This movie should have been titled "Nottingham Origins: Robin Hood." That's not a compliment. What we got here is a grim war movie that serves as prelude to Robin Hood's heyday in Sherwood Forest. Problem is, I don't much care how Robin Hood became Robin Hood. I'd rather he just got down to business. Russell Crowe is already pushing 50 and looks it. If this is a setup for a Robin Hood franchise starring Crowe, we're in trouble and so are his knees. As with any Ridley Scott flick, it looks great, can be gripping at times, but isn't exactly fun. Cate Blanchett does what she can to liven things up, as does Oscar Isaac as Prince John The Swarthy, and if the whole movie were anywhere near as cool as the animated end title sequence, we might have had something here. But is isn't, and we don't.
So there.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
ROBZ N THE HOOD
Someday, I will make The Ultimate Robin Hood Movie, or at least, My Version of the Ultimate Robin Hood Movie. I am hardly unique in the desire to bring this medieval tale to the big screen. Moviemakers have been visiting and revisiting Sherwood Forest since the silent era, and with good reason. Everyone likes Robin Hood. He’s a dashing, charming rogue with mad archery skillz who robs the rich, feeds the poor, and gets the girl. What’s not to like?
As with all timeless tales, each generation gets the Robin Hood they deserve. The story works fine on its own, allowing filmmakers to highlight the concerns, styles and trends of their own particular eras.
Ever seen a Bollywood movie? For the uninitiated, Bollywood is India’s film industry, the world’s most prolific, which produces hundreds of movies each year. Typical Bollywood productions are fanciful extravaganzas filled with music, chaste romance and bloodless adventure made to appeal to vast swaths of humanity, including millions living in wretched poverty. With its dazzling colors and innocent romanticism, The Adventures of Robin Hood could comfortably share a double bill with the latest offering from Bombay.
If you want evidence as to why the Hollywood (with an “H”) studio system peaked during the Great Depression, this movie could serve as Exhibit A. It is relentlessly cheerful, optimistic and colorful in ways that are laughable for a modern American audience, but it must have picked up the spirits of the impoverished back in the day. With athletic swagger and wise-ass quips, Errol Flynn bounces through every scene like a gazelle (albeit a bright green Bedazzled™ gazelle). His band of Merry Men aren’t so much a forest-dwelling guerilla squad as a bunch of good-humored drinking buddies who swing on vines in goofy outfits whilst redistributing wealth to the masses. What downtrodden Hooverville resident (or Slumdog) wouldn’t want to join these scamps in their quest to stick it to The Man? Olivia de Havilland is every inch the damsel in distress, and her own goofy outfits range in style from Sparkly Habit to Sequined Swiss Miss. “England” never looked as sunny as it does in this movie. It all seems rather cartoonish today, but America needed a cartoon back then, just like India does now.
And speaking of cartoons…
Robin Hood (1973) Directed by Wolfgang Reitherman
Walt Disney died in 1966, and with him went the lush, vivid, and expensive animation style that made his studio famous. Lots of animation buffs see the years following Uncle Walt’s demise as a lackluster time for the studio. I respectfully disagree with them. Sure, movies like The Aristocats, The Rescuers and The Fox and the Hound may not have the same dazzling production values of the Disney “classics” of old, but they also lack those films’ pretentiousness. The Disney movies of the 1970s have a shaggy charm about them. Rather than grandly executed fairy tales, they are modest bedtime stories more likely to give you a good chuckle than to inspire awe. And Robin Hood is the best of the bunch.
Ooh De Lally, would I like to know what they were smoking during the Robin Hood brainstorming sessions (it was the early 70s, after all)! I imagine the pitch going like this: “Okay, so we’re gonna do Robin Hood, but with animals instead of people. And it’s gonna be a Western. And there’s gonna be a hoedown in Sherwood Forest. And drag humor. And boob jokes.” And that’s exactly what they did. The choice to make each character an animal underlines their personalities in a playful and effective way (Robin Hood is a sly fox, Little John is a big-hearted bear, Richard the Lionhearted is, uh, a lion). The dialogue is hilarious, particularly the banter between Peter Ustinov’s Prince John and Terry-Thomas’ Sir Hiss (name me another Disney flick with memorable comic repartee, besides Aladdin), and the songs are terrific. The whole movie feels like it was made by a bunch of good-humored hippies who had just watched M*A*S*H. And that’s a good thing.
Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) Directed (more or less) by Kevin Reynolds
I know it’s hard to believe, kids, but twenty years ago Kevin Costner was the hottest star in Hollywood. He was on a massive winning streak – The Untouchables, Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, and his personal best Dances With Wolves all came out in the space of four years. He was the All-American Movie Star with two Oscars to boot. So when the chance to star as Robin Hood came along, he wasn’t going to let his limited acting range and unmistakably Californian accent stand in his way (to be fair, Errol Flynn wasn’t the greatest of actors either). Thus, the world was given Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. I loved this movie when I was twelve. Back then, I didn’t much care that Old Kev-bo sounded more like a surfer than a Saxon nobleman. The action was good, the settings were appropriately gritty, and Alan Rickman made a hilarious and kick-ass Sheriff of Nottingham.
Now that I am old and jaded, however, the film’s flaws are easier to spot. It was a notoriously rushed and difficult production, and it shows. Tonally, the movie is all over the place and its oh-so-1990s stabs at political correctness come across as half-assed. Morgan Freeman’s exotic and educated Moor helpfully introduces the Merry Men to the wonders of telescopes and gunpowder, yet has no wants or ambitions of his own other than protecting the hero’s life. Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio’s Maid Marian is introduced as a masked warrior who nearly cuts Robin to pieces, and is then stuck as a vulnerable damsel for the rest of the movie. Worst of all, when the Sheriff attempts to rape her (!), it seems to be played for laughs. Yuck!
And then there is Kev-bo’s monstrous ego that radiates through every frame. Rumor has it that he and the producers took over the editing of the film, and man, does this movie love Kevin Fucking Costner! When he gives what is supposed to be a rousing speech calling the Marry Men to action, he comes off more like a schoolyard bully bending the weaker kids to his will than a charismatic leader of men. And that damn waterfall scene! Maid Marian stumbles upon a nude Robin taking a dip and gazes longingly at his manly physique (well, partially his physique – a stunt butt was employed). Even in his heyday, I don’t recall Kev-bo being known for his sexy bod. Hell, that very summer a couple of doors down in the multiplex, Brad Pitt was putting all mankind’s bodies to shame in Thelma & Louise, so that lingering gaze on Marian’s face is just a bit much. Get over yourself, Kev.
Such was the way of the world in 1991. How quickly the times change.
So, on Friday I will be off to see Ridley & Russell’s take on the Sherwood Bandit. Of course, it will never be as good as My Version of the Ultimate Robin Hood Movie, but it could be pretty awesome, nonetheless. I am always willing to give Robin Hood the benefit of the doubt, and I’ll be there. With tights on.
As with all timeless tales, each generation gets the Robin Hood they deserve. The story works fine on its own, allowing filmmakers to highlight the concerns, styles and trends of their own particular eras.
In 2010, we are about to get Ridley Scott’s version. Judging from the trailer, it looks epic, humorless and violent, with curiously mature actors filling out the leads. With all due respect to Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett, I have always envisioned Robin Hood and Maid Marian as passionate young lovers rather than 40-something Oscar-winners. Sir Ridley continues the ironic tradition of casting a non-Englishman as that most English of heroes (weird, isn’t it). I have my concerns (a shiny-armored Maid Marian riding into battle?). But hey, it’s still a Robin Hood movie, so I’ll be sure to check it out. But before I go, I felt that I should look back on some earlier cinematic versions of the Robin Hood tlegend, and see what they could tell me about their time periods.
The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) Directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley
The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) Directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley
Ever seen a Bollywood movie? For the uninitiated, Bollywood is India’s film industry, the world’s most prolific, which produces hundreds of movies each year. Typical Bollywood productions are fanciful extravaganzas filled with music, chaste romance and bloodless adventure made to appeal to vast swaths of humanity, including millions living in wretched poverty. With its dazzling colors and innocent romanticism, The Adventures of Robin Hood could comfortably share a double bill with the latest offering from Bombay.
If you want evidence as to why the Hollywood (with an “H”) studio system peaked during the Great Depression, this movie could serve as Exhibit A. It is relentlessly cheerful, optimistic and colorful in ways that are laughable for a modern American audience, but it must have picked up the spirits of the impoverished back in the day. With athletic swagger and wise-ass quips, Errol Flynn bounces through every scene like a gazelle (albeit a bright green Bedazzled™ gazelle). His band of Merry Men aren’t so much a forest-dwelling guerilla squad as a bunch of good-humored drinking buddies who swing on vines in goofy outfits whilst redistributing wealth to the masses. What downtrodden Hooverville resident (or Slumdog) wouldn’t want to join these scamps in their quest to stick it to The Man? Olivia de Havilland is every inch the damsel in distress, and her own goofy outfits range in style from Sparkly Habit to Sequined Swiss Miss. “England” never looked as sunny as it does in this movie. It all seems rather cartoonish today, but America needed a cartoon back then, just like India does now.
And speaking of cartoons…
Robin Hood (1973) Directed by Wolfgang Reitherman
Walt Disney died in 1966, and with him went the lush, vivid, and expensive animation style that made his studio famous. Lots of animation buffs see the years following Uncle Walt’s demise as a lackluster time for the studio. I respectfully disagree with them. Sure, movies like The Aristocats, The Rescuers and The Fox and the Hound may not have the same dazzling production values of the Disney “classics” of old, but they also lack those films’ pretentiousness. The Disney movies of the 1970s have a shaggy charm about them. Rather than grandly executed fairy tales, they are modest bedtime stories more likely to give you a good chuckle than to inspire awe. And Robin Hood is the best of the bunch.
