The Finders Keepers Markets have become something of a byword for adorableness, and with a focus on sustainability, and the artists and designers repping and reaping the profits of their own work, it's basically guilt free (aside from any issues you might have about spending all your money on lovely things). This Autumn/Winter outing of Finders Keepers' biannual Sydney visits is prepared for the cold, with KnitKnit's DIY kits for woolly accessories for first-time knitters and Puddin' Head homewares so your room looks its prettiest while you lean back against your Ourlieu cushions covered in fabrics printed with hand-drawn designs writing out Bespoke Letterpress invitations to your friends to come and drink tea out of delicate little Sandra Bowkett vessels with your creepy/awesome new felt friend from Cat Rabbit. And that is before you start thinking about the fashion and jewellery options, of which there are enough to keep you busy for the whole of either day, and the artists and illustrators vending their wares, of which ditto. Plus bands, if the above was not already enough to warm your heart and your toesies. https://youtube.com/watch?v=W2p8Dv4QNyM
Funny how some things grow on you: beer, vegemite, boys. It's taken me half a first season to get excited by the plot of Boardwalk Empire. Which is kind of how I feel about the new Cut Copy album, Zonoscope. After a decade of making music together, the Melbournian electro-pop group are back on home turf, with Coachella sweat still fresh under their fingernails, for the Zonoscope Album Tour. Those who fell in love with their 2008 album In Ghost Colours from the first play may not have the patience for Zonoscope. But give it some playtime and you might end up with 360-degree change of heart. You'll start to make sense of the senseless. Swept into a trance, you'll be chanting lyrics in your sleep. The album cover of Zonoscope, which is the third studio album from the group, features a depiction of New York City engulfed by a waterfall, courtesy of the late artist Tsunehisa Kimura. A similar exploration of the surreal embodies the 11 tracks of their latest release. After co-opting the sounds of the last 25 years of British dance, Cut Copy take New York disco by storm, incorporating heavy keys, wordless choruses and drums that sound a bit like traffic. Dan Whitford's searching vocals create an atmosphere of intense longing and emotional tenderness. The boys bring their white-disco light to the Opera House this Sunday as part of Vivid Live.
It is time that the term "dinner theatre" be shaken up and given new meaning. While it may be fun to watch Dracula saw a woman in half while you guzzle spaghetti, there are more fun and involving concepts waiting to appropriate the term. A big contender for this is Wasted, a pop-up restaurant experience that will be hanging out in Ten Buck Alley for a three-night tease in mid-May. The brain-child of chef Douglas McMaster and producer Kym Lenoble, Wasted is a provocative dining experience that invites its guests to not simply consume, but to engage with the food they're eating. It is the nature of the food in particular that is something to get excited about — McMaster's six course menu will take the philosophies of nose-to-tail cooking and sustainable food practices to a whole new dimension. Guests will be introduced to culinary delights that are normally thrown away during conventional meal preparation, a practice that leads to NSW producing around 800,000 tonnes of food waste a day. This is what we should expect when we think of "dinner theatre" — a full engagement of the senses and intellect with food, fellow guests and staff all participating to produce a collaborative evening that leaves everyone feeling fulfilled in body and mind. Book a seat immediately, because this pop-up will be gone quicker than a council collection. And, for an extra $50 you can match wines to every course. It would be a crime to waste all of that grape juice, after all.
It's fair to say that I didn't exactly shine in my year of university-level English. I quickly discovered that stern academics and huge reading lists weren't for me and got the hell out of there. Not so for the protagonist of this drama, Vivian Bearing, who possesses both a PhD and a glittering career specialising in one of the trickier 17th century metaphysical poets. The only thing blocking her path to unprecedented academic glory is a slightly more serious condition than mine: advanced ovarian cancer. Such a sober tale as this takes a great sensitivity to tell, which playwright Margaret Edson delivers, but the brilliance of this work is given away in its title. The script specialises in a generous kind of intellectualism, where witticisms and profound poetics set the bar high yet are framed to make sure everyone can jump over. The successful translation of this to stage is largely in the hands of the lead, Karen Bayly, whose performance is exceptional. Also worthy of mention is James Croke's efficiently aesthetic set design, which frames the piece succinctly while allowing it to develop in unexpected ways. Clever, cheeky and just plain funny, W;t puts heart and head in the same room and finds they have a pretty inspiring conversation. Image by Bob Seary.
There's an image that clearly comes to mind when listening to Mikelangelo and the Black Sea Gentlemen. It's something akin to a scene from one of Tim Burton's animations: skeletons dance gaily in graveyards, crows cry tunefully looking over barren fields and pirates hold mugs of ale, fighting in between each chorus. Is that just me? Or is that exactly what these creative souls are after? More than just musical performers, this act is the true definition of all-out entertainment. At one of their shows you can expect cabaret-style interactions with the audience, dark tales of woe told between musical numbers and a variety of gypsy, balkan and (dare I say) pirate-inspired tunes which may not necessarily be toe-tapping but will certainly sweep you away to the rain-soaked galley of a travelling ship or the love-lost misery of a drunk in a bar. You may recognise lead singer Mikelangelo and his perfectly waxed quiff from La Clique; it was with this travelling troupe that he managed to score the Green Room Award and London Time Out Critic's Choice at last year's Edinburgh Fringe Festival. For those of you with a penchant for devilishly handsome, darkly humoured and desperately desirable musical entertainment, pull out the oars and row down to the Opera House Studio. https://youtube.com/watch?v=syAOF9tL-tw
According to their MySpace page, Surfer Blood don't surf. Neither do their mates, surfer-indie-rock band the Drums. And, come to think of it, neither did the Beach Boys, other than a few waves caught here and there by Dennis Wilson. So if there's no surfing going on, what's with the all the surf references, dudes? Despite the aggressive oceanic cover art on their debut album, Astro Coast, this Florida band mostly steer clear of surfer-rock. Instead, their sound is inspired by '90s guitar-heavy indie-rock acts such as Pavement and Weezer and legendary pop-rock bands like the Who. Their debut single, 'Swim', is the type of stadium rock that gets you headbanging in the car and playing air guitar at the traffic lights, while the rest of the album is a catchy mix of indie-rock-pop with impressive guitar riffs, traces of punk and bursts of Vampire Weekend-ish Caribbean influences. Apparently, when playing live, lead singer John Paul Pitts maintains a poker face throughout his entire set, even when thrashing out the band's biggest anthems. Check it out for yourself when Surfer Blood play their Splendour Sideshow at Manning Bar on August 3. Just don't expect to catch these guys checking out the local froth at Bondi the next day. https://youtube.com/watch?v=QVkgNPK8EQE
