MIFF'd

In between dashing into the parallel-universe Melbourne podjob to smash a deadline or two, I managed to cosy into a hard-backed cinema seat and see a few flicks at the Melbourne International Film Festival last week. I've already tweeted about what I thought of the films I saw, but once more for those in the back, with notes:

Our City Dreams: interesting fem artists in NYC portrayed without any curation of thematics, narrative or location. [The film told each artist's story one after the other, in blocks that reminded me of the trapped bird feel of a gallery room. The edit was completely uncreative and jarred uncomfortably against the otherwise intriguing stories of these free creatives. There wasn't any sense of why we were in New York, which leant the film a kind of assuming arrogance that its content unfortunately did not support]

All Tomorrow's Parties: brilliant for chucking on after you've trundled home from a festival. Not so much if unmunted in a cinema. [does however contain some awesome footage of Nick Cave performing No Pussy Blues and some interesting interviews with various artists, but as a whole, a film where you could easily walk out of the room to grab another beer from the fridge and not feel that you've missed anything on your return. There was a little too much footage of wasted festival goers to keep me entertained for the full duration. Even people at festivals don't want to see other stoned people at festivals. Out of context it's just a bit creepy]

The Beaches of Agnes: memory as humble and tactile cinematic installation. Unsophisticated, in the very best possible way. [I recommend not only that you see this one, but that if you have a chance, see it in a cinema. It is designed for a cinema screen and this film feels, more so than the others I watched at this festival, like such an intimate gift when you view it as it was intended to be seen]

Prime Mover: a few decent gags hidden under yet another predictable Aus caricature comedy. Found the protagonist entirely unendearing. [This is a shame, as I was looking forward to this film. I'm really craving an indie Australian comedy that doesn't trade on jokes that died in the early 90's. Also, what is the deal with Aus films using pointless animation lately? I had the same graphics gripe with My Year Without Sex- I find it really distracting when there's no diagetic connection]

Outrage: doco outing closeted gay American senators will make you question the rights of private citizens compared to public citizens. [this one raised some serious moral questions for me. I'm an advocate of letting people come out in their own good time, and I think outing is immoral. Still, I've never applied this private opinion to public figures who have the right to decide whether or not I deserve the same rights that would be considered human rights if I was currently sleeping with a dude. It's a tricky topic, and definitely one that should be up for debate. See it.]

Outside the darkened theatres, I developed the biggest interior design crush on the MIFF festival lounge at the Forum. The blue-lit roof, strung party lights and cosy round booths all collide to make the perfect space to argue with your friends over whether or not that film you just saw had any magic to it. It's one of those cosmic holy places. If I was still in Melbourne, I would still be sitting there, smiling shiny-eyed up at the roof. I'm a total deviant for a well lit room.

So, now you know. Next time you're trying to woo me, stock up on coloured globes, gels and fairy lights.

nessie huntin' eve

I realised today that not having a couple of quick-witted workmates around at the podjob has dulled my senses. I used to have to work to get the first call in. Now I'm just spinning around on my own, with a few satellite funny folk, without anyone to force my moves earlier and earlier. I think this has made me lazy.

I've been working my mothertrucking fanny hide off trying to get everything done around the podjob lately. But as of this arvo, I have one entire blissful week off. And it doesn't eaven eat into my annual leave. Which means I've somehow worked an entire week that didn't exist between May and now. I disgust myself sometimes.

So me and the flatties and their lovers and a few others off to Lake Conjola to go catch Nessie, like this guy did:

happy bar wench on vanity

working the end of fashion gig tonight. I've been strapped to the pod for the last couple of days, so dancing behind the bar is going to be a well-deserved groove.

Shoot days for Miara, the narrative peice written by my favourite brasilian expat have been settled on, as well- first week in October. I think I've had sufficient rest from filming. After the insane first six months of this year, I needed a break. But I'm keen to get my AD boots back on and manage the bejezus out of you punk monk folk- and the ring in crew too. No one here is safe.

And while I do see the irony in saying this in a blog- I thought I was self-absorbed until I saw this this morning:

See more funny videos and TBT Videos at Today's Big Thing.

Kind of reminds me of the time that I left my new digital camera alone at home with my old flatmate. When I came home, there were 265 photos of her (the total capacity of the memory card), all taken from arms length. Apparently she didn't know how to delete them. I reckon she just ran out of space to take more.

what have jaffas taught YOU today?

I was disgusted to notice this morning that I've actually started thinking in status updates when I'm in front of my work computer. I haven't eaten any breakfast yet, mostly because I was a zombie this morning after working at the bar last night. I had a few leftover strawberries and cream lollies and some jaffas, so I ate all six of those and washed them down with the leftover sunkist that was also in my bag from last night. Then into my brain pops the gramatically incorrect phrase "really wants breakfast". Or it would be grammatically incorrect, had my brain not hardwired the fact that I don't need to put in a definite article to define myself or even conduct my (let's face it, SCINTILATING) internal dialogue in the present tense anymore when I'm sitting in the podchair. Facebook and Twitter do that for me. So it is official: I have become Katiebot, only able to function with the assistance of computational devices, and as such, exist permanently in the past tense.

All of the experimental witch stuff is up on the www for the entire netty universe to see. You can check them all out here. Ours was Heron Ryan, the first one on the list, with the emo-looking tearful eye of an AJ.

In other news, I am totally in lust with Billie Piper again. That sexy period detective thing she did is eclipsed by the eye-whipping that is Confessions of a Call Girl. I am not a TV person, and I'm definitely not the kind of person who can commit to being at home at the same time, week in, week out for a whole television season, but this may be the show that breaks me. I'd like to think that all this robotic becoming is rubbing off on my under-developed ability to keep to some semblance of a routine.

wanker words

reportage.

every time someone says/writes it I want to say "REPORTS! REPORTS! REEEEEPORRRRRRTS!" like some kind of under-stimulated geek child to an intellectually barren third grade teacher.