all directions. But they're still children. Mentally and emotionally.

However, with this blurring - insidious and blatant at the same time - of what constitutes childhood, childlike behaviour, interests and activities; and what is unmistakeably the preserve of the adult, we put our children in danger. If magazines, films and fashion houses are making children sexually self-aware earlier and earlier, some of our sprouting nine-year-olds may find themselves in very dangerous territory by the time they are eleven. And it may only be a matter of time before some cretin stands up in court and says of his young victim, 'She asked for it.' and genuinely thinks he has a case, because she walked the walk, and talked the talk. Never mind that she was just copying behaviour she'd seen in a film, or in her big sister.

Never mind that she was at least five years away from the age of consent.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Penguin

What is it about penguins?

When I was a child, McVities urged us to P-pick up a Penguin! A P-p-p-penguin!








Later I remember my mother coming home with Sirdar yarns to make us cardigans, jumpers, hats and gloves in beautiful colours, but for speciality yarns, it was Pingouin. (Both syllables rhyme with the French pain, producing a sort of placid quacking sound.) Mind you, she absolutely detests knitting with the hair of the Mo, so our jumpers were usually Sirdar double knit, and the more exotic yarns were reserved as texture detail in her luscious wool tapestries.

When Habibibaba was a toddler, the picture that made our one chick feel cosy was of an Emperor Penguin family. Hardly surprising, really. And in his duffel coat, he had the proportions of a penguin chick!



















Then along came Pingu. Given half a chance, we would all watch Pingu!









When we moved to Dubai, my mother, realising we might need an antidote to all this sand, started sending us cards from Paper House's Eric the Penguin range. Here's one that she missed, just for Habibi!




















Then last year, out came:
which I still haven't seen, but I'll get to it sometime soon (anything involving Morgan Freeman - ooh!).

















And today, Habibi and I took my birthday cinema ticket vouchers and went to the IMAX to see



Aaah!















Great fun. If you haven't seen it yet, I shan't spoil it for you. My thoughts are on the comments page!

After we came out, Habibi disappeared into a shop to do something secret (No, not shoplifting! Huh!) and I found a seat in Costa's from which I could watch the world go by, and ordered an espresso. I am so glad I did.

A little Chinese boy, aged about four, must have just been to see Happy Feet, because he started dancing, quite oblivious to the rest of us. He had all the movements too: arms out to the side like penguin wings, skittering feet, turns, travelling sideways and back again, all with a private smile of pleasure on his face; he was a natural, and it was just gorgeous to watch him so wrapped up in the moves, and the music in his head. After a while, his father appeared with a half-filled shopping trolley and indicated that his son should climb up into the seat. Up he got quite happily and away they went. They were out of sight by the time Habibi got back. Shame!

Sunday, September 24, 2006

A bit of a rant, I suppose. (Blogging again!)

Did I ever mention that I'm a literature snob?

Well, I am.

Not that I have any grounds for supercilious glances over my prescription lorgnette. If something has won the Booker or a Pullitzer Prize, it's more than likely that I haven't read it. Mine is not a subtle mind: I can discuss theme, metaphor and analogy, but I prefer a good story with characters I can care about, and I read with my feelings as much as my intellect. Give me troubles faced, solutions found, and an ending that's a resolution and a new beginning. But don't patronise me. I may not be subtle. I may be lazy. But I'm not stupid.

From the classic cannon I love Henry Fielding, Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell. I loathe D.H. Lawrence and Thomas Hardy with a passion born of having my nose rubbed in their misery at school. Everyone told me that Tess of the D'Urbevilles dies in the end, but so transfixed was I by her character and predicament that I read on willing it to be different in my copy. Needless to say, I was disgusted with Thomas Hardy, the sanctimonious git, and have never read another of his books. Now that I'm grown up and sensible, with a handle on his purpose in writing what he did, I know I ought to set aside my seventeen-year-old self and try his other works. Jude the Obscure looks interesting. However, I can't get past his basic premise, which appears to be that life's a bitch and then you die. Is this really where I want to spend my weekend? Hardy fans, please recommend your favourite, and I'll go get myself a copy.

However, I draw the line at D.H. Bloody Lawrence. What possesses exam boards to inflict 'Sons & Lovers' on unwary yoof? Grim, grim, grindingly grim. So he had a miserable childhood: if he'd been American, he'd have got therapy, but being English he had to grim and bare it, so he wrote the book. Ok if it made him feel better. You go, David. But why put thousands of adolescent English Lit students through it? Volcanic acne, looming exam pressure, tumultous hormones, and D. H. Lawrence too? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghghghghgh....... noooooooooooo.... please.....