In an Oklahoman hotel room foreboding seediness, Agnes, a fortysomething diner waitress with a face sharp from years of masking misery with vodka and crack, trades the washed-out hospital green of her waitress’ uniform for denim shorts and a white tank top; work is out, time to unwind. Fearing the return of her violent ex-husband only recently released from prison, Agnes unwinds hard. Enter Peter (the metaphorical everyson), a perfectly beautiful boy-man stranger of indiscriminate sexuality, heavy with the psychological scars of soldier-hood. He looks like an angel and so, with ironic inevitability, brings hell. Agnes’s release descends into a chaotic, bloody, bug-infested dystopia of delusional paranoia. Picture This Productions deliver Bug, a play written by dramatist Tracy Letts in 1996, pre his Pulitzer prize. Billed as a dark, comic thriller, Bug imagines the fallout from a rotting America — the first Bush’s war in Iraq and the dirty-handed deeds of the CIA and FBI (referencing the Waco and Ruby Ridge incidents, which Timothy McVeigh claimed motivated his bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City not much more than a year before this play was written). Indeed, Peter is posited as John Doe no. 2, McVeigh’s potential but never affirmed accomplice. It is heavy material for a comic play, however dark. This production of Bug is near flawless. In every way. Jeanette Cronin is brilliant as Agnes White and Matthew Walker crescendos heartbreakingly as Peter Evans. Jonny Pasvolsky (Jerry Goss), Catherine Terracini (R.C.) and Laurence Coy (Dr. Sweet) are exceptional accomplices. Director Antony Skuse has assembled a highly accomplished production team, the costuming, voice coaching/direction, music and lighting direction capture every detail (Peter’s physical transformation after intermission painfully highlights how addiction undoes beauty). Amazing. Bug is a play about people at their end (not so much about their transformation). They’ve exhausted all avenues of redemption and are wallowing in their self-made hell, striving for human intimacy but almost stripped of humanity. I want to say it’s terrifying, but it’s not. It’s hopeless. Pure hopelessness tied up with Letts’ silk ribbon of dramatic intelligence and wit. It begs the question of why dramatise such hopelessness? But then, in 1996, the answer to why McVeigh did what he did rarely went beyond “because he is evil”. Through Bug, Letts is the cynically frustrated citizen balking at the hypocrisy of his government and asking for more complex answers. Seriously good theatre. Photo by Tess Peni.
For 35 years, acclaimed Australian director Gillian Armstrong (My Brilliant Career, Charlotte Gray) has been following the lives of three Adelaide women. What started as a one-off short film documenting what it is to be a 14-year-old in 1975 has become a five-part series, with Armstrong checking in with the girls again at 18, 26, 33 and 47. For those unfamiliar with the project, the opening 25 minutes of the latest installment, Love, Lust & Lies, is devoted to bringing the audience up to date with the lives of best friends Kerry, Diana and Josie. Time brings marriages, children, financial woes and hopeful dreams for the trio in what is a captivating portrait of family, motherhood and aspiration. All three dropped out of school as soon as possible, and the inter-generational consequences resonate profoundly with the women's common wish for a better life for their children. Armstrong captures all with a compassionate and reflexive eye, as she unobtrusively includes herself in the film as a testament to what has become a life-long friendship. Indeed, rather than relegate these women to the proverbial quiet lives of desperation, Armstrong has created a compelling social document. And though there are obviously similarities to Michael Apted's famous Seven-Up series, Armstrong's achievement is unique to Australian cinema, providing both a fascinating social history and a deeply personal account of these three remarkable, ordinary women. https://youtube.com/watch?v=zg4LG5rZMZI
When the moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars, peace will guide the planets and Australia can finally have their Juggernauts back. Fresh from a European tour with French dynamo Justice, Melbourne trio Midnight Juggernauts are back with a shiny new record, Australian dates and the meaning of life (though perhaps a little scant on the latter). With their debut LP Dystopia sending 2007 into a robotic warzone of dance, these electro guns are bringing their wondrous zest back with The Crystal Axis and more punch than an intergalactic Beastie Boys SLAM. With founding members Vincent Vendetta and Andy Szekeres nabbing Lost Valentinos drummer Daniel Stricker, the trio has certainly upped their Euro-feel since dwelling in the Parisian quarter of Le Marais for a large part of 2008. Ah, l'electro c'est super! Heralding an infectiously synth-based kind of kaleidoscopic electro-rock, this triangular ensemble has successfully overcome the cluster of Aussie dance punk circa 2006, leaving contemporaries Cut Copy, Van She and Grafton Primary to find their own feet. The 50-minute sophomore album of the threesome brings a more immediate sound to their generally sequenced electronic recording — moving past surface-value cosmic tomfoolery to bring a more vivid exploration of deep space. With new singles The New Technology and Vital Signs transporting the listener to some kind of musico-galactic tipi, the threesome have a revamped set, a revamped style (beards crucial), and a revamped DIY ethos that has garnered international acclaim. As these celestial musketeers look into one pastel wash of an interstellar sunset, Sydney can sleep sound in the knowledge their Juggernaut has returned. https://youtube.com/watch?v=dc8Osb5zYm4
There's something a wee bit schadenfreude about the image of a bunch of little kids running around banging into each other. I don't know if that's actually what the kids from Children Collide intended with the name of their band, but that's what immediately comes to my mind. But seriously folks, the real issue here is that Children Collide are awesome. The Melbourne based lads have put together their sophomore album with the combined inspiration of the science of the universe and the mystical powers behind tarot cards, and now wish to share it with you. Come September 17, head to the Metro Theatre to catch the boys in a rocking show. With spectacular guitar solos and banging beats, Children Collide will send you singing along into the stratosphere — a place where you're likely to find this Aussie band floating about, hands behind heads with a piece of straw in their mouths, tapping their toes and looking down on the earth with wisdom.
