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Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

Tag Archives: Paris

Paris, Cherchez La Femme

13 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

Eiffel, Foodge, Merv, O'Hoo, Paris, Rosie's tattoo Emporium and House of Pain

Building-the-Eiffel-Tower

Story by Emmjay

O’Hoo looked phased. It was a single phase, not drawing much current. He was unshaven, gaunt. Not exactly fully gaunt; it wasn’t that bad. He was more gauntlet than gaunt.

“You look …” paused Merv.

O’Hoo frowned.

“Drawn” Merv said. “Not exactly ‘drawn’, more ‘sketchy’ than ‘drawn’” he said, pouring the detective a glass canoe of Trotter’s Old, named after Hung’s horse. It was a former pacer (the horse not the beer) and had successfully adapted to Hung’s milieu of fast women and slow ponies.

“Have you seen Foodge ?” O’Hoo asked to no-one in particular, but if he was more particular, he would have admitted he was talking to Merv, particularly since the bar was empty save for the two of them.

“He’s been adopting a low profile. Well, not exactly ‘adopting’…” said Merv, “more like fostering”. He paused. “Not the beer, O’Hoo, you know the thing where you mind other people’s kids for a while so the parents can get stoned more and the kids can nick your stuff and pawn it to buy the parents more drugs”.

“The Dickens” said O’Hoo. “Like Fagin in Oliver Twist ?”

“I’d say he was being more like a nancy boy, O’Hoo” said Merv.

“More pork or chalk a lager yaya” said O’Hoo, inadvertently joining in with Labelle’s ‘Lady Marmalade’ – playing on the Wurlitzer.

Merv ordered up a schnitzel and poured O’Hoo another beer – a Trotter’s Ale this time.

“Wise Foodge laying low ? said O’Hoo.

“Yeah he is” said Merv.

“No, it was a question” said O’Hoo.

“Well how come Emmjay wrote ‘wise’ ?” asked Merv.

“I think he’s doing the chemical enhancement thing,” said O’Hoo. “That or he’s off on a pun spree again”.

“How did you know it was a question ?” asked Merv.

“Are you reading the script right ?” said O’Hoo.

“Are we working off a script ?” asked Merv. “Unusual for Emmjay”.

“True” said O’Hoo. “Now where was I ?”

“You were asking me some pointless thing about Foodge” said Merv.

“Oh yeah. I was wondering why he’s lying low” said O’Hoo.

“Who ?” asked Merv.

“Foodge, said “O’Hoo.

“Oh, Foodge !” said Merv. “Is he lying low”?

“YOU TOLD ME HE’S LYING LOW” said an unusually phased O’Hoo.

“Oh, yeah, I did, ” said Merv. “Why is he lying low ?”

“Yeah”, said O’Hoo.

“Dunno,” said Merv.

O’Hoo’s schnitzel arrived with a generous pile of Granny’s wedges, sour cream and sweet chilli sauce. O’Hoo warmed to the prospect of savouring the wedgie goodness.

“Hmmm” said O’Hoo.

“Hmmm” said Merv, ordering himself a chaser.

“Hmmm” said Foodge.

“Shit !” said Merv and O’Hoo in two part harmony. “Where the fuck did you come from ?”

“I’ve been laying low” said Foodge.

“We’re past that bit,” said O’Hoo. “Merv cocked it up on the last page”

“Are we working off a script ?” said Foodge.

“We’re past that bit too” said Merv.

“What’s my line then ?” asked Foodge.

“I think we’re up to the bit where you tell us why you’ve been laying low” said O’Hoo.

“Oh, righto” said Foodge. “Ready ?”

“Yeah, we’re ready” said Merv.

“Roger” said Foodge.

(pause)

(pause)

“Well ?” said Merv.

“It’s complicated” said Foodge.

It was looking like a long afternoon coming, so Merv poured another round and drew up a chair. Not satisfied with the comfort, he rubbed out the first attempt and drew one with more padding.