I've heard the mutterings about the dumbing down of exams and courses, and the need to expose yoof to Great Literature, but for goodness sake, has it got to be miserable to be worthwhile? Welcome to adult life, boys and girls, and this term we're studying blood and circuses, or the married state; next term focuses on sexual repression and social hypocrisy; and we'll finish with existentialism, maybe even a little nihilism if you're really good. Good grief! Compassion please!

Now that I think about it, they ought to make 'It's Grim Up North' a sub-genre. Lawrence reigns supreme on the literary front, but Emily Bronte must come a close second. But what about the British films of the 90s? Raining Stones (1993) Brassed Off (1996), The Full Monty (1997), even Billy Elliott (2000). Interestingly, the late twentieth century film market being rather different from the late nineteenth/early twentieth century literary market, all of these portraits of the 80s death throes of British industry and the communities it sustained are full of humour. Funny, that.

BIG TANGENT: There are many people who hold that Margaret Thatcher's premiership (1979 to 1990) was a good thing. I believe that she started well, having the nerve to take on a network of unions which, decades after their establishment as the foundation of dignity in the workplace, were complacent, greedy, out of control. I also believe that, had she known when to stop, Margaret Thatcher might have saved Britain's industrial base, but of course that's not how things turned out.

In a 1987 interview, when England was giddy with consumerism and the cult of the designer kettle, Margaret Thatcher famously said of society, 'there's no such thing! Only individuals and families'. Having lived most of my life in the north of England, where the towns that had developed, and the cities that had flourished, around steelmaking, coalmining and related trades and commerce, were by this time on their knees, I heard this with great bitterness, as her personal legacy. I include the speech, which includes several home truths about a culture of dependence which needed to be addressed - but what I still don't see how killing the patient counts as a cure.

There, aren't we glad I got that off my chest? Better out than in, as my warty old wet nurse used to cackle, while warming my 'andful of 'ot gravel over a dung fire. Eeeh Ugly Aggie, where are ye now, ye cracked cow? Bless. (You never forget Nursie.)

End of Tangent.

Books? Some other time.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Picasso, Salsa & WWF (pointless title - Pozuuuurrr)

It's been a good day.

Back to school, starting in the heaving staffroom before transferring to the canteen for coffee and hot croissants. The croissants arrived fashionably late, just as the babble of dozens of catch-up conversations was reaching the point where no-one could actually hear what anyone else was saying. Relief all round, and yes, I had two soft and steamy zaatar croissants - this was breakfast after all, since I couldn't face food when the alarm went off at seven. Next week it will be going off at six, so I've got a week to get my act together. Urk.

Meetings, timetables, all the usual first day stuff. Heavy on the admin, but that's part of what what this week is for, so I have no complaints. I stayed a couple of hours extra to tie in with Habibi driving back from a meeting. My husband looks after me. He was well impressed with the wild new colours in our corridor. The Arts building is the most vivid I've seen so far - citrus green walls with lilac doors and purple door-frames. We grown-ups are not quite sure about this yet, but the kids are going to love it. I've heard that the Maths & Science corridors are something to behold, but I'm saving them as a pick-me-up for later in the week, when I've had one meeting too many. I shall let you know.

So what did I do when I got home? The usual. Crashed on the sofa for an hour or so, undisturbed by Habibi working on. He's resigned to this by now. When we were young and beautiful and falling in loooooooove, I used to get to his place at the end of a day and crash out in any available space. He called me 'the incredible sleeping woman' and has photos to prove his point. At least it also confirmed that sometimes I do go quiet, and a man needs to know that about the woman in his life. Oh okay! - this man, this woman....

But what can I do? I never sleep properly the night before we go back; I'm too full of anticipation. Last night was so hopeless that I got up some time after two, made myself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and watched 'Surviving Picasso' on ONE. Natascha McElhone and Anthony Hopkins. That woman is ravishing.

I have a theory that great artists are more likely than those of us in the middle of the graph to be bloody-minded, self-absorbed gits, just because they only perceive normal stuff like food, sleep, relationships and personal hygiene as a waste of precious time, and of hard-earned cash that ought to be be spent on the really important stuff like oil paints, manuscript paper and The Violin. Or because the unsung genius goes gaga from malnutrition (ok, drink!) while the critics' darling starts believing his own publicity. Picasso appears to have matched at least some of that particular sweeping generalisation!

