Girlie wants me out of the house. She’s desperate to have some friends round. I told her I’d love to spend an evening with her and her girlie friends. There’s so much we could all talk about. You know, hang out in our PJs and stuff, eat junk food, giggle a lot.
Anyway, she wants me out so I think I’ll spend next weekend in Canberra. I hear the place is amazingly dull, but I’m the kind of loser that likes museums and art galleries, so it should be okay, for one night anyway.
We’ve just been out to Leichardt to get a dose of Italy and see a movie, Igby Goes Down. A warning beeper went off in the car on the way there. Girlie’s concerned. She’s concerned because she thinks it might keep me in town.
“There’s a train to Canberra,” she offers. “And you owe me $175.”
And: “Can you buy me some alcohol?”
Bloody cheek.
Igby was terrific, but when I write about films I’m conscious the folk in NZ get to see most films before they arrive here. Nevertheless, Igby is great. The cast is unbelievable. Bill Pullman as the schizophrenic father stands out amongst a whole set of amazing performances. Claire Danes is soft and gorgeous and beautifully conflicted. Both Culkins stood up. The younger, Rory, as young Igby is right up there.
This is one movie where the bit players are as impressive as the names - and since those names are Sarandon and Goldblum, that’s saying something. It’s nicely shot and has a great soundtrack.
But the real star, as with most goodies, is the writer - Burr Steers, who also directed.
As regular readers know I’m having whiteware woes. We finally managed to get the electrician in. He looked at the stove and pronounced it irreparable and then passed the same judgment on the clothes dryer. Now the two appliances just sit there sulking, sighing occasionally in the manner of old electrical goods, knowing the time is nigh for them to go to the big Harvey Norman in the sky. I’m tempted to move the dryer into the kitchen so they can spend their last days together.
Note to self: anthropomorphism can only take you so far.
Yesterday I went to see Wim Wenders’ photographs at the MCA. Very impressive, huge and sharp landscapes mostly, with some of ground zero, some of Cuba, quite a few of the Aussie desert. These wall-sized panoramas are noted as “C” type photographs, I presume that means Cibachrome, but who knows? Whatever the technicalities, they are stunningly huge and sharp and well seen.
However, I couldn’t help feel the exhibit was a populist move by the MCA. There is nothing particularly challenging here. Wenders’ pictures are great, but in a very traditional way, or rather very traditional ways for he has several styles. Apart from their scale, much of the ground has been covered before by the likes of Ansell Adams and Ernst Haas
among others.
The gallery has been having a tough time. It was 10 weeks away from closing before our “high art” premier Bob Carr relented with a five-year state rescue package. The gallery insists on measuring its success by counting numbers through the door. More people means you must be presenting better art, right? And when you do that you need headliners like Wenders.