“We have all day” said O’Hoo.

“Really ?” said Foodge.

“No, not really” said O’Hoo who, visibly, was losing the will to live.

“Her name is Paris” said Foodge.

“Aha ! Cherchez la femme !” said Emmjay who had dropped in to see how things were going with the script.

“Is this really credible ?” O’Hoo wanted to know.

“What Foodge going to ground over Paris ?” said Emmjay.

“No, the whole script !” said O’Hoo.

“What script ?” said Merv, who clearly wasn’t on the same page – which was not surprising since the script had taken on a life of its own and was pouring itself a glass canoe of Trotters, waiting for Merv to find his place behind the bar.

“I think it works… in a fashion” said Emmjay.

“I’m a work in progress” said the script, downing the last of his Trotter’s Ale.

“Well, fucking do it yourself” said O’Hoo to the script.

Emmjay took out an eraser and deleted O’Hoo from the remainder of the scene and scribbled “Directions Off” in the margin.

This was not the first time Emmjay had marginalised O’Hoo and something told O’Hoo that it probably wouldn’t be the last. The script looked at the fresh wound on its abdomen, sighed and poured another drink.

“Paris, France ?” asked Merv, suddenly lurching into real time.

“No, Paris Brown” said Foodge.

“You mean the lady of dubious repute working at Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain ?” said Merv.

“Yeah” said Foodge, “The one who was Eddie O’Bad’s favourite”.

“You’ve been seeing Paris Brown ?” said Merv with a mixture of incredulity and admiration for Foodge’s hidden talent. “In a professional capacity, Foodge ?”

“Kind of” said Foodge.

“Your profession or hers?” said Merv.

“It’s complex” said Foodge.

 

 

 

 

The Map of Love (Classic Oosterman)

26 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by gerard oosterman in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 41 Comments

Tags

Champ D'elysees, Mona Lisa, Montmarter, Norway, Paris, Southern Tablelands, VW KombiFrance

File photo: Couple reading a map (Getty Creative Images)

The map of love

First published on ABC “Unleashed” some years ago

Gerard Oosterman

The most awe inspiring part of a woman is her brain.

The multi-tasking capabilities of the female are well known. Many professors are spending their entire lives studying this phenomenon, trying to figure it out. Are there genetic codes or markers there?

The male on the other hand has trouble just doing a single task, and of course always expects great admiration and respect to follow.

The question is how this multi-tasking of females came about. Is it learned or gene related. Mothers with one on breast and another on hip (babies, not husband) can do cooking, cleaning, talking and write a thesis on 17th century Latvian ceramics…all at the same time.

The female does multi-task. The male with prompting can do serial tasking at best. He does one thing at a time. He changes his underwear one day; next day puts it on top of laundry basket and with luck on the third day or week after, might put his underwear actually into the basket.

During the long and bitter winters here in the Southern Highlands, well above 800 metres, one of the many single tasks that falls on my shoulders is the lighting of just one cube of fire lighter. Most nights our two fires are still alive next morning and just need topping up with wood. If lingering in the warm bed takes long, the risk is that a fire has to be started from scratch with the fire lighter starter.

This takes a male’s full concentration, and stillness is required now, no talking or interruption. The striking of the match first, then slowly approach the cube which is carefully underneath some kindling. Will the match die out or stay alive? The success of a positive day is now in the balance. If the fire starts, all is fine, if not, it might require an accusation to others that it is just not possible to do so many things at once. It will pale the morning.

In Norway, the proven multi-tasking capabilities of women is cleverly exploited and by 2010 40 per cent of company management must be women. If this is not done, companies will be closed down and all men sacked.

There is one thing that man is superior in. Map reading.

Not even Norwegian women can read maps. I suspect that maps are hieroglyphics to most women. Even the concept of North and South are mysterious entities, steeped with bearded explorers and arctic frosts. What is the genetic marker for that failure?

