Tropfest. Don't worry - it's not art.
If you were worried about the content of Tropfest 2009, these promo words from Jon Polson should have been of comfort:
Don’t worry. These are not arty films about some guy’s poetry
Now I KNOW you're trying to pull a mainstream crowd Jon. And I get that in order for the live telecast to fly you need thousands of screaming fans at the Domain, BUT ...
Is there not room for art in film making?
Is there not a place for poetry?
Wouldn't it be cool if you - as one of the more influential bods in Australia's film industry with a big voice and platform - could maybe NOT contribute to the nation wide suspicion of ART that we have going on in this country?
I don't mean you have to put on a festival filled with ARTy films.
I understand that's not what Tropfest is about.
Tropfest is about short, snappy, easy to consume films that make people giggle, laugh, sigh, cry, whoop, holler and cheer. Nice and loud now for the cameras!
And that's cool. The festival is what it is. It attracts the followers it attracts. But come on, film making is a big, weird and wonderful world.
There’s room for Art and Poetry, Jon. Rather than talk about them as if they are to film making whatsharks are to safety beaches, do like good marine biologists do and acknowledge their inherent beauty and value – as long as they are kept at a safe distance.
So that even if art and poetry remain strange, exotic and dangerous creatures to much of the mainstream public, at least they will start to see connections between:
art and cinema
poetry and story
artists and film makers.
And they’ll accept it because you said it and you and Tropfest are both way cool.
You don't need to feel threatened by Art, Jon. Or scared of a public that is. Instead, take them by the hand and guide them through a small section of uncharted waters.
Surely the world's biggest short film festival can manage that.
Let there be Art.
What Aussies Do
Aussies look after Aussies
That's what Nicole and Keith told me
Clutching each other and peering down the camera barrel from their Aussie home on the other side of the world, a thousand miles away
It is a relief to be told so clear, so firm, so true
After all Nicole is the face of Australia, so she must know what it is that we do
And now Mr Howard is no longer our leader I simply don't hear often enough, or learn, or see
What it is that makes me Me
Human
Female
De facto
Urban dwelling
But what Aussie else? What Aussie outlook? What Aussie attitude? What Aussie identity?
And now I know, now I understand, now I see
I just need half a million dollars, a national disaster and a live feed
To remind me what it is to be
Aussie!
Aussie!
Aussie!
Bushfires and Leonard Cohen
Victoria Burns
Two words, that launch a week of personal tragedy for many and public expressions of grief for countless more.
Echoes of tsunami, 9/11, Princess Diana, JFK ... moments where events beyond our control tap into personal reservoirs of sorrow and community outpourings of compassion.
A deeply painful experience for those who have lived the devastation of the bushfires. And for those of us who have been lucky enough not to, the strange, the surreal, the swept away emotions, some of which are our own and some of which we beg, borrow and steal. To try and be connected. To try and understand.
Perhaps a more reserved, reflective pace of compassion is called for at these times. So that the individual losses of people do not become transformed into the almost meaningless mania the media would propogate.
In this, among this, wise words from one who is one of the best in the world at putting words together. At his Melbourne concert, Leonard Cohen observes that:
'Some pain is too deep, some sorrow too great for words. The best we can do is provide food, clothing and shelter to those who are in need.'
And offers this as we leave the hallowed halls of his words and music at the end of the night:
'May you be surrounded by family and friends. And if you are not, may the blessings find you in your solitude.'
A simple prayer.
Sometimes that is the best we can do.
A version of this article has been published on e-zine 360boom.
On those days
When you have dry eyes
and your muscles quiver at the weight of your flesh
the creatures are circling in your stomach trying to get out
And you’re not sure why
It’s just Monday
or April
coffee
or the washing up
A phone call from your mother
unfinished business with your boss
the lingering doubt of a comment you made
a battle lost
or a talk you have to have
The anniversary of a death, or a birth, a beginning or an end
Unpaid bills
or peeling window sills that will cost $5,000 each to repair
a party of pregnant friends when you’re not even having sex
shoes that don’t quite fit
an empty fridge
soft tummy fat that no amount of crunches will diminish
Family fighting
fluorescent lighting
the things that creep you and wrap you and grip you at three in the morning when you’re alone in your bed
the wired insomniac energy that drives you through the morning and collapses you at ten past three into fatigue beyond repair
When you first realise you are afraid of dying
The void
The terror that you will get there and not know what to do
On those days ...
Flush the crawling nausea in your chest and neck with warm tea
allow to settle
eat a little something salty
or a little something sweet
sit calmly in an upright position and
Brush
the inside of your left arm
softly
with your right fingers
Again
Once more
There.
High Achievers
The large sign out the front of the school
proclaims:
High Achievers
It is inspiring
it is awesome
it pulls me in
I pull over in my car and get out
I walk over to the sign
The letters are BIG
powerful
uncompromising
and then I see them
in teeny tiny print way down in the bottom right corner of the gigantic proclamation
Dr J Healy
Consulting Psychiatrist
For all personality disorders, specialising in narcissistic, delusional, deep seated dissatisfaction and inconsolable depression
And a phone number
Someone has been thinking ahead.
Gathering a global ego
Gather ... gather ... gather ...
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may?
No.
Gather ye two Golden Globe Awards and Public Quivering Expressions of Celebrity Love.
Gather ye Public Adulation and Industry Adoration for ... doing your job.
A fine job.
An excellent job.
But a job – much like rose petals – that is sweet and ephemeral and surely is its own reward.
How many people beat the masses of hopeful wannabes, the scores of drama school prodigies, to make it to the top of the heap, not only working, year in year out at a job most don’t get a whiff of their entire lives, but working shiny like a star, with fans and contracts and money and roles gathering near and far.
A few special, gifted, precious petals.
And you are one.
Isn’t that enough?
Grateful to be employed. To be loved.
Gather your Wits and Spare us the Histrionics.
Smile. Say thank you.
And not to the Celebrity Men who love you.
To the ordinary men and women who pay you.
Attention, loyalty, admiration, respect ... and your paycheck.
By spending their ordinary money, earned at ordinary labours not necessarily of love, for which there are no awards, no adulation, no ceremony, no red carpet, no air brushing, no fanfare, no tears and no statues.
Thank them.
And please, quietly, with dignity, gather your sophisticated black about you and gather yourself off the stage.
The beginning
The Strawberry Tree is a slow growing plant.
Some days I'd love to be a speedy snap dragon, a vase of gerberas, a dozen long stemmed red roses.
But maybe there's something to be said for being a big old tree, not found everywhere, that takes a long time to grow and might surprise people with unexpected beauty in the middle of a park on a summer afternoon.