Ooh De Lally, would I like to know what they were smoking during the Robin Hood brainstorming sessions (it was the early 70s, after all)! I imagine the pitch going like this: “Okay, so we’re gonna do Robin Hood, but with animals instead of people. And it’s gonna be a Western. And there’s gonna be a hoedown in Sherwood Forest. And drag humor. And boob jokes.” And that’s exactly what they did. The choice to make each character an animal underlines their personalities in a playful and effective way (Robin Hood is a sly fox, Little John is a big-hearted bear, Richard the Lionhearted is, uh, a lion). The dialogue is hilarious, particularly the banter between Peter Ustinov’s Prince John and Terry-Thomas’ Sir Hiss (name me another Disney flick with memorable comic repartee, besides Aladdin), and the songs are terrific. The whole movie feels like it was made by a bunch of good-humored hippies who had just watched M*A*S*H. And that’s a good thing.
Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) Directed (more or less) by Kevin Reynolds
I know it’s hard to believe, kids, but twenty years ago Kevin Costner was the hottest star in Hollywood. He was on a massive winning streak – The Untouchables, Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, and his personal best Dances With Wolves all came out in the space of four years. He was the All-American Movie Star with two Oscars to boot. So when the chance to star as Robin Hood came along, he wasn’t going to let his limited acting range and unmistakably Californian accent stand in his way (to be fair, Errol Flynn wasn’t the greatest of actors either). Thus, the world was given Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. I loved this movie when I was twelve. Back then, I didn’t much care that Old Kev-bo sounded more like a surfer than a Saxon nobleman. The action was good, the settings were appropriately gritty, and Alan Rickman made a hilarious and kick-ass Sheriff of Nottingham.
Now that I am old and jaded, however, the film’s flaws are easier to spot. It was a notoriously rushed and difficult production, and it shows. Tonally, the movie is all over the place and its oh-so-1990s stabs at political correctness come across as half-assed. Morgan Freeman’s exotic and educated Moor helpfully introduces the Merry Men to the wonders of telescopes and gunpowder, yet has no wants or ambitions of his own other than protecting the hero’s life. Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio’s Maid Marian is introduced as a masked warrior who nearly cuts Robin to pieces, and is then stuck as a vulnerable damsel for the rest of the movie. Worst of all, when the Sheriff attempts to rape her (!), it seems to be played for laughs. Yuck!
And then there is Kev-bo’s monstrous ego that radiates through every frame. Rumor has it that he and the producers took over the editing of the film, and man, does this movie love Kevin Fucking Costner! When he gives what is supposed to be a rousing speech calling the Marry Men to action, he comes off more like a schoolyard bully bending the weaker kids to his will than a charismatic leader of men. And that damn waterfall scene! Maid Marian stumbles upon a nude Robin taking a dip and gazes longingly at his manly physique (well, partially his physique – a stunt butt was employed). Even in his heyday, I don’t recall Kev-bo being known for his sexy bod. Hell, that very summer a couple of doors down in the multiplex, Brad Pitt was putting all mankind’s bodies to shame in Thelma & Louise, so that lingering gaze on Marian’s face is just a bit much. Get over yourself, Kev.
Such was the way of the world in 1991. How quickly the times change.
So, on Friday I will be off to see Ridley & Russell’s take on the Sherwood Bandit. Of course, it will never be as good as My Version of the Ultimate Robin Hood Movie, but it could be pretty awesome, nonetheless. I am always willing to give Robin Hood the benefit of the doubt, and I’ll be there. With tights on.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
LAZY BLOGGING PART IV, WITH JAMES LIPTON
I promise to do some real writing soon. Until then, here's something to make you giggle.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
THE SECRET OF GREAT ACTING
I have a Love/Hate relationship with Inside The Actors Studio. On one hand, James Lipton coaxes some great interviews out of his guests. On the other hand, many of those guests get mind-blowingly pretentious about "The Method" and "Their Craft." Sure, there are some great actors out there and just as many ways to conjure up a good performance. But at the end of the day it's all just... well, I'll let Sir Ian McKellen explain it.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
THREE YEARS GONE
Today marks the third year anniversary of the day I took of for the Southern Hemisphere. As I look out my window, I see the same autumnal colors that bade me farewell back then, and its impossible for me to not get nostalgic. I can still picture the mist rolling over the mountains of New Zealand as my plane made its way into Auckland. The excitement of living on my own in a new country was raging through me. Yes, I did and saw some amazing stuff, but it all would have been pretty empty if I weren't sharing the experiences with some awesome people. And I miss those people terribly and it pisses me off that I can't just meet up with them at John Harvard's tonight.
I'd give you more of my Backpacker's Withdrawal Spiel, but thankfully Australian blogger Ben Groundwater sums my mood up perfectly in the article below, so I can go back to being the lazy American blogger that I have become. Enjoy.
I'd give you more of my Backpacker's Withdrawal Spiel, but thankfully Australian blogger Ben Groundwater sums my mood up perfectly in the article below, so I can go back to being the lazy American blogger that I have become. Enjoy.
THE WORST THING ABOUT TRAVELLING
I used to know a tour bus driver who loved telling people he was "world famous".
"I know people all over the world," he'd tell his latest bunch of wide-eyed tour passengers, "so I reckon that makes me world famous."
The guy was no Bono, but he had a point. He did know people from all over the world, fellow travellers he could call his friends - as could most people who've spent a bit of time overseas.
We've all got the odd mate in England, friends in Germany, people we could call on in the US, a couple of Dutchies we'd like to hang out with again, some South Africans who said we should come stay some time...
And you know what? It sucks.
Some people might like the idea of having friends all over the world, but I'm not one of them.
I don't want to know that I could go stay with one of my friends for a few nights if I ever found myself in Los Angeles. I want to know that I could go to the pub with them right now.
I don't want don't want friends on other side of the world - I want them on the other side of the street. I don't even like having to cross Anzac Bridge to see my brother.
There are plenty of downsides to a life of travelling - lack of money, career etc - but that, for me, is the worst. You meet these amazing people, have incredible experiences together, and then you bid them goodbye.
Sure, you swap emails, look each other up on Facebook, try to keep in touch ... but you both know there's every chance you'll never see each other again. And that sucks.
I used to work for a tour company in Europe, and without doubt the best part of the job was being presented with a new group of 30 or so people to get to know for the next three weeks. That was fantastic. The worst part of the job, without doubt, was then waving them all goodbye when those three weeks were up.
You tend to forge some pretty amazing friendships when you're travelling, not just on group tours, but just going about the everyday act of getting from one place to the next.
You're always more open to meeting new people when you travel. And through shared experiences like eating strange food, comparing bed bug bites, trying to speak a different language, or just the sheer act of living life in another country, you forge close friendships very quickly. And then you go your separate ways.
Some of those people, you'll never see again. They'll just be a funny character you'll tell bored mates about when you get back home. Others, you'll hook up with again at some other time, in some other place, and you'll find the magic's just not there any more. There'll be this weird moment when you realise that for all the fun you had together overseas, you really don't have much in common.
Others will become friends for life - only from the other side of the world.
The internet's made it easier than ever to keep in touch with the people you meet when you're travelling. All it takes is a couple of quick clicks, and few minutes of reading status updates, and you can tell what, say, Jorge from Argentina is up to now.
There's also a new website, Trip Reunions, where old tour passengers can register and get back in touch with the people they travelled with all those years ago. Some groups organise reunions, where you all get together to drink a few beers and reminisce about that crazy Kiwi bloke who always took his pants off when he was drunk, or the girl you could have sworn you saw dashing out of the bus driver's cabin one night.
It's all good fun, and you'll have a great night, but it's just not the same.
Some people might like being world famous - but I'd prefer it if all my friends lived here.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Monday, July 06, 2009
THERE AND BACK AGAIN
I am a naughty, Naughty, NAUGHTY Blogger! Sorry for the delay. Spank me... I dare ya!
Last you all heard from me, I was working the streets of Perth convincing strangers to fork over monthly donations to charity. I ended up spending nearly five months in Perth, my longest stretch anywhere in Australia. To be sure, it’s a nice place - great beaches and lots of fun young people. My job worked out well and I made some great friends, but I needed to hit the road back home as my visa was running out. 
After several farewell shindigs, I hopped on the Nullarbor Traveller. It was a terrific 9-day bus tour that took me all the way from Perth to Adelaide, a distance of about 2,400 miles. The bus was populated by myself, three German girls, a Scottish lass, and Lachy (rhymes with “hockey,” short for Lachlan) our Aussie driver. Not a bad ratio there! We camped almost every night and saw lots of awesome stuff as we made our way eastward. Cape Le Grand National Park was particularly cool. We did some nice hikes, the best being Frenchman’s Peak. There was also the gorgeous white sand of Lucky Bay. It was already a bit too late in the season to go swimming, but it was stunning, nonetheless. 
Along the way, we also saw Wave Rock (It’s a rock that looks like a wave), lots of stunning coastline, fantastic caves, and many, many miles of flat treeless land along the Nullarbor Plain. One of the best spots was the area around Coodlie Park on the Eyre Peninsula. We stayed there for two nights and did all kinds of cool stuff. There was a moonlight 4X4 tour of the farm where we saw kangaroos and wombats, side trips out to spectacular caves and rock formations, and sandboarding down massive dunes. 