If we've learnt anything from theatre, it's that the corporate world and spirituality don't mix. Like A Fishbone proves once and for all that architecture and religion are like oil and water. An unexpected and unknown woman shelters from the rain inside an inner city office. She is strange, unsophisticated and seems completely out of place. As the office's permanent occupant — an architect — begins to question her, it is gradually revealed that this woman knows exactly why she's there. She has questions to ask about the design of a memorial for her community, and things to tell about the tragedy that prompted its design. In the attempted mix between elements, this play digs deep into a contradiction inherent in ideas about diversity. A person's most deeply held beliefs, their most fundamental reasoning and their purest emotions, are more than just abstract thought. These beliefs direct their lives and their being, and cannot be separated from the way in which they view the world. Tolerance then, is just thinly disguised rejection and the path to harmony — earthly or otherwise — is more convoluted than we once thought. While this play doesn't attempt to reinvent the wheel, its understated execution leads to more insights on its subject than you may initially expect. Prepare to be surprised.
Although she was rather fond of the visually stimulating and sensuously heightening colours of a dance floor, Eloise knew that a library — not a discotheque — was where she felt most at home on a Friday night. Tonight however she found herself distracted by that buffoon who was making a ruckus of the usually still and quite library. He'd approached her earlier in the evening to joke about some mechanic's exam he was preparing to flunk but she wasn’t impressed and the sparks of electricity that shot through her body when he touched her shoulder were still rippling through her, adding to her annoyance. There was something about his big, strong ... Wait, wait, wait — I'm no Romance writer! But Mills and Boon author Annie West, romance scholar Sandra Barletta and book blogger, Kat Mayo know a thing or two about the genre. They're discussing Sex, Passion and Love and just why it has inspired authors from Shakespeare to Austin to Roberts in the 21st century. They’ll even hand you evidence in the form of a free romance novel at the end of the night. *Free event but bookings essential
As the Laneway Festival approaches, it scatters in its wake a host of gorgeous sideshows. Some are well-known favourites while others are, if not completely unknown, a shade towards the obscure. Blonde Redhead is an example of the latter, a band most recently heard in Australia in the form of its epic pop romance 23, which hides an impressive discography stemming back sixteen years. Spawned from New York-based noise rock, Blonde Redhead are singer/guitarist Kazu Makino and twin brothers Amedeo (singer/guitarist) and Simone Pace (drummer/programmer). Their sound is delayed champagne, full of reverbs and romantic synth, but with just the right stir of post-grunge bitters to stop the taste from cloying. Coupled with this is an aesthetic that wears nostalgia so casually that they may as well be fairy travelers from a yesteryear time. Joining the trio for their only Sydney sideshow are New Zealand band, The Verlaines. Dropping away from the sweeping magic of Blonde Redhead, Graeme Downes and company create an earthier soundscape of witty melancholy marked with playful interludes of brass.
You do not want Will Montgomery (Ben Foster) or Tony Stone (Woody Harrelson) knocking on your door. The two are arguably entrusted with one of the US Army's toughest assignments: casualty notification. It's a job that's driving teetotalling Stone to an alcoholic abyss, and one that promises to scratch at the viscerally raw nerves of recently returned Staff Sergeant Montgomery. Together the pair set out on their thankless task in screenwriter Oren Moverman's (Jesus' Son, I'm Not There) strikingly simple yet devastatingly powerful directorial debut. Co-written with producer Alessandro Camon (American Psycho, The Cooler), Moverman's film shows remarkable restraint for a first time director, particularly one saddling himself with the often unwelcome subtitle of 'an Iraq War film'. Visually and thematically, The Messenger sticks fearlessly close to its titular character; as the film traverses six notifications, Moverman's camera predominantly stays on Will as the news horrifically hits home off camera. Forbidden to reach out and comfort the N.O.K (next of kin), the audience experiences Will's fearful, then seething seclusion, and can thus almost empathise as he entangles himself with a widow (Samantha Morton). Mercifully, similar restraint is shown in this storyline, with an utterly electric, single-shot scene of Morton and Foster emotionally opening up to each other. Such punch in the gut performances are present across the board, with Steve Buscemi making a remarkable cameo and Harrelson even garnering an Oscar nomination. With such impressive acting and understated, poignant direction, Moverman can be forgiven for stretching a couple of the film's metaphors a tad too far. The Messenger is nevertheless a beautifully rendered and necessarily painful window onto an overlooked reality. But you can take cold comfort from the fact that you really needn't worry about shooting the messenger — he's already at the raggedy edge. https://youtube.com/watch?v=8MEApxjYncI
Have you ever found yourself sitting over a bowl of something delicious thinking, "I'm totally loving this now, but what will I be totally loving in The Future? Will it be tiny fish that clean between my teeth? Or maybe potato chips flavoured with dolphin tears. Do dolphins even have tears? Oh how I wish I knew what will be Big In The Future!" Fret no more, compadre! Read on and be enlightened. Woosh! Zoom! We all know that before The Future happens and becomes the past it is actually living in Tokyo. Tokyo is in Japan, so if it's Big In Japan it must be big in The Future. Success! And here's more good news — you don't even have to go to Japan, just scoot on over to the Royal Hall of Industries where the folks from Ksubi will be curating the Big In Japan *exhibition. The performance-focused show will be running over the course of a day showcasing the best of Japanese avant-garde. So here's a glimpse of what's in store in your near future and beyond: krautrock girl groups, floating human sculptures and colourful chaos. You need to be here. *Strictly invite only