The male map reading genetic marker has been bedded down. This is a man’s speciality and the one thing standing between male self esteem and total annihilation. Keep this in mind fellows. Use it. It is not much, but hey, it is better than standing on a Norwegian street corner during winter after being kicked out of the warm office by a rampaging multi-tasking female work force.

Years ago, I converted a VW Kombi into a sleeper/camper with the audacious use of self tappers and window curtains together with short wooden legs hinged to chip board for a three-quarter bed. We decided to go to France and headed first for Paris.

After visits to Seine bridges, and Musee Du Louvre with Mona Lisa, Left Bank and Montmartre, we ended up at the Champs D’elysees and right in the middle of this wide Avenue we decided to set up camp on the ‘troittoir’. We thought it strange that no one else was parked there but next morning, much to our relief, there were many others busy with putting on trousers and blouses. No doubt, many wrapping up the fruits of true love as well.

We planned to have a breakfast of croissants and coffee after which a tour of the Loire Valley with Chateaux was in mind. This is where the inferior map reading by females became obvious.

Ecouter svp!

Getting out of Paris is almost impossible. This is why many give up and remain there forever. We ended up at a huge round-about with a bronzed statue of a large man on a large horse in the middle. We circled round and round this horse statue like a shark around a cadaver.

Finally, we stopped to ask a ‘gendarme’ how to get away from this endless round-about with the big horse. He not only kindly directed us but gave a special map on how to get off this round-about and towards the Loire Valley with its promise of vin blanc and chateaux.

We did manage to get away, but it was only temporarily, a huge detour, and back on the same round- about circle, no escape; we seemed destined to just keep on rounding and rounding. We were starting to wonder if all roads in Paris always ended up at this same round-about. Was it a fiendish plot to get at English speaking tourists and McDonalds and future Starbucks?

I was getting frustrated but decided to stop and ask police again for directions. Would you believe it, the same policeman? This time he pencilled directions on the map. Again, stoically we drove off. Another 50km, and through banlieues and Algeria, the horse statue again. I was sobbing now, close to being catatonic and pleading with my female partner to direct me from map. Half an hour, looked out and saw this fu###ng horse and the same policeman. He was laughing and pointing at my Kombi.

I then glanced sideways. The map was held upside down.

Remember now, men. We are good at map reading

House Rules

277 Comments

Not Going There, Done That.

20 Friday Apr 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Apple, Champs Elysees, Eiffel Tower, Paris, retail

Champs de Retail

Travel Yes and No – A Reply for Gez and Helvi.

Three weeks in Paris with FM.  I had this planned for some time but it took an eternity to work up the courage and find the cash to make the commitment.

Although she has travelled the world many times before Tim the Cabin Boy was born, this is her first trip to the city of light and my fourth – in 30 years.  Two years ago I came here with Emmlet II and her old school pal – for five days only – but it was the trip before that in 2004 with the whole tribe – for 10 days over Easter that put Paris in my “must go every now and then” list.

In every visit I always had that “I wish I had seen ……..” feeling when I came home.  There is simply too much to experience in perhaps even a year or two.  And in every case I learnt things that I should avoid or find some way around.

The first thing was that it is so far away that the trip can be exhausting – so we spent a bit more cash and flew premium economy (where your nose just misses the passenger in front’s head instead of touching it).  The second distance buster was breaking the trip at Singapore for a couple of days.  Both of these proved to be good ideas but stole time and cash.  Always the trade-off.

Luck out #1 was an upgrade to business class – free champagne and a “reclining bed”, no crowd and delightful QANTAS cabin service for the ten hours to Singapore.

Less wonderful event #1 back to premium economy for the Singapore to Paris leg – departing at 23:30 and flying all night – which means three or four movies and no cabin service and no reclining bed when you could really benefit from it.

Getting from Charles de Gaulle into Paris can be a nightmare for the language challenged.  Solution: I booked a great hotel in an ideal location (for just two nights to get over the trip and because the cost was frightening) and a car to pick us up – avoiding jetlag on the peak hour metro plus navigation on and off the thing with bags. This proved to be very good thinking and the hotel people were great.