From there we departed to Baird Bay where we went snorkeling with dolphins and sea lions – probably the best thing we did on the tour. Our group went out on a little pontoon boat, donned wetsuits, and jumped right into the water with those crazy critters! Being wild animals, the dolphins didn’t really do much but swim by us very quickly. The sea lions were much more fun! They are like friendly, playful dogs that can swim. One was repeatedly putting his nose right up to my facemask. I stayed in as long as I could, despite the freezing water. So much fun!
Over the next few days we did some more hikes and tours. In Port Lincoln we went out to a tuna farm where I did some more snorkeling. There were massive tuna nets with dozens of big, fast tuna swimming around. I would feed them by hand and they swam with incredible speed right by my face. On the boat we got free samples of their sashimi-grade tuna steak. MMMMMmmmmm… fun and tasty!
One of the last things we did was a quick little surfing trip. I hadn’t surfed since I had left Gisbourne, New Zealand more than two years earlier, and it was great to do it again. One of these days, I gotta get a board of my own.
Oh yeah, we also killed a kangaroo. It was an accident. For all their cuteness and physical dexterity, kangaroos are pretty stupid animals. One evening crossing the Nullarbor, Lachy spied two roos a few hundred yards down the road. He honked the horn and flashed the lights repeatedly, but to no avail. One of the roos jumped right in front of the van and took one for the team. This is not an uncommon occurrence Down Under. The sides of any country road are littered with carcasses. Roos are far from an endangered species, so it was really just Darwinism at work. We were merely thinning out the herd. The surviving roo hopefully hopped back home and told his friends that Steve (as I called him) unfortunately got plowed down by a van, and that maybe in the future he and is friends should jump AWAY from oncoming vehicles, rather than towards them. I’m just sayin’…
After disembarking in Adelaide (more like Ade-LAME!), and taking a few showers, I went on yet another tour around Kangaroo Island. It’s a huge island, more than 100 miles across. Because of its isolation from the mainland, it has been spared many of the environmental invasions that Australia has suffered since the Europeans showed up. Its name is no coincidence – there are all kinds of kangaroos all over the island, along with koalas (so cute and dopey!), penguins, snakes, seals, seal lions, and other unique species. Thankfully, none were killed by our tour group. 
The highlight of this trip was probably the Remarkable Rocks – huge & fantastic rock formations looking out on the Southern Ocean. Millions of years of wind & rain have carved these rocks into bizarre shapes. One can easily conjure up visions of pagan rituals being performed on these things. Very cool.
Once that trip was done I returned back to Adelaide and hung out with my buddy Matt from Leeds before flying to Sydney for the long trip back to America. Whilst back in Sydney, my friends from “Wolverine” informed me that there was going to be a cast & crew screening of the movie at Fox Studios Australia on April 26th. Unfortunately, my flight was booked for the 23rd, so I couldn’t make it. Damn! I’m still pissed that I missed that. It would have been a great way to finish up my wacky Australian adventure. But, whaddya gonna do? At the very least, I got to spend my last three days in Australia at Noah’s Bondi Beach, one of my favorite hostels anywhere. 
Flying home was, well, it was flying home. I fell asleep somewhere over the Pacific and woke up in Los Angeles. I spent a week with friends & family around LA. Lots of Mexican food was consumed and I had a great time catching up with people whom I hadn’t seen in years. It was bizarre to be back in America to have “Wolverine” billboards and posters on every bus & street corner. Sadly, Fox decided that they didn’t need to credit the PAs from the New Zealand crew, so my name is nowhere to be found in the end titles. Still, it was nice to go see the movie on opening night in my hometown, at the very movie theater that I worked at all through high school, and being able to point at the screen and say “I was there for that!”
Anyway, I have had to adjust many things since I got home (chiefly my belt, as home cooking, car travel, and the most consistently bad weather in more than a century have contributed to my rapidly expanding waistline). I’ve had to make up for lost time by going to weddings, birthdays and other events that I didn’t have the luxury of attending over the last 2½ years (they’ve been great, by the way). Some things have changed since I left – Obama is president, Michael Jackson is dead, Massachusetts seems to have a viable film industry, the Natick Mall has metamorphosed into an up-market monstrosity dubbed The Natick Collection, Mom & Dad did some remodeling – and some things haven’t – war in Iraq & Afghanistan, debate over gay marriage, Kim Jong Il acting crazy, Mom & Dad’s busted skylight, etc.
There is no way for me be able to process all the things I’ve done, places I’ve seen and people I’ve met over the last couple years and come up with some grand conclusion, so don’t expect one. All I can say is that it has been a fantastic time in my life. Travel is extremely addictive, and I don’t see myself stopping anytime soon. I’ve had wonderful and horrible days. Though traveling has its hardships, expenses and unexpected speed bumps, it’s just too good to pass up. I may have to stay home for a while, but I know that I will be getting back out there someday. If you really want to do it, save up some cash and just go for it. You won’t regret it.
So, dear readers, Moranadu will be reverting (temporarily, anyway) to its roots as a place for me to rant and rave over whatever I damn well please, rather than my international shenanigans. Expect the unexpected. Or don’t. I’ll write what I want, so there.
Last you all heard from me, I was working the streets of Perth convincing strangers to fork over monthly donations to charity. I ended up spending nearly five months in Perth, my longest stretch anywhere in Australia. To be sure, it’s a nice place - great beaches and lots of fun young people. My job worked out well and I made some great friends, but I needed to hit the road back home as my visa was running out. 
After several farewell shindigs, I hopped on the Nullarbor Traveller. It was a terrific 9-day bus tour that took me all the way from Perth to Adelaide, a distance of about 2,400 miles. The bus was populated by myself, three German girls, a Scottish lass, and Lachy (rhymes with “hockey,” short for Lachlan) our Aussie driver. Not a bad ratio there! We camped almost every night and saw lots of awesome stuff as we made our way eastward. Cape Le Grand National Park was particularly cool. We did some nice hikes, the best being Frenchman’s Peak. There was also the gorgeous white sand of Lucky Bay. It was already a bit too late in the season to go swimming, but it was stunning, nonetheless. 
Along the way, we also saw Wave Rock (It’s a rock that looks like a wave), lots of stunning coastline, fantastic caves, and many, many miles of flat treeless land along the Nullarbor Plain. One of the best spots was the area around Coodlie Park on the Eyre Peninsula. We stayed there for two nights and did all kinds of cool stuff. There was a moonlight 4X4 tour of the farm where we saw kangaroos and wombats, side trips out to spectacular caves and rock formations, and sandboarding down massive dunes. 
From there we departed to Baird Bay where we went snorkeling with dolphins and sea lions – probably the best thing we did on the tour. Our group went out on a little pontoon boat, donned wetsuits, and jumped right into the water with those crazy critters! Being wild animals, the dolphins didn’t really do much but swim by us very quickly. The sea lions were much more fun! They are like friendly, playful dogs that can swim. One was repeatedly putting his nose right up to my facemask. I stayed in as long as I could, despite the freezing water. So much fun!Over the next few days we did some more hikes and tours. In Port Lincoln we went out to a tuna farm where I did some more snorkeling. There were massive tuna nets with dozens of big, fast tuna swimming around. I would feed them by hand and they swam with incredible speed right by my face. On the boat we got free samples of their sashimi-grade tuna steak. MMMMMmmmmm… fun and tasty!
One of the last things we did was a quick little surfing trip. I hadn’t surfed since I had left Gisbourne, New Zealand more than two years earlier, and it was great to do it again. One of these days, I gotta get a board of my own.
Oh yeah, we also killed a kangaroo. It was an accident. For all their cuteness and physical dexterity, kangaroos are pretty stupid animals. One evening crossing the Nullarbor, Lachy spied two roos a few hundred yards down the road. He honked the horn and flashed the lights repeatedly, but to no avail. One of the roos jumped right in front of the van and took one for the team. This is not an uncommon occurrence Down Under. The sides of any country road are littered with carcasses. Roos are far from an endangered species, so it was really just Darwinism at work. We were merely thinning out the herd. The surviving roo hopefully hopped back home and told his friends that Steve (as I called him) unfortunately got plowed down by a van, and that maybe in the future he and is friends should jump AWAY from oncoming vehicles, rather than towards them. I’m just sayin’…
After disembarking in Adelaide (more like Ade-LAME!), and taking a few showers, I went on yet another tour around Kangaroo Island. It’s a huge island, more than 100 miles across. Because of its isolation from the mainland, it has been spared many of the environmental invasions that Australia has suffered since the Europeans showed up. Its name is no coincidence – there are all kinds of kangaroos all over the island, along with koalas (so cute and dopey!), penguins, snakes, seals, seal lions, and other unique species. Thankfully, none were killed by our tour group. 
The highlight of this trip was probably the Remarkable Rocks – huge & fantastic rock formations looking out on the Southern Ocean. Millions of years of wind & rain have carved these rocks into bizarre shapes. One can easily conjure up visions of pagan rituals being performed on these things. Very cool.
Once that trip was done I returned back to Adelaide and hung out with my buddy Matt from Leeds before flying to Sydney for the long trip back to America. Whilst back in Sydney, my friends from “Wolverine” informed me that there was going to be a cast & crew screening of the movie at Fox Studios Australia on April 26th. Unfortunately, my flight was booked for the 23rd, so I couldn’t make it. Damn! I’m still pissed that I missed that. It would have been a great way to finish up my wacky Australian adventure. But, whaddya gonna do? At the very least, I got to spend my last three days in Australia at Noah’s Bondi Beach, one of my favorite hostels anywhere. 