Sounds like a bit of a contradiction doesn't it — Affordable Art? Well imagine walking through a bazaar of art — there's some you like, some you don't want to look twice at but there's also the freedom to openly discuss these things without feeling the pressure of a 'formal gallery' purchase. Like any good bazaar, the masters of knowledge man the stalls, i.e. gallery owners who are on location to discuss the art work and considering the varying sizes and prices, there's no doubt you're going to find something you like. Looking at all that art can get dizzyingly confusing though so there's the opportunity to take part in the 'art walk and talks' where you can learn about the do's and don'ts of art collecting and check out the print-making process — then walk away with your very own copy. The Affordable Art Fair is so popular that it's held in Amsterdam, London, Milan, Singapore and New York. Although travelling to one of those cities for the event may change its description of 'affordable', it's an excellent opportunity for you to start your collection (or expand it) while supporting the artists that contribute to the culture of this fine city. For your chance to win a double pass to the opening night (valued at $100) including live entertainment and complimentary booze, email hello@concreteplayground.com.au
In a superlative example of art-imitating-life, there was definite alchemy at work on the set of The Social Network. Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg may be none too pleased with his fictional portrayal, but perhaps even he can appreciate the sublime pairing of director David Fincher (Se7en, Fight Club) and screenwriter Aaron Sorkin (The West Wing, Charlie Wilson's War) with their leading man Jesse Eisenberg (The Squid and the Whale, Zombieland). This truly thrilling triumvirate have created nothing short of a masterpiece and one that, appropriately, plays out through a triple-threat Rashomon-esque storyline. From the unconventional, but utterly Sorkin opening scene, the film is itself a sprawling network of plotlines, arguments and, most assuredly, egos. In 2003 a ferociously ambitious, but socially stunted Harvard undergrad Zuckerberg bumbles his way into a break-up with his girlfriend Erica (Rooney Mara), only to then drunkenly blog and code his way into Internet and now film history. This stuff of legend is elucidated and bickered over though two separate legal proceedings, wherein Zuckerberg is sued by his erstwhile bestfriend and Facebook co-founder/CFO Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield), as well as an imposing twin-set of professional rowers, the Winklevoss' (Armie Hammer) along with their business partner (Max Minghella). Rather than seeming weighed down by Sorkin's dialogue heavy screenplay, Fincher is in his element. This calculating, convoluted, male-centric environment is perfect fodder for Fincher's oeuvre. His unshowy, but perfectly polished camera develops an impressive amount of suspense and seething emotion; though with Justin Timberlake's scene-stealing turn as Napster founder Sean Parker, Fincher allows himself more than a little devilish glee. The third act's slight lag in pace, as well as Rashida Jones' unnecessary but understandable role as one of Zuckerberg's lawyers — essentially a Greek chorus — are mere quibbles in a film entirely deserving of all the hyperbole being thrust upon it. It's almost as if Sorkin, Fincher and Eisenberg have rewritten Jean Luc Godard's filmmaking dictum for the Internet Age: all you need to make a movie now is a girl and a grudge. https://youtube.com/watch?v=lB95KLmpLR4
Since I started visiting The Abercrombie Hotel post refurb, the first thing I hear when I confess my love for it — even before unanimous approval of scotch egg sliders and deep fried mac ‘n’ cheese balls — is that it used to be the home of Purple Sneakers. I didn’t move to Sydney until Purple Sneakers and The Abercrombie had already parted ways so I don’t really know how good those nights were, where good tunes and sneaky goon sacks made sweet love in a dark and dusty pub, but they sound like they were pretty damn good. Something that also sounds pretty good, however, is Now or Never. The Abercrombie’s brand new music event takes place every Saturday night, kicking off with $6 vodka Red Bulls from 9pm – 1am and charging on until 5am. The previous two Now or Nevers have delved into the vast sonic underworlds of Anne Deep, Morgan Hyslop and Charlie Chux, and equally diverse DJ sets are expected to follow. What’s more, entry is free — so chug some goon, throw on any colour sneakers you like and spend that $10 you’ve saved on one of those killer Berocca Coladas they do on Sundays.
You’d have to be some kind of cold-hearted, imagination-starved automaton not to want to step onto the silver screen like Gumby walked into any wall, Bill and Ted telephone-boxed into the pages of history (and an A+!), and Marty McFly into the future (and almost incest). I would bet my entire DVD collection (mostly stolen) that every child has had at least one such fantasy. Vintage pop-up shop bams & ted know it, and in their new home in the Gaffa Gallery’s Arcade Project they have curated three collections rotating around a different movie each time. Currently in show is A Picnic at Hanging Rock — specifically, Miranda, the Botticelli-esque beauty. Girl-crush alert! Picture yourself draped on rocks, decked in wispy dresses the colour of marshmallows, your hair a Pantene dream, tiny daydreams forming in crystal-blue eyes. Your trinkets back at the boarding house include a lucky horseshoe, darling animal plates, a flowery cushion or two. And then, of course, you die — or, rather more poetically, disappear — and are memorialised forever, always young, always pretty. Luckily, the upside of fantasies are they are not real, so you don’t really die, but you do get to buy a few nice things and feel like a schoolgirl for a day. Next on the bill is the dashing femme fatale of Hitchcock’s 1955 To Catch a Thief — think French Riviera resort-wear, ginormous jewels, slinky black cat burglar suits and, if we’re lucky, a handsome man called Cary Grant who is available for rental by the hour. After March, bams & ted turn down the heat for a little Murder She Wrote, Angela Lansbury style. Aww man, who didn’t imagine themselves as this super-sleuth at one point? She can solve crimes and bake scones! We are told to prepare for typewriters, crisp sweaters perfect for the New England autumn, and presumably a whole lot of 80s bad taste. I don’t need to be a detective to know I won’t be bidding adieu to my DVD shelf anytime soon. The To Catch A Thief 'Francie' launch will be held on Thursday 11 March, 6-8pm. The Murder She Wrote 'Jessica' launch will be held on Thursday 8 April, 6-8pm. Additional late nights (in conjunction with the Gaffa openings) will be held on Thurs March 25 for Francie and Thurs April 22 for Jessica.