After that we moved to an apartment I found on the internet through the massive TripAdvisor site – which had used in the last two visits – TripAdvisor that is, not the same apartment.  First it was only five minutes walk away from the hotel – easy.  Second it was very economical and proved to be huge and modern by Paris standards (like 55 square metres huge) – close to three metro stations (ideal), shops, the twice a week giant open air markets at Boulevard Richard Lenoir near Bastille.  Food there is cheap and excellent – even in this early Spring (cold, by our standards and unreliable weather like Sydney in October).

Echoing your sentiments, visiting monuments, galleries, churches and museums has been an interesting event for us.  FM loves art, but is easily put off by giant queues – and so I confess, am I.  So whereas I kind of expected to line up at Musee D’Orsay and the Louvre, we have decided to give them a miss.  Just too hard and big wasters of time.  Everyone goes to the Eiffel Tower.  But not us, this trip.  The Parisian engineers had carefully ensured that on the Easter public holidays, one of the lifts was broken down and the massive queues (in biting cold wind and light rain) were advised that the wait was over two hours.  To get a birds eye view of three or four landmarks and what is a beautiful but rather homogenous Paris central skyline.

You might recall that I expressed disappointment with the Picasso exhibition visiting Sydney recently.  Our apartment manager lunched with us on the first day and asked me what I thought of the Picassos – still on travelling exhibition while their Paris digs are under renovation.  I was honest.  She beamed and almost shook my hand.  She said that the story behind the collection is that the heirs to the Picasso legacy were facing a huge tax bill when he died – which, under French law they could “pay” in kind.  So they took all of the crap that was still in the paintings shed and gave it to the people de la Republic.  She thought they got the unsaleable rubbish – which I feel reflected a certain slight anti-Spanish sentiment as much as it did a major disapproving artistic judgment.

But to be fair to Paris, the exhibition in the Musee Marmotan (many smaller Monets and other impressionist and post-impressionist artists ) was on a human scale and excellent to visit.  Musee Carnavalet (Museum of the History of Paris) was also a good experience – FM said she thought it might be better going two or three times.

But perhaps the most significant difference was in our views about what is important and therefore should be the focus of spending our time.  FM is a fashionista – hard core and many of her favourite designers are here and in London.  So shopping – the real exchange of serious wads of cash and the indolent wandering – flaneur-style around the cities are her priority.  My kind of Y chromosome carrier detests shopping in all its forms – so we have trod a careful compromise of DIY.  More Shakespeare and Co for me than any number of designers.  And more time to take it easy, read, drink wine and coffee and eat (oh, my fat and growing torso) for me.

Getting back to your reluctance to travel as sightseers, I think the internet and international security and all the hassles of travel are speaking loudly in support of your view.  If you want – for some reason – to see monuments, they are only as far away as google.

But shopping is apparently not like that.  I cannot imagine anyone being a monument-viewing-aholic.  Stuff from precisely the same designers in Paris is different in exclusive shops all over the world – and surprisingly little choice is available in Australia – relative to what you can see wandering (with intent) in Paris.  So for FM, the London and Paris designer-specific shops have been a real eye-opener.  And so too were the shops in Singapore.  You really (apparently) do have to be there to feel the width.

A tiny snip of the Orchard Rd Retail Megatropolis

Australians have for years spoken of Singapore as a Mecca of shopping.  It was incredible in terms of the scale of the retail universe there.  But perplexing too.  There was shop after shop after shop all selling the same “exclusive” brands.  Exclusive by cost, not by availability, believe me.  I’m surprised that a Zegna suit failed to attach itself to me just through repeated exposure.  for reasons of personal financial safety, I’m OK about not returning to the Asian capital of retail.