Flying home was, well, it was flying home. I fell asleep somewhere over the Pacific and woke up in Los Angeles. I spent a week with friends & family around LA. Lots of Mexican food was consumed and I had a great time catching up with people whom I hadn’t seen in years. It was bizarre to be back in America to have “Wolverine” billboards and posters on every bus & street corner. Sadly, Fox decided that they didn’t need to credit the PAs from the New Zealand crew, so my name is nowhere to be found in the end titles. Still, it was nice to go see the movie on opening night in my hometown, at the very movie theater that I worked at all through high school, and being able to point at the screen and say “I was there for that!”Anyway, I have had to adjust many things since I got home (chiefly my belt, as home cooking, car travel, and the most consistently bad weather in more than a century have contributed to my rapidly expanding waistline). I’ve had to make up for lost time by going to weddings, birthdays and other events that I didn’t have the luxury of attending over the last 2½ years (they’ve been great, by the way). Some things have changed since I left – Obama is president, Michael Jackson is dead, Massachusetts seems to have a viable film industry, the Natick Mall has metamorphosed into an up-market monstrosity dubbed The Natick Collection, Mom & Dad did some remodeling – and some things haven’t – war in Iraq & Afghanistan, debate over gay marriage, Kim Jong Il acting crazy, Mom & Dad’s busted skylight, etc.
There is no way for me be able to process all the things I’ve done, places I’ve seen and people I’ve met over the last couple years and come up with some grand conclusion, so don’t expect one. All I can say is that it has been a fantastic time in my life. Travel is extremely addictive, and I don’t see myself stopping anytime soon. I’ve had wonderful and horrible days. Though traveling has its hardships, expenses and unexpected speed bumps, it’s just too good to pass up. I may have to stay home for a while, but I know that I will be getting back out there someday. If you really want to do it, save up some cash and just go for it. You won’t regret it.
So, dear readers, Moranadu will be reverting (temporarily, anyway) to its roots as a place for me to rant and rave over whatever I damn well please, rather than my international shenanigans. Expect the unexpected. Or don’t. I’ll write what I want, so there.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
GONNA MAKE YOU SWEAT!
First off, in case anyone was concerned, I am alive and well and more than 2,000 miles away from the fires in Victoria. They are pretty horrific. Nearly 200 people have died already. Australians aren’t very used to large-scale natural disasters, and this one is hitting home hard. It’s nice to know that my current job has contributed to the relief efforts, but we’ll get to that in a bit.
Where were we? Ah, yes. Darwin.
Darwin was getting way too hot and boozy. Before I left the Top End, I took a three-day tour of Kakadu National Park. I expected to encounter all sorts of freaky Aussie critters, and I was not disappointed. We saw frilled lizards, emus, pythons, crocodiles, dingoes, and wallaroos (too big to be a wallabie, too small to be a kangaroo). But the creatures that I will remember most from my Kakadu experience were the thousands upon thousands of flies that were buzzing around my sweaty head at any given moment. Australian flies crave the salty goodness of human perspiration. It is widely known that I am The Sweatiest Man in the World, and when The Sweatiest Man in the World went to Kakadu, The Sweatiest Place in the World, a perfect storm of Sweatiness erupted. The flies of Kakadu greeted me like manna from heaven. From dawn ‘til dusk, they never left me alone. They didn’t bite. Instead they just buzzed and crawled all over my face, occasionally creeping into my eyelids as I tried to appreciate ancient Aboriginal rock paintings (many of which are sex education literature in hieroglyphic form).
Still, Kakadu was pretty awesome. We did some nice walks and took lots of dips in spectacular swimming holes. The highlight of the trip was our first night of camping, when I ate kangaroo meat and played a didgeridoo under a full moon while dingoes howled in the distance – my most quintessentially Australian experience so far. I barely got a wink of sleep and the tour group was kind of lame, but it was still a good time. It was our tour company’s last trip before they shut down for the wet season, and our guide made no secret that he was trying to score an English girl from another tour group at the campsite as a year-end bonus. Not sure if he succeeded.
After several farewell drinks with my Darwin friends, I took to the skies and flew to Perth. Flying over the vast expanse of Western Australia was humbling. Gazing out my window, I could see astoundingly little evidence of human development – just miles upon miles of desert punctuated by the occasional mine site or dirt road to nowhere. The in-flight movie was “Mamma Mia,” so many of my future reminiscences of the Outback will be scored not with “Waltzing Matilda” or “Blue Sky Mine,” but with “Waterloo” and “Dancing Queen.” Thanks, Qantas. And for the record, Pierce Brosnan can’t sing for shit.
If Darwin is Australia’s version of a Texas oil rig town, then Perth is an Aussie San Diego – nice weather, great beaches, suburban sprawl, a mellow populous, not a whole lot of character, but still a nice place to live. My buddy Sam got me my current job, which involves me standing on the street and encouraging strangers to donate money to charitable organizations. It’s not as hard as it might seem (I got promoted!). You just gotta learn to deal with constant rejection. If I get four sign-ups a day, I’m doing well. The easiest people to sign up are recent African emigrants, and there are plenty of them in Perth. I’ve signed up folks from Sudan, Egypt, Kenya, South Africa, Zambia and Zimbabwe (I had no idea there were so many white people from Zimbabwe). Black, white, male, female, old, young – the Africans are very charitable and generous. Without a doubt, the hardest demographic to sign up is suit-wearing, white dudes. Shocker.
I suppose that I can’t get through this entry without mentioning the election of Barack Obama. I watched the results come in at The Fox Ale House, one of the pubs I worked at in Darwin where my buddy Carboni was nice enough to let me put on the big screen TV. A girl from California strolled by the pub and watched it with me. As nice as it was to hear Australians cheering and applauding the speech of a soon-to-be American president, it was great to be able to share that moment with a fellow Yank. Hope home is treating you well, Marie!
As for the inauguration, I was at a hostel in Busselton where I had to wake up at 1:30 AM to watch live coverage. I don’t think I’ve ever watched a live inauguration, not even for Clinton. I was hoping for some momentous “The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is Fear Itself” quote from Obama, which never really surfaced. But I suppose the fact that such a seemingly decent, intelligent, charismatic and inspiring person who just happens to be a black man became the president of the United States in front of a crowd of millions of proud, hopeful and motivated Americans speaks for itself. America, FUCK YEAH!!!!
Back to Australia…
Perth was Heath Ledger’s hometown. As big a city as Perth is, its isolation gives it a small-town familiarity, and all the locals seem to know someone who actually knew Heath or at least knows one of his family members. His Academy Award nomination for “The Dark Knight” came on the anniversary of his death, and made front-page news here. Assuming (and it’s a safe bet) that he receives a posthumous Oscar, it will be interesting to see how Perth reacts. I wonder what it must be like for his family to walk around Perth, where “Dark Knight” merchandise is inescapable, looking at images of their boy and his now iconic incarnation of The Joker displayed on posters, DVDs and t-shirts in every other store window. If any Ledgers are reading this, you have my sympathies.
And if there are any Academy members reading this, how the hell could you not nominate “The Dark Knight” for Best Picture and Best Director? What the fuck is wrong with you people? The movie is beloved by audiences and critics the world over. It has a great story, terrific acting, and superlative technical artistry. It is now the second highest-grossing movie ever made. You gave the film eight other nominations, but just couldn’t see it in your crooked little hearts to give it the big ones, presumably because it is based on a comic-book character and therefore must be kid stuff - incapable of exploring significant psychological or dramatic terrain. That attitude is snobby and retarded. Why does Stephen Daldry have three (THREE!!!) Best Director nominations to his credit while Christopher Nolan has zero? The man has never made a bad movie. You weren’t even this mean to Spielberg in his early days. Wake up, douchebags!
Ah, well, at least some other genuinely decent movies got nominated, and it will be fun watching my former boss tackle the hosting duties.
Perth will most likely be my last major stomping ground in the Land of Oz. My vague plan is to save up money here, see a bit more of the outback (not sure where or what exactly – somewhere ABBA-free, if possible) and then head homeward in April. My big dilemma now is deciding which way to go. Next time you’re near a globe, find Perth and then find Boston. I am nearly as far away from home as the North Pole is to the South Pole. I could go east or west and spend about the same amount of money and travel time. As nice as it is, how the hell did I end up here?
Shameless Self-Promotion Alert!!!!
Click here to view the trailer for "X-Men Origins: Wolverine," the movie that completely consumed my life just a year ago. After all the hard work that thousands of people put into the production, it is hugely gratifying that the trailer looks as good as it does, biased as I am. I was physically present for pretty much every shot that features a motorcycle, helicopter, explosion, mountain scenery and/or Hugh Jackman fighting with Liev Schreiber. When I was a kid and fantasized about making movies, this is the kind of stuff I saw myself working on. The movie will be released on May 1st, and I hope it lives up to the trailer!
In the meantime, dear readers, I hope you all survive the Global Financial Crisis with your life savings intact. For those in the movie biz, try to get gigs on funny flicks – Hollywood thrived during the 1930s thanks in great part to cheaply made screwball comedies. To all my “Pineapple Express” buddies, keep Judd Apatow on speed dial, and please put in a good word for me!
Where were we? Ah, yes. Darwin.Darwin was getting way too hot and boozy. Before I left the Top End, I took a three-day tour of Kakadu National Park. I expected to encounter all sorts of freaky Aussie critters, and I was not disappointed. We saw frilled lizards, emus, pythons, crocodiles, dingoes, and wallaroos (too big to be a wallabie, too small to be a kangaroo). But the creatures that I will remember most from my Kakadu experience were the thousands upon thousands of flies that were buzzing around my sweaty head at any given moment. Australian flies crave the salty goodness of human perspiration. It is widely known that I am The Sweatiest Man in the World, and when The Sweatiest Man in the World went to Kakadu, The Sweatiest Place in the World, a perfect storm of Sweatiness erupted. The flies of Kakadu greeted me like manna from heaven. From dawn ‘til dusk, they never left me alone. They didn’t bite. Instead they just buzzed and crawled all over my face, occasionally creeping into my eyelids as I tried to appreciate ancient Aboriginal rock paintings (many of which are sex education literature in hieroglyphic form).