(I think I may have said this before. If so, I promise not to say it again.)

So what on earth am I blogging after midnight for again? Well I've been to the gym again, haven't I? Sooooo I am floating along on my own salsa-induced endorphin cushion, and good for another half hour and a glass of red wine. (You have to get your anti-oxidants, don't you?)

I went down yesterday for the first time since June, and did a circuit that took in the treadmill and the cross-trainer (I still don't get it, but at least I don't fall off anymore.) plus assorted instruments of sit-down designer-torture. Great! After an hour and a half, I was thinking about heading home when they announced a Bodybalance class in half an hour. Ooh yeah. I liiiiike the gym. (And toniiiiiiiiight I liiiiiiiike playing with vooooooooooooowels. Don't worry. It will pass.)

And on the way out I picked up the new timetable, and saw that Salsa was due to start tonight. Yay! A very dear and vivacious friend has been doing salsa for a couple of years now, and loves it. I love the idea, but not enough to cross town around bedtime(!)

SO..... Salsa at 8.30 tonight, with Seif: an engaging teacher who got all umpty-twelve of us stepping and swaying through the basic forward, back and side movements, right and left turns, and fifth position (I've just cut my attempt to explain fifth - easier just to do it.), plus a good demo from a couple who teach elsewhere. I have to say, though, that I found the woman very mechanical.

(Tangent Alert) I think some dancers pay a price for years of ballet training through the grade exams. I've known devoted dancers who work so hard at their technique, that they are never fully 'there' in the simple joy of dancing. Tthe conscious exercising of technique, the demonstration of a 'routine', always shows. Of course, for others, graded classes and exams represent those hours when they are most supremely alive, a framework that enables them to dance, and dance their whole lives. (Have you seen Billy Elliott? Think of his audition, when he has to articulate what dance means to him. There.) Systems and individuals.

Still, to return to the demonstration dance, a bunch of strangers in sweats and trainers, in a brightly lit studio that has just emptied of dozens of sweaty Bodypumpers is hardly the ultimate 'invitation to the dance'. It's hardly surprising if the 'moment' you're in is that one an hour hence, when you're all meeting for a drink and a laugh after class. Still, these guys showed us some serious moves. Fun!

I had a really good time wiggling my ample tush in a humanely baggy teeshirt, and as long as I didn't pay too much attention to that woman in the mirror (who follows me into lifts and bathrooms all over Dubai - no consideration) I was completely in my dancing moment!

Bonus (FYI Mme. Cyn) Reggie was there, looking good, too! Of course, he always did...

Reggie played the alternative hero in a panto I wrote and directed for Dubai Drama Group some five years ago. In my version it was a WWF wrestler who woke Sleeping Beauty with a kiss, though he was much more interested in the pantomime dame, Signora Peperoni, than in some well-preserved nymphette. (It's got my prints all over it, hasn't it?) Anyway, Reggie was absolutely fab as
the Monarch of the Mat,
the Khan of the Canvas,
the Sultan of Slam,
Montezumaaaaaaahhh!

(cue song)
He's got the muscles of the desert puma.
We love the big guy. Give him a satsuma!
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Montezuma!

I shall be emailing cyber-lollies to anyone who can Name That Tune.
(Not you Mme. Cyn! Though you will always be The Most Fabulous Fairy of Them All.)

G'night!

Bloody hell, it's 1.27! Crepe.Crepe.Crepe!

Plenty of link opportunities on this one, but you know about Billy Elliott, Salsa and Fitness First. If you don't know about Dubai Drama Group, they're doing one of my favourite farces, Run For Your Wife, at Dubai Community Theatre, very soon. I'll check and get back to you. (Mme Cyn? Grumpy Old Goat? Adventures in Dubai? Any other thespians in the know? When are DDG doing Run For Your Wife?)

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Back to School

Whoosh! Is it the weekend yet? I gave a pretty good impression of the walking dead this morning. And there's a mirror in our lift - no fair!

How can this be? We only went back yesterday, and I'd been in three days through the break with kids rehearsing their assessed performances, so it's not as if I've been in Hawaii for three weeks and rolled in jetlagged. It must be this unnatural business of getting up at 6 in the a.m. Eurgh...