There are several wonderful things about this festival. The first is that it's entirely for charity. All proceeds go to the Sarah Hilt Foundation, which funds victims of meningococcal disease. The second is that you pay a flat rate of $105 and you get unlimited alcohol for the entire 24 hours. And we're not talking house wine and VB; the event is catered by Apple Tree Flat and Vodka O, so there will be enough sugar in your booze to keep you dancing all day and night. The third is always a winner: fancy dress. If you were at Playground Weekender you'll understand how much fun can be had boogying with an aubergine or having your photo taken with a tribe of sexy aliens from the planet Pandora. This quaint little festival boasts a delectable local lineup including Deep Sea Arcade, the Thundamentals, Matt Corby, and Fun Machine and 104 Collective ft. Seekae, with DJs DCup, Elane, Much Love, Bondi House DJs, Bad Wives and SMS. You can also post a postcard to your mum, drink tea with a 1950s tea lady and join a Japanese sing-along. So c'mon, this is your last chance to run barefoot through a field, release your inner hippy and set up a tent that you probably won't use before the summer fizzles out. Secret Garden's location will be revealed shortly before the event — but word on the street is it's just one hour south of Sydney. Image (Deep Sea Arcade) by Kylie Coutts. https://youtube.com/watch?v=4XrG20hALoQ
As kimono clad onlookers a few floors above traipse around the Hymn to Beauty: The Art of Utamaro exhibition ogling delicate ukiyo-e woodblock prints, rest your weary geta clogs in the downstairs theatrette. Hymn to Beauty focuses on the "floating world" captured in Utamaro's work, glimpsing into the luxurious new pleasure culture of early seventeenth–century Japan. All films are free(!), and screen on Wednesday afternoons, nights and Sunday afternoons. Tickets are released outside the theatrette an hour before each session starts. Sharaku Dir. Masahiro Shinoda (1995) Wednesday 3rd March 2pm & 7:15pm, Sunday 7th March 2pm Fictional biography of famous Japanese woodblock artist and Kabuki performer Shakaru. Zatôichi Dir. Takeshi Kitano (2003) Wednesday 10th March 2pm & 7:15pm, Sunday 14th March 2pm Meet a Japanese Edo-period superhero: blind gambler/masseuse (seventeenth century 'slashie'?) by day, master swordsman at night. The Life of Oharu Dir. Kenji Mizoguchi (1952) Wednesday 17th March 2pm & 7:15pm, Sunday 21st March 2pm The tragic tale of a lady-in-waiting forced by society into a life of concubinage. Empire of Passion Dir. Nagisa Oshima (1978) Wednesday 24th March 2pm & 7:15pm, Sunday 28th March 2pm Revenge, eroticism and supernatural visions in feudal Japan. Winner of Best Director at Cannes. Utamaro and His Five Women Dir. Kenji Mizoguchi (1946) Wednesday 31st March 2pm & 7:15pm, Sunday 4th April 2pm A study of printmaker Utamaro and his five muses; as much their story as his. Kwaidan Dir. Masaki Kobayashi (1964) Wednesday 7th April 2pm & 6pm, Sunday 11th April 2pm The Edo period Candyman, of sorts. Four stories based on a samurai class parlour game designed to summon spirits. Twilight Samurai Dir. Yôji Yamada (2002) Wednesday 14th April 2pm & 7:15pm, Sunday 18th April 2pm The first in Yamada's trilogy, this is about samurais and not vampires. A tale of wealth, honour and courage. I repeat, not vampires. https://youtube.com/watch?v=7sEdxb3I3dk
Living room slide shows have become an endangered species since the advent of social photo dumps like Facebook. For me, the act of sitting in a small room, eating some snacks and watching a friend fiddle with their post-travel carousel of anecdotes is so far removed from my current reality that I am almost certain I've never even seen a slide projector in the proverbial flesh. Thankfully there are folks like photographer William Yang out there, bringing a taste of nostalgia back into a jpeg-saturated reality. Impeccably suited and concisely spoken, Yang gives his audience a warm, humourous and very honest tour through his rich portfolio of social photography. There is something so wholesome about having a real human describe the story behind each image, rather than a couple of tags to anchor identities, and unlike the often rambling, soporific punishments of stereotypical amateur slide nights, Yang has curated his presentation so as to provide a fascinating, naturally-evolving piece of storytelling. Characters, from Brett Whitely through to Robin Nevin, drift in and out of Yang's narrative like lanterns on midnight waters, breathing life into this collection of stills from the artistic, literary, theatrical and queer circles of Sydney in the 80s and early 90s. Daniel Holdsworth of the Maple Trail punctuates Yang's tales with occasional bursts of music — including tunes from Bob Dylan, Tiny Tim, and the Village People. These moments are used sparingly and to great effect, especially at key points of the story where it would be better to let the images speak for themselves (or sing karaoke for themselves, given the presence of the music). As a historical document, My Generation is a wonderful, moving work and a must for anyone who dared to assume that our generation invented the notions of debauchery, love and angst. Image by William Yang.
Since calling a hiatus from the Dresden Dolls, Amanda Palmer has been touring the world off the back of her solo debut Who Killed Amanda Palmer (a sister to Laura, perhaps?) and flabbergasting people with her avant-cabaret tunes. She has recently bowled over crowds at the Edinburgh Festival and Coachella and will soon be touring kooky and controversy-courting new act Evelyn Evelyn, but is first stopping back into the Opera House to treat us once again. Piano-heavy and dramatic, her music takes bits of Laurie Anderson, Kate Bush and Tori Amos and adds in a hefty dose of Liza Minnelli and Frank-N-Furter. Her playful, low voice is put in the service of artful lyrics that oscillate between tongue-in-cheek, lewd rants and heartfelt tales of love and death. The show is always theatrical and highly visual, existing somewhere on the cusp of fringe and pop. She makes great film clips and her performances often make it to DVD, but even those are unlikely to match the thrill of her live show. See it all the more stately in Opera House surrounds. https://youtube.com/watch?v=3sex26GeZ6c
What are ideas anyway? They're those big, abstract tangles floating above our heads that we pull down and argue about now and then, right? Most of the time we're too busy grappling with them to remember that someone had to put them up there in the first place. Enter Charles Darwin (Paul Bettany), seen here as a brilliant but private middle-aged man, leading a seemingly charmed life surrounded by family and friends. It doesn't take long for us to see the reasons for his reticence. Darwin is plagued by illness and troubled by his suspicions regarding the nature of the universe. We see Darwin's philosophy as it emerged: a knot of scientific study, family relations and devastating tragedy. There's plenty here for those who favour art over science: a strong dramatic plot, complex characters and conveniently visual scenes featuring hydrotherapy treatments. That Darwin's wife, Emma, is played by Paul Bettany's real-life partner Jennifer Connelly adds tangible depth to the problematic marriage. Some moments do creep close to melodrama, but even this operates well within the context to draw otherwise abstract considerations back into the complexity of their human origins. CREATION official movie trailer
In almost any American movie worth its weight, there's a great scene set at a drive-in. Think Grease, Twister, Accidents Happen and many more. The lesson to be learnt is that drive-in cinemas are awesome and cool things happen there. This is why you should go along and visit the Racecourse Drive-in cinema. Hopefully a twister won't come through the screen while you're watching The Shining, but instead you'll have a fantastic winter's night snug in your car watching a collection of some of the most exciting films to have come out in recent months. Blockbusters Sex and the City 2, Iron Man 2, Robin Hood and Avatar are just a few of the titles. But of course a drive in wouldn't be a drive-in without some classic cinema, so also check out Breakfast at Tiffany's, Top Gun and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Pack a few sandwiches, a thermos of hot choccie and your favourite car-sized friends and head off to Randwick for an authentic American drive-in experience.