Still, Kakadu was pretty awesome. We did some nice walks and took lots of dips in spectacular swimming holes. The highlight of the trip was our first night of camping, when I ate kangaroo meat and played a didgeridoo under a full moon while dingoes howled in the distance – my most quintessentially Australian experience so far. I barely got a wink of sleep and the tour group was kind of lame, but it was still a good time. It was our tour company’s last trip before they shut down for the wet season, and our guide made no secret that he was trying to score an English girl from another tour group at the campsite as a year-end bonus. Not sure if he succeeded.
After several farewell drinks with my Darwin friends, I took to the skies and flew to Perth. Flying over the vast expanse of Western Australia was humbling. Gazing out my window, I could see astoundingly little evidence of human development – just miles upon miles of desert punctuated by the occasional mine site or dirt road to nowhere. The in-flight movie was “Mamma Mia,” so many of my future reminiscences of the Outback will be scored not with “Waltzing Matilda” or “Blue Sky Mine,” but with “Waterloo” and “Dancing Queen.” Thanks, Qantas. And for the record, Pierce Brosnan can’t sing for shit. If Darwin is Australia’s version of a Texas oil rig town, then Perth is an Aussie San Diego – nice weather, great beaches, suburban sprawl, a mellow populous, not a whole lot of character, but still a nice place to live. My buddy Sam got me my current job, which involves me standing on the street and encouraging strangers to donate money to charitable organizations. It’s not as hard as it might seem (I got promoted!). You just gotta learn to deal with constant rejection. If I get four sign-ups a day, I’m doing well. The easiest people to sign up are recent African emigrants, and there are plenty of them in Perth. I’ve signed up folks from Sudan, Egypt, Kenya, South Africa, Zambia and Zimbabwe (I had no idea there were so many white people from Zimbabwe). Black, white, male, female, old, young – the Africans are very charitable and generous. Without a doubt, the hardest demographic to sign up is suit-wearing, white dudes. Shocker.
I suppose that I can’t get through this entry without mentioning the election of Barack Obama. I watched the results come in at The Fox Ale House, one of the pubs I worked at in Darwin where my buddy Carboni was nice enough to let me put on the big screen TV. A girl from California strolled by the pub and watched it with me. As nice as it was to hear Australians cheering and applauding the speech of a soon-to-be American president, it was great to be able to share that moment with a fellow Yank. Hope home is treating you well, Marie!
As for the inauguration, I was at a hostel in Busselton where I had to wake up at 1:30 AM to watch live coverage. I don’t think I’ve ever watched a live inauguration, not even for Clinton. I was hoping for some momentous “The Only Thing We Have To Fear Is Fear Itself” quote from Obama, which never really surfaced. But I suppose the fact that such a seemingly decent, intelligent, charismatic and inspiring person who just happens to be a black man became the president of the United States in front of a crowd of millions of proud, hopeful and motivated Americans speaks for itself. America, FUCK YEAH!!!! Back to Australia…
Perth was Heath Ledger’s hometown. As big a city as Perth is, its isolation gives it a small-town familiarity, and all the locals seem to know someone who actually knew Heath or at least knows one of his family members. His Academy Award nomination for “The Dark Knight” came on the anniversary of his death, and made front-page news here. Assuming (and it’s a safe bet) that he receives a posthumous Oscar, it will be interesting to see how Perth reacts. I wonder what it must be like for his family to walk around Perth, where “Dark Knight” merchandise is inescapable, looking at images of their boy and his now iconic incarnation of The Joker displayed on posters, DVDs and t-shirts in every other store window. If any Ledgers are reading this, you have my sympathies.
And if there are any Academy members reading this, how the hell could you not nominate “The Dark Knight” for Best Picture and Best Director? What the fuck is wrong with you people? The movie is beloved by audiences and critics the world over. It has a great story, terrific acting, and superlative technical artistry. It is now the second highest-grossing movie ever made. You gave the film eight other nominations, but just couldn’t see it in your crooked little hearts to give it the big ones, presumably because it is based on a comic-book character and therefore must be kid stuff - incapable of exploring significant psychological or dramatic terrain. That attitude is snobby and retarded. Why does Stephen Daldry have three (THREE!!!) Best Director nominations to his credit while Christopher Nolan has zero? The man has never made a bad movie. You weren’t even this mean to Spielberg in his early days. Wake up, douchebags! Ah, well, at least some other genuinely decent movies got nominated, and it will be fun watching my former boss tackle the hosting duties.
Perth will most likely be my last major stomping ground in the Land of Oz. My vague plan is to save up money here, see a bit more of the outback (not sure where or what exactly – somewhere ABBA-free, if possible) and then head homeward in April. My big dilemma now is deciding which way to go. Next time you’re near a globe, find Perth and then find Boston. I am nearly as far away from home as the North Pole is to the South Pole. I could go east or west and spend about the same amount of money and travel time. As nice as it is, how the hell did I end up here?
Shameless Self-Promotion Alert!!!!
Click here to view the trailer for "X-Men Origins: Wolverine," the movie that completely consumed my life just a year ago. After all the hard work that thousands of people put into the production, it is hugely gratifying that the trailer looks as good as it does, biased as I am. I was physically present for pretty much every shot that features a motorcycle, helicopter, explosion, mountain scenery and/or Hugh Jackman fighting with Liev Schreiber. When I was a kid and fantasized about making movies, this is the kind of stuff I saw myself working on. The movie will be released on May 1st, and I hope it lives up to the trailer!
In the meantime, dear readers, I hope you all survive the Global Financial Crisis with your life savings intact. For those in the movie biz, try to get gigs on funny flicks – Hollywood thrived during the 1930s thanks in great part to cheaply made screwball comedies. To all my “Pineapple Express” buddies, keep Judd Apatow on speed dial, and please put in a good word for me!
Monday, October 27, 2008
TROPIC THUNDER
It’s been a long time coming. Here goes:Got a job at a resort near Port Douglas in northern Queensland. Lived in the jungle for 6 weeks and damn near lost my mind due to isolation and immobility. It was pretty, but living there was akin to living in Jurassic Park without any dinosaurs to make it entertaining. Made some friends. Had some laughs. Got outta there. Got a bus back to Cairns. Didn’t like it there, either. Flew to Darwin.
Darwin is hot. Really hot, and I don’t mean Paris Hilton’s definition of hot. Darwin is closer to the Equator than it is to Sydney. Since my arrival in late August, we have been experiencing “The Build Up” which is the transition period between the dry and wet seasons. That means that every day it gets a little more oppressively hot and humid until the big rains come. Mother Nature’s got PMS, and we’re all feeling the wrath.Territorians, as the locals are known up here in the Top End, have a name for the craziness that everyone feels this time of year. They say that someone has “gone troppo” if he or she displays strange and/or violent behavior. I’ve seen plenty of it first hand. It’s not just the heat. The history, geography and social structure of Darwin all contribute. The Northern Territory is sort of an Australian Texas. Unlike the rest of Australia, the NT is not technically a state, something of which Territorians are quite proud. There is very much a frontier element around these parts, and no wonder. The local ports and military facilities see hundreds of sailors, miners, soldiers and oil rig workers come and go every day. There’s a crucial shortage of ladies up here and bars are packed every night with sexually frustrated dudes knocking back pints, anxiously waiting for the wet t-shirt contests to begin. Flashings and fisticuffs are frequent. Darwin has beaches, but it’s not safe to swim this time of year thanks to deadly box jellyfish and the occasional crocodile. If there’s a public pool, I haven’t found it. Chilling out in Darwin is a challenge.
That said, I still kinda dig the place. Right next to my hostel is Crocosaurus Cove, which houses “the worlds largest collection of Australian reptiles.” They have all sortsa beasties in there, including an albino croc named Snowy, even though he’s really a pale shade of brown. 
A couple of weeks ago, I got to escape to Litchfield National Park, where there are some awesome croc-free rock pools and waterfalls (too bad it’s an hour and a half drive from here!). I managed to get a decent job at a bar and have made some good friends. As usual, most of them are Irish. Are there any young people left in Ireland? The Union Jack in the Australian flag should really be replaced with the Emerald Isle’s green, white & orange. Every Sunday night, some buddies of mine would play traditional Celtic music at a local pub, and all of Darwin’s Irish Diaspora would show up. Good times! Sucks that The Galway Boys are leaving for the East Coast this week. Gonna miss ya, lads!
Oh yeah, I turned 30 a few days ago. I got the whole weekend off. It was, um… well it was fun. I think. Yeah. Pretty sure it was fun. Anyway, my current plan is to work 2 or 3 more weeks in Darwin, check out Kakadu National Park, and then find my way down the west coast to Perth where friends, gainful employment, and swimmable beaches await. I’ve heard that Darwin’s gender imbalance is reversed there, so that’s another selling point.When I first decided to go traveling two years ago, I figured that I’d do one year in New Zealand and then come back to American reality. Obviously, that didn’t happen. Recently, I decided to ditch my open-ended ticket home (which expires November 4th) and use up the rest of my Australian visa, which is good through late April. Much thought and consideration went into that decision. The toughest thing about traveling has been missing big events back home, be they happy or sad. I’ve missed Christmases, anniversaries, engagements, weddings, births, and, worst of all, deaths. To all my family and friends back home, I want you all to know that I think about you every day and love you all so much! There will be much catching up to do when I get back. Take care of yourselves and be well!