As a person somewhat interested in information technology, I paid a special visit to the “Can’t Remember Jalan Centre”.  A tired and dilapidated, if not downright grubby octagonal building of six stories each with a double ring of mainly small one man stores, many temporarily closed or just plain dead, met my countenance.  Hundreds of little businesses all selling much of a muchness with a little specialisation in communications, security or whatever, here and there.  Things have clearly moved on from the cowboy PC with everything days.  The Apple stores are nowhere to be seen in this retail backwater.  They are amongst the high fashion stores.  And they are packed to the raffles with products and customers clamouring for today’s and tomorrow’s IT.

This is in itself surprising, because anyone with a quid can buy any Apple product from the comfort of their own house without ever having to step outside.  But Apple have made their technology and their retail palaces cool places to be and to be seen.

So maybe that’s where the 21st century monuments will be found.  Not in the expensive real estate of major cities far away, but on the desk in the spare bedroom – now called “the home office”.  And since the internet can usually provide us with a picture of just about anything, I think it will be OK to pull down the Eiffel tower and build a few more Apple and Big Mac stores – and save us the cost and hassle of the trip and the bother of the retail zone.  It’ll be locals only – but then, we are all locals anyway, are we not ?

Alternatively, perhaps we can take a leaf from Lehan’s book and send a hologram of ourselves to visit a hologram of the Eiffel tower – just so we can, with some confidence, say “yeah, haven’t been there, done that.”

Helen’s First Trojan Dmas

22 Thursday Dec 2011

Posted by atomou in Uncategorized

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

Christmas, Helen of Troy, Paris, Zeus

Drinking Bacchus by Guido Reni  (1575-1642)

Drinking Bacchus by Guido Reni (1575-1642)

The cold was foreign to her. Foreign and unpleasant. It penetrated deep, into the marrow her bones. The weather of barbarian lands, she had heard, could be cruel, unbearable for the likes of the noble Greeks, particularly so, of Greeks whose blood consisted, in equal measure, of a mortal and of a god.
“Why all this snow, father?” she asked, looking at the white shroud that had covered everything outside her window. “Why so much snow? Why such bitter cold?”
She shivered. Not only because of the cold outside but because of the cold in her heart, a cold that came with the thought that the white shroud she saw outside would one day be also her own shroud, covering her own grave.

Her husband, her new husband, rolled languidly on their bed behind her. He grunted a sigh of replete satisfaction, of contentment, happy with the night that had preceded and happier still with the day that he knew would proceed.
The fire was blazing in the hearth, radiating warmth and comfort throughout the enormous royal bedroom. It radiated certainty, safety, protection.

“Paris,” Helen called as soon as she heard his sigh.
“Yes, my sweet golden gift?”
Helen had to accept this label. Gift. After all, she was exactly that. A gift that the goddess Aphrodite had handed to Paris in exchange for him declaring her the one worthy of the title “most beautiful of all” and handing her the golden apple. Helen would have preferred the label ‘bribe.’
“Paris, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Brothers and sisters? Why do you want to know that, Helen, my sweet golden gift? There are many of us.”
“Yes but how many exactly?”
Paris thought for a few seconds. “At the last setting of the dinner table, the chief of slaves shouted that there should be one hundred chairs set up for the king’s children. Yes, I do believe, that there are fifty men and fifty women of us. One hundred in total. Not all out of Hekabe’s womb, mind, but we are all of Priam’s seed.”
He jumped out of bed like a leopard at the scent of game and rushed over to her. He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her slender waist and brought his smooth, shaven face close to hers. So smooth, it made Helen’s body tingle with desire.
“Why do you want to know?”
“It is Dmas today and I want to send gifts to all of them. What sort would they like, do you think? What would your parents like?”
Paris laughed
“Gifts? What more gifts would they want than the one they already have? Troy had never had a gift so precious as the one she has now! You, my darling are the gift that has satisfied them all. There is no other gift in the universe that they could wish now.”
“That’s not what your sister Cassandra thinks! She thinks of me as a curse!”
“Forget Cassandra. She is delusional. Thinks she’s a prophet! Now what is this Dmas you are talking about?”
“You don’t hold the mysteries of Dmas in Troy? But which of the gods is your protector then? Or don’t you have one?” In her heart of hearts she wished the answer was no. That no god protected this city.