Howsoever, it's been a good couple of days: two new groups of younger students all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Grade 11 GCSE drama students relaxed having finished all GCSE coursework - they're on revision leave for the rest of their subjects from the end of next week - IB Theatre Arts students' admin done and coursework despatched today - they've got an exam on Thursday and they start their study leave next week. Meanwhile the Grade 10 GCSE students are hyper because they're on stage with original devised work next week, and thinking about costumes, lighting, set - maybe a bit more rehearsal....?...

I let the Grade 11s chill last period yesterday - they worked so hard for their performance exams just before the break - Sophocles & Wilde! - and dragged them up to wardrobe for a major sort-out this morning. Major progress. Good.

Really interesting project with the IB1s (1st year of an A-Level equivalent course). We're doing Kabuki as a World Theatre tradition, and they're going to perform an abridged kabuki comedy, Shibaraku (English translation), late next month, so they've been researching their own costumes, getting fabric samples and talking to tailors. Today was about wigs: we don't have a budget for gorgeous black-haired wigs, but kabuki is highly stylised and you just can't do it without the wigs to balance the costumes - so they will be making their own. Miiiiss?! Uhuh.

Of course, this means I've got to make a couple too, as models for those who are not at all craft-minded and will therefore need back-up if they're struggling. Habibi will be thrilled - papier mâché and foam rubber all over the apartment again. Still, it won't be as bad as when we did Pinocchia (female lead), which required eight nightmarish donkey heads, or Arabian Nights (wallpaper paste dripping all over the balcony as the Roc head and various other things dried on their balloons - much more slowly than expected because of unseasonal humidity. At least it was Ramadan so Habibi couldn't smoke out there anyway?). Then there was whatever it was that required six badgers: I think I'm over the anthropomorphic phase now, but I do like these excuses for mucking about with glue, cardboard boxes and felt!

I enjoy teaching World Theatre, because I learn such a lot in preparation. I did kathakali with a couple of year groups (Keralite dance drama - if you're not from India, you've perhaps seen pics of figures with bright green faces and tall golden crowns). And commedia dell'arte, which is great fun - precursor of European circus clowns, Charlie Chaplin and Mr Bean! Kabuki is a new departure, and very beautiful - breathtaking use of colour in costume and set - but from an unfamiliar musical tradition, and with an acting-style that to western eyes is physically slow, and by turns very understated and almost melodramatic; and the samurai honour code is the basis for some very cruel stories. And yes, I'm hooked, by way of excellent books and DVDs (Habibi winces and wears headphones) and the students, bemused at first, appear to really enjoy working their way into the physical style and vocal techniques. You can only do so much, and then only approximately, but they're bright kids, and are generally intrigued by these excursions into other traditions, aesthetics and cultural perspectives - and practical work can be very entertaining! I'll post some pics (not of the kids) if I remember, but there are excellent sites with video and audioclips, and dipping into The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon is helping to set it in context. Spot the teacher. I only meant to do a round-up of my day - you know - blogging!

Anyway, briefing after school for a sort of academic bonding session with the IB1s on the East Coast this weekend. I'm just going for the Thursday session - extended essay workshop and a good lunch. The 10s want to rehearse this weekend (Nooooooooo!!!!!), and we don't like to discourage them, but I was really relieved that they didn't want to do Friday - I've got a mess to make on the balcony! (The UAE weekend is Thursday and Friday, by the way.)

We were supposed to go out tonight. Dubai has this wonderful Concert Committee which organises regular free concerts by classical musicians and singers down at the Crowne Plaza Hotel. Tonight was to be bass-baritone Willard White with a wonderful programme that included Mozart, Verdi, Rodgers, Gershwin and Copland. I really really wanted to go (love M, G & C), but Habibi was too busy and tired, and I was just too tired. An 8 o'clock concert mid-week, with grim traffic both ways....... the flesh is weak.

So tonight, after crashing on the sofa for at least an hour (til Habibi woke me for sherry (fish!) fillets perfectly grilled with dill, with roast potato slices and delicate petits pois & green beans...... he's so good.....) I watched Hanabusa Shûjaku Jishi and Sumidagawa (well I did! It's term-time, right?!) followed by the Richard Gere/Stanley Tucci/Susan Sarandon/Jennifer Lopez/very-strong-ensemble-cast-but-I'm-running-out-of-space-here 'Shall We Dance?' because it was time to watch that film again. Really good. And now I'm off to bed. Except I'd better wash up first.

Goodnight all.