Until then, vote Obama and enjoy the video below, which manages to be sexy, funny and inventive whilst making a statement about censorship. I promise it will brighten your day!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
CELTIC PRIDE, REEFER MADNESS & INDEPENDENCE DAY
Enough with the cunts.While I sorted out the replacement passport and credit cards, I settled into a semi-comfortable existence at Noah’s Backpackers on Bondi Beach near Sydney. It was a fun place with lots of cool people and just a couple minutes walk to the ocean. The place was bursting with travelers from all over, but mostly Ireland. I met more Irish than Aussies in Bondi and learned some valuable bits of Celtic slang:
“What’s the craic?” = “How’s it going?”
“Your man” = “Some guy” or “That guy”
“Moik, ya cunt!” = “Mike, my friend, it is good to see you!”
I guess I wasn’t done with the cunts. At least they were friendly cunts.
Irish backpackers are in such great numbers around Bondi that many of the locals have taken a dislike to them. Never in my lifetime did I expect to encounter “No Irish Need Apply” hiring practices, but I did in Bondi. Here’s a brief transcript of my interview for a bartending gig:BAR MANAGER: So, Michael, where are you from?
ME: From the US, outside of Boston.
BAR MANAGER: And you’re backpacking around Australia?
ME: Yes, but I’m going to need to work for a while to finance more travel. It will take me some time to save up enough cash, so I’m looking for something full time.
BAR MANAGER: Well, let me be frank. I’ve had bad experiences with backpackers. I won’t hire Irish anymore because they’re so unreliable.
ME: Ah, well my name is Moran and I’m Irish-American.
KIWI BAR MANAGER: Well, you’re more American than you are Irish.
I was a bit stunned by those last couple lines of his and didn’t really have time to process them, so the interview continued. He ended up offering me a trial shift, which I didn’t show up for. I may never have been to Ireland, but for that guy to say that I’m “more American than Irish” took brass ones. To take that job would have been spitting on the graves of my ancestors. Instead, I embarked on a series of “labouring” jobs. These included holding up paintings and sculptures at art auctions, mixing cement, digging holes, and shoveling various materials. I also helped an old Iranian guy build a porch (“Why, OF COURSE I have construction experience!”). The cash slowly added up, and I escaped north to Airlie Beach.
Airlie was a nice, if not overly friendly town where people book boat trips out to the Great Barrier Reef. I signed up for a 3-day trip on the Pacific Star, and it was great. We left the marina at night and motored out to the Whitsundays, which are a gorgeous group of islands between the mainland and the reef. On our first morning, we did a quick hike to stunning Whitehaven Beach. It was a bit cloudy, but the beach was nonetheless gorgeous. I have never felt sand so soft. My feet sunk 2 inches with each step. I also spotted a stingray just offshore. Pretty damn cool.
The next day, we made it out to the outer reef. And yes, it is amazing. We hooked onto a mooring and stayed there all day. The water was dazzlingly clear and innumerable fish swam all around the boat. I did three dives that day, where I saw all kinds of fish and coral. The coolest dive was the night dive. We jumped in the water just after sunset and stayed down for about half an hour. All we had to light our way around were some flashlights and a light from the boat. So spooky and cool! We spotted a sea turtle sleeping on the bottom and huge fish would drift in and out of sight. It was like a submerged haunted house, but with friendly ghosts. Awesome stuff. 
On our final day, we headed back to port with some quick snorkeling stops. We’d spot turtles and manta rays just off the boat and some humpbacks breaching in the distance. Getting back on dry land was a bummer!There aren’t too many work or accommodation options in Airlie, so I took an overnight bus to Cairns (rhymes with “cans”) to do some job hunting. It’s a relatively small city that mostly exists as a gateway to the reef and the tropical north. I’ll most likely get a gig here or do some fruit picking, if it comes down to it (I hope it doesn’t!).
By the way, the 4th of July totally sucks in Australia. Granted, there aren’t too many Americans in this part of the country, but in a city overflowing with backpackers you’d think at least one of the numerous bars in town would have some kind of Independence Day celebration. Some of the bars in Airlie had Canada Day parties a few days ago. No such luck for the Yanks. The closest I could find to an American party was a bunch of drunk college kids from Maryland running around the streets with sparklers. They were nice enough, but 5 minutes was all I could tolerate with a bunch of hammered 18-year olds. Instead, I did my patriotic duty and got a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese McValue Meal®. A nice surprise came in the form of a Samuel Adams Boston Lager, which I found at a local bar. Those of you who know me know that I loves me some Sam. It had been nearly 2 years since I’ve tasted my favorite beer from home, and it went down nicely (but not cheaply - $8.90!!!!). God Bless America!
Oh, yeah! Congrats to the Boston Celtics! Once again, my home team has won a championship and I am thousands of miles away and unable to watch! Not that I’ve ever been a big basketball fan, but it would have been nice to see. I have some very faint memories of their 1986 victory, mostly germinating from the giant Kevin McHale poster that adorned my childhood wall and charted my growth. That was kind of cruel, in retrospect. Why give a kid with insecurities about his height a life-sized poster of an NBA player complete with measuring marks along the side? There should have been a word bubble coming out of Kevin’s mouth reading “Little Michael, no matter how much milk you drink or how many jumping jacks you do, you will never be as tall as me. In fact, this poster will give you an exact figure as to how tall I am versus how short you are. Try gymnastics.” That would have better prepared me for the realities of life. Oh, well.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
TOMATO/TOMAHTO
“Cunt” is a loaded word. In North American English, there is probably no more offensive word, with the possible exception of a few racist slurs. It is strictly feminine, and used only to degrade a woman in the worst possible verbal way. Having grown up in a feminist household, I was taught to never, ever use this word… even though I’ve heard my sisters use it to describe some of their female co-workers. If a man uses this word publicly in the USA, he runs the risk of a sexual harassment lawsuit and/or getting a slap.
In the rest of the English-speaking world, they throw “cunt” around much more freely (no pun intended). It can be feminine or masculine, an insult or a vulgar term of endearment, similar to the way we Americans use “bastard.”
i.e.: “He’s a funny old bastard/cunt.”
No matter the context, “cunt” still carries a bit of tastelessness. I don’t think anyone of any nationality would say it comfortably in front of their grandmother.
It has been 18 months since I left my homeland, and there are certain words and phrases I have added to my vocabulary due to cultural osmosis. I catch myself saying things like “no worries” and “sweet” in the surfer-influenced Pacific Rim manner. When you’re away from home for this long, it just happens. Somehow, though, I had avoided the casual use of the word “cunt.”
Until now…
To the person who stole my American Express card in Thailand and went on a shopping spree… you, sir or madam, are a cunt.
And to the person who stole my daypack from my former hostel in Sydney which contained my passport, work visa, Responsible Service of Alcohol certificate, sunglasses, notepad, and (worst of all) my beloved Nalgene water bottle… you, sir or madam, are also a cunt.
And to the money-grubbing slumlord proprietor of the aforementioned hostel who didn’t see the need to equip his/her rooms with lockers or electrical outlets, or security cameras in the kitchen from whence my bag was stolen despite posters that would indicate the contrary… you are a cunt, too.
That is all.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
MISTY MOUNTAIN HOP, SIAMESE DREAM, & THE MERRY OLD LAND OF OZ
I’ve covered more mileage in the past month than in any previous month of my life. I’m in a new city in a new country where I’m searching for a job and a semi-permanent place to crash. Therefore, my editorial skills aren’t up to their usual standard. Here’s the shortest version of my latest journeys that I can muster without leaving out key details. Brace yourselves.
We finished work on the movie. Well, to be more accurate, the 2nd Unit of the New Zealand crew of The Movie About A Famous Comic Book Character With Claws finished their work. Many hundreds of people will continue to work on the movie on sound stages in Sydney and special effects houses in Los Angeles for the next several months. It’s a big damn movie!
Once the wrap-up partying subsided, I began tying up loose ends in Queenstown. Naturally, that involved a bungy jump and a trek through the wilderness. The bungy jump was the world famous Nevis Highwire Bungy. The Nevis is a 472-foot jump with 8 full seconds of freefall into a rocky chasm. Remember that scene in “Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey” when they’re falling and screaming on their way to Hell, pause quietly for a moment, and then start screaming again as they continue to fall? The Nevis is just like that. You jump. You scream. You stop screaming. You realize that you’re still falling. And then you scream again before you bounce back up a few hundred feet. My hands were shaking for 10 minutes afterwards. It rocked, and thanks to my flatmate Matt, I got a 20% discount. Cheers, geeza!