“Apollo,” he answered.
“Apollo? Why him?”
Paris brought his face even closer to her and with his he turned hers towards the huge battlements. Enormous walls built of huge stones which no man could lift. Then he raised his hand and pointed at one of the towers.
“See those tall towers, those huge walls, darling?”
She nodded.
“They were built by Apollo. Apollo and Poseidon. They had angered Zeus for some reason or other and he, Zeus, sent them, shamed, here to served grandpa, Laomedon. They had to do whatever grandpa wanted. So he told them to build these walls. Huge, aren’t they? Impenetrable. Troy is unconquerable, my little gift! It is the safest land on land!”

The word, “unconquerable” tugged bitterly at Helen’s heart. Nine months in this land and with this man and she still could not erase the guilt of treachery, nor the love for her first and true husband, Menelaos, King of Sparta. Her love for her baby daughter would torment her for ever. She had still not managed to understand what had actually happened to her mind, to her heart, that day when Paris had snatched her hand and pulled her running to his ship. She remembered well, though, the feeling of exhilaration, of joy that had coursed madly through her veins. The feeling of anticipation for a new, more exciting life, somewhere else, with someone so young, so handsome, with one so much in love with her. Nothing else had mattered at that moment. She had allowed herself to be the captive.
Still, there’s no escaping the will of the gods, she kept telling herself. She must endure it. The words were like a nursery rhyme sung to send a child to the sweet world of oblivion.

“One hundred of you,” she said. “Goodness. This will need a great deal of thought!”
“And what do you Hellenes, do during this Dmas,” Paris asked, as he dragged her back into the warm bed. “Tell me!”
But it was a good hour before the Prince’s arms and legs, his every muscle, stopped their frenzied work so that Helen could begin talking again.
“Dmas is the day when we celebrate the birth of Dionysos.”
“You mean, Bacchus?”
“He is known by many names. Bromios, Lyaeus, Oeneus… lots of names. He is even called Enorches!”
They both burst into loud laughter at that.
“God with balls! What a name for a god, ey? So what happens on that day? Do you all give gifts to one another, balls and cocks?”
“His mother is –was- a mortal, Semele,” Helen continued, trying to keep some semblance of modesty in the conversation. “His father is also my own father, Zeus.”
“You are related?”
“In a way, yes. Semele was an unmarried virgin when Zeus went to her; my mother was not. I also have a mortal father-”
“Yes, I know, Tyndareus.”
“Anyhow, Zeus’ wife–”
“Hera-”
“Yes, Hera-”
“Your mother is Leda, right?”
How like a child this man was! Always interrupting, his mind constantly wandering, butterflying from one thought to another.

“Yes, Leda. Now Hera became very jealous–”
“Women! Mortals or gods, they’re all the same! Jealous harpies!”
She smiled.
“And men, mortals or gods, they too are all the same. Rapists!” But she didn’t allow Paris to continue with the contest. “Hera came down to Semele when Semele was pregnant with Dionysos and pretended to be a nurse. They talked and then Semele told Hera that the baby in her belly was fathered by a splendid god. By Zeus himself. ‘Zeus, a god?’ asked Hera spitting out a devious chuckle. ‘No, dearie, Zeus is no god, dearie. Why, ask him, right now, if you like, ask him to show you what he’s really like! Shout at the heavens! Call on him to come down now and show himself in all his godly splendour, if you like. Let’s see what he’s really like!”