He ain’t heavy, he's Neil Diamond. People like his songs, his shirts and his album covers. Chris McAuliffe, director of the Ian Potter Museum of Art at Melbourne University, liked the cover of Shilo enough to curate an entire exhibition devoted to it. One hundred artists were sent copies of the record sleeve, which has a connect-the-dots of Diamond's face against a white background. The results are as varied as you would expect. Some have connected the dots with string, paper or paint, others have obscured them entirely or collaged around them. There is a lot of crosshatching, a lot of colour and a lot of string. The exhibition is light and fun, and the artists have obviously enjoyed creating their contributions, but the works would benefit from a bit of backstory. Perhaps it's against the artistic spirit, but I wanted to know why Adam Cullen sees Neil Diamond as the devil or why Mitch Cairns used brown paper words. Some of the artists are interviewed in videos, but these are too reminiscent of Behind the News to be informative. Some of the greatest works in the show are original covers, found in op-shops, which the previous owners have taken to with pencil or blue biro. Anonymous #8 shows Diamond with fangs, a nose ring and a goatee and features the words "Greg 'O' co-starring Real Rage Material", while Anonymous #4 leaves him with a feather earring and a love bite helpfully labelled "love bite" — artistic interpretation at its homemade best. Catch the curator's talk with Dr Chris McAuliffe, Director, The Ian Potter Museum of Art, on Sunday, July 11, at 3pm.
So I have a yearly routine with World Press Photo: See the show. Gape in wonder. Feel suddenly nauseous two hours later. If you've seen this annual collection of the preceding year's best global photojournalism before, you'll know what I'm getting at. The images featured are always stunning, and it's no different this year. There's an amazing stillness and beauty to every shot, often — almost always — of scenes that should surrender neither: the aftermath of the Iranian elections, Israel's bombing of Palestine, the workings of an abattoir. But as those examples suggest, it's also wrenching viewing. News, arts, landscape and sports categories are all featured. But year-in, year-out there’s a predictable, and perhaps inevitable, skew towards impeccably shot horrors. Hence the nausea. It’s hard not to argue that anger or disgust are simplistic reactions. If you buy that the world-class photography should be celebrated, and that there’s no arbitrary point at which news photos should be disallowed, then World Press has to exist. But at the same time, they're reactions that are hard to shake when looking at a blown-up photo of the chair that a man (the President of Guinea-Bissau, as it happens) was shot then dismembered on and knowing that alongside everyone else in the room, you're there to be entertained. So perhaps the real masterstroke here is the inclusion of the Sydney Morning Herald's Photos 1440 exhibit alongside World Press. The newspaper's shots run a gentler gamut — through beaches, festivals, the Sydney dust storm and Australian politics. Many are beautiful, too. But while they're not at the same level as World Press, it's not so much a virtuosity gap that separates the two shows; it's the difficulty of remembering any one of Photos 1440's individual images. The horrors in World Press are so exquisitely presented and immediate as to force the formation of memories. And while it'd be nice to say that this ensures that the minority of simple, beautiful photos that don’t foreground death or cruelty — an autistic child under running water, their hand clutching a prized found object — also find lodging, that's bullshit. It just means there's something in the world's most beautiful atrocity exhibition that you won't be guaranteed anywhere else: your brain excited and alive.
A film for those who love Arnold Schwarzenegger but not so much his take on politics, Farewell (or more precisely, L'Affaire Farewell) is a far shot from your typical American blockbuster, delivering both beauty and the brains to go with it. The matter takes place during the Cold War: a true story of an espionage operation that altered the course of history. Sergei Gregoriev (Emir Kusturica), a disillusioned KGB colonel, decides to sell his soul to the French in an effort to bring change to his beloved Russia. For this ominous task, he chooses not an experienced spy but the humble Pierre Froment (Guillaume Canet), a French engineer living in Moscow with his family. This film combines thrills and tension with well-informed political and subtle emotional dimensions. There's a multitude of takes on the democracy-versus-communism debate, and not always sober ones. Canet is a far cry from Arnold, but it is precisely this quality that makes us fans. Sweet, confused, bespectacled Pierre is the perfect 'everyman', and he pulls us all the way into the action. Amateur historians will bask in the rich world that director Christian Carion (Joyeux Noel) has laboriously created. The only fault in this film's intellect is the cheap shots at American politicians, but this alternative to the usual portraits is a guilty pleasure that feels right. https://youtube.com/watch?v=fW_smC73R6w
Darren and Ralph of A Tiny Chorus have achieved the impossible — they have actually improved on the unimprovable brilliance of Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt's 'Don't Know Much'. In what can only be described as a moment of absurd genius, their jelly duet will change your life. For a second. But, unfortunately, this is, with the exception of the gherkin sequence, where the genius ends. Darren and Ralph (Emily Tomlins and Eryn Jean Norvill), two lovable simpletons (sweet, hapless fools whose simplicity makes them incapable of sentimentality) are on a journey towards love and joy, uncovering, by way of a series of improbable events, the true depths of their relationship. Blow-up microphones, scissors and straws, an inflatable earth and the Macquarie Dictionary accompany the two performers through a loose narrative of revelation. The problem with the show is that the performances, although thoroughly committed, slip, both physically and vocally, into parodies of intellectual disability — so much so that it is uncomfortable to watch. The clown is always a knife-edge character in some way or another, but Darren and Ralph sit just on the other side of perfect. A Tiny Chorus won the People’s Choice Award for Best Performance at the 2009 Melbourne Fringe Festival. And people were laughing at this performance. So maybe I'm just a stick-in-the-mud. A Tiny Chorus is part of the Sydney Fringe Festival.