The aforementioned wilderness trek was the Routeburn Track. The Routeburn is a 3-day, 24-mile hike through the mountains, gorges and rainforests of the South Island of New Zealand. The first day was great. Sunny skies, fresh air, stunning mountain views and amazing stars at night. The next two days were… not quite so enjoyable. It rained. A lot. And it was windy. Very, very windy. Everything got soaked. Several times, I had to walk through raging streams on steep slopes that could have sent me plummeting down the mountainside a-la “Romancing the Stone.” Didn’t happen, thankfully. The moment I finished the track, the sun came out, and I successfully hitchhiked back to Queenstown (a 3-hour trip). It amazes me still that the two German guys who gave me the lift didn’t kick me out of the car, ‘cause I smelled so horrible after three days in the mud. Danke, dudes! Muchas danke!After some farewell drinks with friends, I began the very long trip to Bangkok. Many means of transportation were involved in this endeavor. First was the 8-hour bus ride to Christchurch (an interesting city that I wish I saw more of - rent “Heavenly Creatures” someday to see why). Then there was the 6AM flight to Melbourne, where we were meant to have a 4-hour layover. Due to technical issues, we had to take a different plane and spend 14 fucking hours in the Melbourne airport terminal. Jetstar, which is Australia’s answer to Southwest Airlines (you know – Ghetto Air), did their best to compensate us with “refreshment vouchers.” The terminal had no proper restaurant but did have plenty of beer on tap, so basically the whole plane got drunk. Once we were airborne, everyone applauded and then passed out. We landed in Bangkok at 4:30AM. I got a cab to Khao San Road, which is Bangkok’s Backpacker Central. All tolled, from the time I left my cabin in Queenstown to the moment I checked into the D&D Inn in Bangkok, I had been in transit for 52 hours.
Ah, Thailand! You giant nut job of a nation! Bangkok is insane. It is a sweaty, seething, sprawling metropolis that seems to stretch out forever. If you want peace and quiet, do not go to Bangkok. Everything, and I mean everything, is for sale. Everywhere you look are cars, tuk tuks, pushcarts, Buddhist monks, prostitutes, transsexuals (or “Ladyboys” in the local parlance), aged hippies, food and drink vendors, Siamese cats, lactating dogs, counterfeit merchandise, Indian guys relentlessly selling cheap designer suits… it goes on and on. And it’s hotter than the surface of the sun on the muggiest day of all time. 
I did my share of cultural stuff. I toured Wat Pho and the Grand Palace, both of which reminded me of World Showcase at Epcot Center. The temples were so astoundingly colorful and opulent, they just… I’m sorry… they were just very Disney-esque. Wat Pho had a 200-foot long golden Buddha laying in a pose that bore a striking resemblance to a reclining Anne Bancroft in “The Graduate.”
“Mr. Buddha, you’re trying to seduce me… aren’t you?”
Everything comes back to a movie for me. And I know “The Graduate” is not Disney. But if Walt Disney had directed “The Graduate,” the Robinson’s house would have looked like Wat Pho. If there is a Buddhist Hell, I’m sure that I’m on my way there thanks to those last few passages.
Anyway, Bangkok was wearing me out, so I took an overnight bus and a ferry to Koh Tao. Koh Tao is a tiny island in the Gulf of Thailand where lots of people go to get cheap scuba diving certifications, myself included. Scuba diving is awesome! It really is like being an astronaut. We saw coral reefs, anemones, stingrays, giant clams, spiny sea urchins, and hundreds of schooling fish. It was fantastic, and I can’t wait to do it again.
My arrival in Koh Tao coincided with Songkran, the Thai New Year. Songkran is crazy. Everyone in the country spends three days dousing strangers with water. Dozens of children, teenagers, and responsible adults were lined up on the side of the dirt road near my dive school with buckets and super soakers. Whenever someone walked or drove by on a moped, they got soaked. As the day went on, it escalated and escalated. I hopped on the back of a truck with about 20 other people. It took more than an hour to get the 5 miles from our beach to Sai Ri, where most of the partying was going on. I have never seen anything like it. Hundreds and hundreds of strangers soaking one another and laughing their asses off. I wish I had pictures, but there was no way I was gonna risk getting my camera saturated. Good times.
Scuba certification involved a lot of homework, so once I finished, I decided to move on to a new location for some unadulterated fun. I suppose that I could have headed up north and gotten more of an immersion into Thai culture, but hey, this wasn’t a National Geographic expedition. I was on vacation, so there. Off I went to the party island of Koh Phangan. Koh Phangan is just south of Koh Tao, and backpackers from around the world know it as a massive playground for tropical debauchery. It is home to the world famous Full Moon Parties that take place on Hat Rin Beach. Nearly every night is a party on Hat Rin Beach, but the Full Moon is really huge. Thousands of people rocked out ‘til the sun came up, and then they kept going. Everyone was a little nervous when it began. At the February party, an English guy went missing and was never found. And then in March, a 14-year old Thai kid stabbed a reveller to death. Nothing bad happened this time, thankfully. There was music everywhere, twirling fire sticks, bodies undulating, drinks flowing, 8-year old kids selling seashell necklaces at 3am, dudes pissing in the ocean as others swam in the darkness… it was massive, awesome and exhausting. Again, good times.At this point, I have to give a shout out to all those European girls who feel completely free taking their tops off on the beach. On Koh Phangan, it was like I won the Boobie Lottery. They were everywhere! Technically, they shouldn’t be taking those things out in Thailand, since Thais don’t do public nudity. Thais go swimming fully clothed when its 100 degrees out, for Buddha’s sake. Didn’t stop those Swedish chicks, though. Cultural sensitivity only goes so far when European breasts are yearning to breathe free and soak up the sun. One funny phenomenon I noticed – some girls would sunbathe topless for hours as hundreds of gawking guys would stroll by, but when these girls decided to go for a swim, they’d walk down the shore covering their boobies with their hands until they got into the water, as if they think guys only look at knockers when they’re in motion. Hate to break it to ya, ladies, but as long as you’re showing them off (and even when you’re not), we’re gonna look at your boobs – bouncing or otherwise. Sorry I have no pictures, but I'm not that much of a perv.
I must also salute Thailand’s fantastic army of massage therapists. I got four massages in Thailand (and get those dirty thoughts right out of your minds, people - they were therapeutic, non-sexual, and totally legit!). Each cost the equivalent of about $10, and they worked wonders. I had a knot near my left shoulder blade that had been driving me insane for five years. It’s gone now. The lady who fixed it had me near tears on the table, but it was all worth it. Yay, Thailand!
So, after partying for a week in Koh Phangan, I had to head back to Bangkok to catch my flights to Australia. Once again, that involved a night bus and a redeye flight. My layover in Melbourne was only delayed by a half hour. And I was headed for Sydney…
Crikey! I haven’t been in a big, world-class “western” city for quite a long time, and Sydney impresses easily. Well, the city center is nothing special, but anywhere near the harbor or beaches is pretty awesome. Of course, I had to make my way down to the Opera House as soon as I could. It’s pretty damn cool, but a little smaller than I had imagined. The Sydney Harbour Bridge, however, is friggin’ huge. It’s like the Sagamore Bridge on steroids. I took the train out to the famous Bondi Beach and did a nice walk along the cliffs as thunderstorms and rainbows were forming out over the Pacific. Gorgeous stuff. When planning my flights to Sydney, I had totally forgotten that my arrival date, April 25th, is ANZAC Day, a major holiday for Australians and New Zealanders. It is sort of their version of Memorial Day, and takes place on the anniversary of the siege of Gallipoli in WWI (Rent the movie. It’s good.) during which thousands of Australian and Kiwi soldiers died. Australia has troops serving and dying in Iraq right now, so this was a big ANZAC Day for them. All over Sydney, there were memorial services taking place. I hung out for one at Martin Place. Hymns were sung, prayers were said, and then the priest reminded everyone “that ANZAC Day is also a day to party.” And party they did. Every guy in Sydney put on a uniform (no matter how far removed from an actual military garb that uniform might be) and hit the pubs. I saw lots of 17-year olds dudes in ill-fitting suits getting turned away by bouncers. It still throws me when I see teens drinking, legally, in public places. So sheltered, we Americans are.
Australia’s criminal history has ended up effecting my arrival in an amusing way. As is turns out, there is an infamous Melbourne crime family named – you guessed it – Moran. There is a bestselling book about the Moran family’s nefarious deeds, and as luck would have it, the book was turned into a miniseries that is currently airing on local television. Thusly, the name Moran is very much in the Australian zeitgeist at the moment. One of the key figures of Melbourne’s Morans is “crime mum” Judy Moran. I have an Aunt Judy. Unless she’s leading a double life organizing the criminal element on Nantucket that I haven’t heard about, she probably bears as much resemblance to her Aussie namesake as I do to any local gangsters of note. Every time I check into a hostel and provide my name, I get second looks. They always check my passport twice and look me up and down. Imagine that I was an Australian backpacker checking into an American hostel under the name Gotti, and you start to get the picture. I suppose that it doesn’t much help that I bear little resemblance to my passport photo anymore. But then again, how picky can a former penal colony really be about such matters?
So yeah, Sydney’s nice. It’s Fashion Week here, so there are lots of skinny people running around in designer clothes, making my grubby backpacker attire look all the more shabby (or is it Shabby Chic?). Gotta do some shopping. After the horrendous toilets of Thailand, I wanted to kiss the pristine commodes of Australia. I thought better of it, though. As for exotic antipodean animals, my one sighting so far has been a flock (if that’s the right word) of enormous flying foxes that roost in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Name me another city where you can casually stroll through a lovely park and happen upon hundreds of salivating bats dangling googly-eyed from the trees. You don’t see that on The Common. 