It was just like telling stories to a baby, Helen, thought. Like the times when she was telling stories to her own daughter, Hermione. Her heart shed a tear.
“Go on,” said Paris, snuggling up to her, like a wide-eyed baby. She was certain he was about to put her nipple into his mouth and start suckling.
“Well,” she continued, “Semele did call out to Zeus. She asked him to prove to her that he was, indeed the glorious god that he said he was. And Zeus obeyed. Unfortunately, there was a problem and that was that when Zeus wants to show himself in all his splendour, he dresses himself up with all his thunderbolts and lightning rods and fire dashing everywhere–”
“Oh, no!” said Paris. “I know what will happen next!”
“Yes, Zeus came crashing down in all his flaming glory and Semele–”
“Was turned into a pile of smoking ashes. What about the baby?”
“Yes, poor Semele perished in the fire. Zeus quickly extinguished all the fires, got rid of his bolts and rods, ripped out the baby from Semele’s belly and flew off into the sky. Then, secretly, he sewed the baby, baby Dionysos, into his thigh and let him grow in there until he was ready to be born. That’s why Dionysos is known also by the name of ‘dimetor’ which means, ‘born of two mothers.’ Zeus was his second mother.”
“Hmmm! So what do you do during his festival?”
“Well, Dionysus in the god of wine, of the free spirit, of the deep desire, so…”
“You all get drunk and free?”
“We are always free but on that day we also get drunk and… even more free!”
“Huh?”
“So free that nine months later all the women give birth! Children of Dionysus, we call them. They are born in honour of a god.”
He rolled his soft body over hers.
“Merry Dmas,” he said.

“The Slap and Midnight in Paris.” ( hundred percent factual)

24 Monday Oct 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 23 Comments

Tags

Christos Tsialkus, Paris, The Slap, Woody Allen

 

Over the last few weeks I watched short segments of the TV series The Slap. They were short bits that I watched, so don’t take my observations as too factual or writ in cement, more like cast in yoghurt. Take what you like and chuck the rest.

Yesterday, with all the turmoil on the Inebriates and their Bleached Bones etc, Helvi and I went to see Woody Allen’s ‘Midnight in Paris’ here in Bowral.  The difference between the two films could not be starker. I don’t know about you but I find watching The Slap almost unbearable. The negativity is just seeping out from almost every sequence. One can’t fault the acting, the filming and the expert casting, or indeed the story which is based on the book by Christos Tsiolkas… I am usual the first one to admit that the ‘art of things’ is what matters almost more than the technique or even the story. If it works it works, is my motto. The Slap works in the sense of a well made series, well acted but the unrelenting emptiness of the couples lives just spoils it for me. Too depressing!

The main character, the slapper, the son of Greek parents, is just about the pits. He seems to go through life between short bursts of ejaculating around the place and walks to the fridge grabbing a beer. All is enjoyed with the minimum of care or pleasure. He cuts an apple with utter contempt. He chucks his mobile phone about.  He struts around his pool and house which would have to be the ultimate in hideous empty totally impersonal architecture.  He runs a business whereby his only involvement seems to be the money.  His son, a sad boy, whereby at one segment is seen to watch with his brutal father some segment of music with gyrating hip swinging female hopping dancers. Before that he watched his mother being brutalised by his father.

The only people who seemed to have some humanity about are the Greek parents and to some extent, the breast feeding mother of the slapped kid and her partner. (I even saw some books in their poor little house.) I remember the ABC making good TV, especially comedy. What with that silly Julia series and now the Slap. What’s cooking next?

Compare this with Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. Well, there is no comparison. We walked out jubilant. What a lovely story. The wife of the French president, Carla Bruni, is stunning as a tourist guide doing the rounds through Le Louvre or was it The Jardin the Versailles? The main character is forced to face the shortcomings of his shopping addicted American wife and their divergent aims. No matter how Woody Allen faces the cynicisms of the world he lives, his rather disappointing and glum view of so much of the culture he was born into, he dresses them up in artistry and above all humour. He gave us (and still is giving) wonderful films. I liked his “ not only do I not believe in a God, but try and get a plumber on a Sunday!.

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