Nicole Holofcener's peculiar brand of comedic, upper-middle class miserablism finds a pitch-perfect setting on the streets of New York. Once again proving her mastery of the ensemble cast, Holofcener has gathered the likes of Oliver Platt, Rebecca Hall and Amanda Peet, alongside her cinematic staple Catherine Keener, to play out a neighbourly charade. Kate and Alex (Keener and Platt) make a morally questionable living running a furniture store stocked with antiques they've bought on the cheap from grieving relatives. Their wealth has also allowed them to purchase the apartment next door, currently occupied by a wizened old crone, Andra (Ann Guilbert), for whom they must impatiently wait to pass away before they can begin their dream renovation. Andra's two granddaughters (Hall and Peet) meet Kate, Alex and their spotty teenage daughter, Abby (Sarah Steele), for a birthday celebration, after which their lives become more intimately connected. Please Give takes its place in Holofcener's filmography (Walking and Talking, Lovely & Amazing, Friends with Money) as another shrewd, strongly written, female-driven dramedy. Relationships, death, guilt, money: Holofcener takes pretty much everything you're not supposed to talk about at a dinner party and spins it into a ruefully awkward, bone-dry comedy. And don't go expecting a rosy Hollywood ending either, for what Holofcener serves up instead will surely set chins wagging as you leave the cinema. https://youtube.com/watch?v=dTtjjYQUzWQ
How does that saying go? 'The only functional family is one you haven't met yet.' This certainly holds for Lisa Cholodenko's (High Art, Laurel Canyon) latest filmic family, made up of lesbian couple Nic (Annette Bening), Jules (Julianne Moore) and their two teenagers Joni (Mia Wasikowska) and Laser (Josh Hutcherson). After the kids track down their spunky sperm 'donor Dad' Paul (Mark Ruffalo), the family unit comically and poignantly destabilises as everyone makes room (some more willingly than others) for the new addition. Vino-swilling surgeon Nic is immediately threatened, while Jules finds a kindred spirit in the laid back, organic restaurant owner. The emotional stakes are raised even higher in the days prior to Joni leaving for college. Whichever way you slice it, this family is bound for change. Cholodenko's third film is a near masterpiece; part sex-comedy, part radiant and wry portrait of contemporary relationships. Sure these are upper-middle class white folk, caught in a So-Cal bubble of wealth and sunshine, but that doesn't make Cholodenko's observations any less valid, or thought provoking. Spurred on by joyous, fierce, transcendent performances across the board, Cholodenko refuses to tie this family's story off with a neat little bow, which makes for not only an achingly truthful closing act, but one that leaves you pondering (or even vehemently debating) whether everyone in this film will indeed end up all right. https://youtube.com/watch?v=50gfr57QjG0
This Tuesday DBC Pierre will be at the Oxford Art Factory promoting his new book Lights Out In Wonderland, supported by Gareth Liddard from The Drones (who is amazing, for lack of a better superlative). In 2003 Pierre won the Booker Prize for his debut novel, Vernon God Little, which is fairly incredible when you think about it. Previous winners have included heavyweights like J.M Coetzee for Disgrace and Australia's very own adorable garden gnome, Thomas Keneally, for Schindler's Ark. Vernon God Little was the story of an amoral 15-year-old boy who rides around Texas on a dinky bike eating Bar-B-Chew ribs and daydreaming of panty tangs, who gets caught up in the mass hysteria of a school shooting. It has the ease, humour and scope of great American novels like Catcher in the Rye and Confederacy of Dunces. Plus Pierre's personal life — a wasted youth of drugs, fraud and petty crime — lent him a very press friendly sense of rock and roll glamour. His follow-up made less of a splash, but his latest novel Lights Out In Wonderland was just described by the Guardian as "an artful shout of protest from a soul on fire". So I guess he's back on form. To win one of two double passes to see DBC Pierre tonight, head to our Facebook page.
A comedy about suicide bombers sounds like a tough sell by any stretch of the imagination. But when that imagination stems from British satirist Chris Morris, there is some sort of brilliantly bizarre alchemy at work. Morris made a name for himself with such high wire humour; his cult series Brass Eye was all about flaying cultural sacred cows, and his feature debut Four Lions is no different. Taking a motley crew of Sheffield Muslims, Morris sets Omar (Riz Ahmed), Waj (Kayvan Novak), Faisal (Adeel Akhtar) and Barry (Nigel Lindsay) on a sacred mission: to get audiences to chuckle over a jihad. And chuckle you will, for Morris' screenplay is an appealing mix of witticisms, pitch-black social commentary and dimwit farce. Not all the elements will work for everyone; Omar and Waj bumbling around and wreaking havoc on their terrorist training camp stretches the characters' potential for stupidity a little far, as do some of Waj's more gormless lines. But Morris' precision as co-writer and director finds echoes of Dr. Strangelove, as well as a form of transcendence in the ridiculous. Ahmed gives a pitch-perfect performance as the group's tenacious leader and the film hits its satirical stride when it ventures into Omar's loving domestic life. And as the wannabe terrorists' manifold idiocy careens towards the climatic, costumed charity race (can you tell the difference between a Wookie and a Honey Bear?) Morris and his cast certainly succeed is in their unerring commitment to seeing the joke through to its bitterly funny and deeply poignant end. https://youtube.com/watch?v=2gyxZv0wxTA
For a band so — well loved doesn't quite cut it — adored, it seems shocking that the Chills have only released a handful of records, but the standard of each one is so high that it seems to run into the hundreds. One of the very first bands signed to iconic New Zealand record label Flying Nun, the Chills sit at the tippiest top of the influential pop tree. Formed in 1980, with members dipping in and out of related bands such as the Clean and the Verlaines over the years, the band has seen some tough times, steady lineup changes and sad losses. And yet, Martin Phillips has always been there, leading the charge with his heavenly pop hits. After a brief hiatus, Phillips reformed the band in 2003 to the glee of Dunedin advocates the world over. This is a band that demands you do a little jig when you find out they're playing in your town, a band that you rush out and get your ticket for, a band that, despite the slightly scary press photo, you will cherish forever. https://youtube.com/watch?v=VKWkK1tJxdw
Every seven years, it is said, all of the cells of our body are replaced by brand new, potentially carcinogenic copies. This is growth, maturation, repetition. Someone of a philosophical bent could argue that this means we are constantly unbecoming ourselves, or that indeed there never was a solid self in the beginning. Maybe that all seems like an abstract argument, but turn your mind to the suburbs of Sydney and imagine that each of those houses is a cell and that, over the years, each will eventually be replaced. Does this mean our suburbs are constantly unbecoming? Or that there is no actual truth to our sense of community? Writer and performer, Rosie Dennis, along with June Hickey, explores Sydney's obsession with property development, designer communities and the silent class war of financially driven displacement in Driven to New Pastures. Sheltering in a house marked for demolition, theirs is a tale of six figures forced to move on when the developers' dream turns to reality. Sessions are at 4pm and 8pm. Bookings essential — call 4645 4100. Image by Marilyn Moreno.