Other strange encounters include fellow crewmembers from the movie. One of the visual effects guys almost hit me with his car, and I ran into some of the actors in a café in Bondi. Small world. Sadly, the Australian crew is already in place for the duration of the shoot, so I won’t be working on the movie anymore. It would be cool if they let me crash the wrap party, though. That party will rock, I’ll wager. In all likelihood, I’ll have to venture back into Hospitality World. At least the wages are better over here than in New Zealand. They damn well better be, ‘cause Sydney ain’t cheap! Unfortunately, I’m a bit late for the peak beach season here, so I’m gonna have to head up into Queensland to get some decent fun in the sun. So there you have it, folks – my current life in a nutshell. Once I’ve gotten settled and have hung out with some more crazy Aussie critters, I’ll let you know. Until then, as another International Man of Mystery so eloquently put it, I’m spent.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
LORD, I WAS BORN A RAMBLIN' MAN
This is long overdue. The past few months have been insane. You might remember an entry I put up in December in which I ruminated on the World Series, foods I miss, and my new job working on a movie about a famous clawed comic book character. I took that entry down because I didn’t want to risk violating my scary and litigious non-disclosure agreement. I don’t think I violated it, but I didn’t want to run the risk. More on that in a bit…
I hope everyone’s holidays were fun. My own were spent with other goofball travelers. Parties at local hostels. Beer. Barbecues. Funny accents. Fireworks. Same shit as last year. I started early on New Years Eve and ended up falling asleep around 1:30 AM. Not since the late 1980s have I quit so early on New Years. Pathetic.
Another troubling thought – Here in New Zealand where the drinking age is 18, spirits can legally be served to people born in 1990, the year I began puberty. Had I put my biological developments to prodigious use and sired a child, I could now have a drink with him/her to celebrate my liberation from child support payments. Woo hoo! No more Baby Daddy drama!
I missed the Super Bowl. I guess you can’t have the Red Sox and the Patriots win within such a short span of time. When the Pats won in 2002, I was 2 blocks away from the victory parade in Boston. It was absolutely freezing, but that didn’t stop more than a million fans from celebrating in the streets. That particular victory was the first bit of good news Boston had heard in months. It was just after 9/11. Israel was blowing up. The Church scandals were finally coming to light. Anthrax was in the mail. That Super Bowl lifted everyone out of the mire. For the first time in months, everyone was happy (Pats fans, anyway). It would have been even better if my lame-ass boss had actually let us go up to the parade like every other sane boss in The Hub. What a dork.
All of New Zealand was bummed out by the passing of Sir Edmund Hillary, co-conqueror of Mt. Everest. Up until the rise of Xena: Warrior Princess, Sir Ed was the world’s most renown Kiwi, and the national papers ran full page photos and articles commemorating his life and achievements. There is a movement to name a mountain after him, which seems appropriate. I wonder if there’s a Mt. Tenzing somewhere in Nepal. Maybe Mt. Everest should be renamed Mt. Hillary-Tenzing. Shouldn’t the mountain be named after the guys who first climbed it, rather than a former Surveyor-General of India? Compared to Hillary and Norgay, Everest was a punk-ass bitch. Why does he get that naming rights?
Bummer about Heath Ledger, too. He was one of the few young actors to emerge in the past few years with the potential to be a truly interesting and unpredictable leading man, rather than just another overly hyped pretty boy. When I heard he would be playing The Joker, I was fascinated. After such a brilliantly understated performance in “Brokeback Mountain,” I wondered what he would bring to one of the most over-the-top characters ever conceived. What the hell was he gonna do with it? How would he compare with Jack Nicholson? The fantastic trailer for “The Dark Knight” boded well. He looks wonderfully sinister, and I think it would have catapulted him to a new level of stardom. It always depresses me when talented people die too young. At least we’ll have that last glimpse of his talent. RIP, dude.
I managed to catch “Sweeney Todd.” As with any Tim Burton flick, it looks fantastic. Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter are terrific. But man, what a weird movie! It has nasty people living in a hellish environment committing horrific acts, but they’re constantly singing. I have nothing against musicals. “Moulin Rouge” still ranks as one of my favorite movies of the last decade. I thought “Chicago” was well made, even though it glorifies the kind of people I despise. “Rent” totally sucked. There has never been a musical like “Sweeney Todd.” There are no big production numbers, no dancing, and very little in the way of romance. It is a bloody tale of revenge. Really bloody. The first big throat slashing (and there are many) had me wincing. And they just keep on singing from one gory scene to another. The juxtaposition of form and content was baffling. I walked out a little depressed. I have a hunch that I’ll have to see it again to make my final verdict.
So, yeah. I’m working on a great big movie about a guy with claws. Most of the movie will be shot in Sydney, but there are several weeks of location work here in NZ. When I first started traveling 15 months ago, I never thought that I’d be doing film work. I figured that I’d tend bar or do whatever I needed to survive. Now I am halfway around the world working on a production bigger than any of the shows I worked on in my 3 years in Los Angeles. Isn’t it ironic (dontcha think?)?
At the moment, we are doing night shoots. 6 days a week, usually 14 hour shifts. It’s exhausting. My #1 task on set is to distribute and keep track of nearly 200 walkie-talkies and constantly supply fresh batteries. We’ve shot in magnificent valleys, forests, a mountaintop, and a very muddy lumberyard. We’re supposed to finish in mid-March, but you never know what could happen. If the writers’ strike is 100% resolved, revisions could be made. We shall see. I won’t get to see the Oscars this year, either. Kinda sucks, but I haven’t seen any of the Best Picture nominees anyway.
Until I finish the movie, I will have basically no social life. Once we wrap, I’ll need a week just to catch up on sleep. There are a few things I want to do in Queenstown before I leave, but I’ll be very eager to move on. I’m not sure what the first stop will be, but it will definitely look something like this:
I hope everyone’s holidays were fun. My own were spent with other goofball travelers. Parties at local hostels. Beer. Barbecues. Funny accents. Fireworks. Same shit as last year. I started early on New Years Eve and ended up falling asleep around 1:30 AM. Not since the late 1980s have I quit so early on New Years. Pathetic.
Another troubling thought – Here in New Zealand where the drinking age is 18, spirits can legally be served to people born in 1990, the year I began puberty. Had I put my biological developments to prodigious use and sired a child, I could now have a drink with him/her to celebrate my liberation from child support payments. Woo hoo! No more Baby Daddy drama!
I missed the Super Bowl. I guess you can’t have the Red Sox and the Patriots win within such a short span of time. When the Pats won in 2002, I was 2 blocks away from the victory parade in Boston. It was absolutely freezing, but that didn’t stop more than a million fans from celebrating in the streets. That particular victory was the first bit of good news Boston had heard in months. It was just after 9/11. Israel was blowing up. The Church scandals were finally coming to light. Anthrax was in the mail. That Super Bowl lifted everyone out of the mire. For the first time in months, everyone was happy (Pats fans, anyway). It would have been even better if my lame-ass boss had actually let us go up to the parade like every other sane boss in The Hub. What a dork.
All of New Zealand was bummed out by the passing of Sir Edmund Hillary, co-conqueror of Mt. Everest. Up until the rise of Xena: Warrior Princess, Sir Ed was the world’s most renown Kiwi, and the national papers ran full page photos and articles commemorating his life and achievements. There is a movement to name a mountain after him, which seems appropriate. I wonder if there’s a Mt. Tenzing somewhere in Nepal. Maybe Mt. Everest should be renamed Mt. Hillary-Tenzing. Shouldn’t the mountain be named after the guys who first climbed it, rather than a former Surveyor-General of India? Compared to Hillary and Norgay, Everest was a punk-ass bitch. Why does he get that naming rights?
Bummer about Heath Ledger, too. He was one of the few young actors to emerge in the past few years with the potential to be a truly interesting and unpredictable leading man, rather than just another overly hyped pretty boy. When I heard he would be playing The Joker, I was fascinated. After such a brilliantly understated performance in “Brokeback Mountain,” I wondered what he would bring to one of the most over-the-top characters ever conceived. What the hell was he gonna do with it? How would he compare with Jack Nicholson? The fantastic trailer for “The Dark Knight” boded well. He looks wonderfully sinister, and I think it would have catapulted him to a new level of stardom. It always depresses me when talented people die too young. At least we’ll have that last glimpse of his talent. RIP, dude.
I managed to catch “Sweeney Todd.” As with any Tim Burton flick, it looks fantastic. Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter are terrific. But man, what a weird movie! It has nasty people living in a hellish environment committing horrific acts, but they’re constantly singing. I have nothing against musicals. “Moulin Rouge” still ranks as one of my favorite movies of the last decade. I thought “Chicago” was well made, even though it glorifies the kind of people I despise. “Rent” totally sucked. There has never been a musical like “Sweeney Todd.” There are no big production numbers, no dancing, and very little in the way of romance. It is a bloody tale of revenge. Really bloody. The first big throat slashing (and there are many) had me wincing. And they just keep on singing from one gory scene to another. The juxtaposition of form and content was baffling. I walked out a little depressed. I have a hunch that I’ll have to see it again to make my final verdict.
So, yeah. I’m working on a great big movie about a guy with claws. Most of the movie will be shot in Sydney, but there are several weeks of location work here in NZ. When I first started traveling 15 months ago, I never thought that I’d be doing film work. I figured that I’d tend bar or do whatever I needed to survive. Now I am halfway around the world working on a production bigger than any of the shows I worked on in my 3 years in Los Angeles. Isn’t it ironic (dontcha think?)?
At the moment, we are doing night shoots. 6 days a week, usually 14 hour shifts. It’s exhausting. My #1 task on set is to distribute and keep track of nearly 200 walkie-talkies and constantly supply fresh batteries. We’ve shot in magnificent valleys, forests, a mountaintop, and a very muddy lumberyard. We’re supposed to finish in mid-March, but you never know what could happen. If the writers’ strike is 100% resolved, revisions could be made. We shall see. I won’t get to see the Oscars this year, either. Kinda sucks, but I haven’t seen any of the Best Picture nominees anyway.
Until I finish the movie, I will have basically no social life. Once we wrap, I’ll need a week just to catch up on sleep. There are a few things I want to do in Queenstown before I leave, but I’ll be very eager to move on. I’m not sure what the first stop will be, but it will definitely look something like this:
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