This is a story stranger than fiction: of a concentration camp, Theresienstadt, that was held up to Jewish prisoners as a reward for good behaviour and to the world as a solution to the "Jewish problem". The centre of life and the means of survival in this camp was the ability to perform, to act your part — and in doing so, to show the world that you were alive and happy and perhaps also cope with the circumstances within which you found yourself. Presented to visiting Red Cross officials in 1944 as a model Jewish settlement, members of the camp were forced to reconstruct the town as a set, were dressed in their Sunday best and made to perform to a script. In reality, this 'performance' was so successful that it was followed by a film, cynically titled The Führer Gives a Village to the Jews. All tricky stuff. However, director Tanya Goldberg describes Way To Heaven, the play loosely based on the Red Cross visit, as "more than a holocaust play". Juan Mayorga's script takes issue with what it means to perform and the relationship between our 'character' and our 'performances', questioning the essence of self and the relation of this to action. Goldberg's production employs a number of Brechtian-style distancing techniques to remind us that this is a performance, and not a historical reenactment: one account is given through a microphone, house lights are switched on during scene changes and actors fall purposefully in and out of role — both in the play, and in the play within the play (the performance of the chosen Jews to 'the visitor'). Nevertheless, the emotional dimension of this history is impossible to contain. In a plot where the ability to communicate or conceal something is a matter of life or death, performative symbols become incredibly powerful for the audience. The Jewish lullaby sung by a young girl is devastating, while the first appearance of the giant Nathan Lovejoy in SS uniform is pure horror. The demands which are made of the audience — to look into the eyes of various characters in this production — are unexplainably difficult. Thankfully, the script, actors and audience are ultimately treated with great sensitivity. The collaborative, supportive community of Ride On Theatre, not to mention Griffin Theatre, is hugely significant in this. The long journey to staging this script, apparently five years in the making, has been a blessing in disguise for this production, resulting in a delicately nuanced and potent performance. Image by Heidrun Löhr. https://youtube.com/watch?v=eacIpUZfwoM
There must be something in the river water in Brisbane that dictates a synthesizer fascination, at least since the mid '90s when Regurgitator added a keytar player to their band after the release of Unit. At the same time, the young Seja Vogel was playing synth in electro-pop purveyors Sekiden, shredding the ebony and ivories, and later in the '00s became a member of the 'Gurge. 'I'll get To You' is the first taste of her debut solo album, and it doesn't surprise much in its sound — '80s synths over programmed beats a la Gary Numan — but the surprise comes in the lovely vocals, a sweet melancholic melody that is backed by layers of serene aaahhhhs. It comes complete with a clip full of soft-focus '80s psychedelia: lots of triangles, pyramids and overlapping frames. Making this an unmissable double-header are Otouto, a fresh, new band from Melbourne, made up of two singing sisters and the heavily mutton-chopped Kishore Ryan on drums (better known for his stick work with Kid Sam). Their music is a collaged, lo-fi, slightly messy clash of sounds, jumping around melodically while the sisters sing in unison. Otouto are, too, about to release their debut album. Ghoul round out this bill of new buzz bands. It's all happening in Newtown's favourite watering hole, the Sandringham, which apparently has a good new band room. https://youtube.com/watch?v=NXd0YdbPZvs
Actually, that title in full is The Chronic Ills of Robert Zimmerman AKA Bob Dylan (A Lie) — A Theatrical Talking Blues and Glissendorf. Complex, yes — and an appropriate clue as to the whole experience (the key being 'Bob Dylan'). Through a combination of monologues, duologues with the veteran ghosts of fame, and songs, the play explores the joint enigma of Dylan's life and his self. Don't expect a neat biography: that would be inappropriate. 'Glissendorf' is a reference to a word game played by Dylan which was intended to confuse its audience, so take it as a warning. Benito Di Fonzo's text travels in a deceptively laidback fashion, words slung together into abstract patterns like glass beads, while clear definition slides past and always just out of grasp. Words, including names, are not fixed labels but are employed as symbols when and where appropriate. The songs are not quite literal either. While the production team are the first to admit that this was for legal and not artistic reasons, the re-imagining of Dylan's music and words in new forms seems far more appropriate — Dylan being the last person to play his songs as recorded. This also allows actor/musical director Matt Ralph the ability to sidestep an entirely derivative portrayal and tread new creative ground. Other characters which appear or are merely gestured to are represented in much the same way. Expect to see T.S. Eliot led as a dog on a leash led by Ezra Pound amid lines such as "burning like a pubic hair on Charlton Heston's crossbow". The mood of mysticism serves to do more than obscure: it is revealing — and quite funny. Tapping into a beatnik version of magical realism, Chronic Ills avoids insincere imitation to navigate far richer waters.
In a world funded by the currency of youth, aging can be a pretty difficult concept for a lot of folks to accept. Ours is a time in which Botox clinics pop up like wild fungi, dating a boy in school uniform is considered a mark of feminine liberation and citing an ‘age range’ as opposed to an actual age is no longer isolated to Hollywood actors. In Philip Ridley's intimate, off-kilter play The Fastest Clock in the Universe, directed by Evin Donohoe, modern day age-phobia is explored through its egocentric lead character, aptly named ‘Cougar'. The action kicks off on Cougar's ‘19th’ birthday, an event that we later learn has taken place several times before. Doted on by his loyal companion, simply known as ‘the Captain’, we see Cougar basking in his vanity with the self-obsession of a full-blown narcissist. Complete with fake birthday cards and a cake adorned with 19 candles, we eventually discover that the whole fraudulent shindig is for the benefit of Foxtrot, a much younger boy Cougar is trying to bait. Cougar's ill-intentioned plan is quickly derailed however, with the arrival of Sherbet, Foxtrot's newly acquired fiancé. While this darkly comic play indulges in melodrama a little too often, at times coming off overplayed and unfeasible, it redeems itself through some genuinely humorous moments and solid performances, most notably from Brooke Ryan (Sherbet) whose impeccable comic timing adds a dynamic dimension to the second act. In the subtler moments, the broader themes of vanity, mortality, sexuality and power translate effectively; unfortunately they are lost when overlapped by cliché.
David Scott Mitchell’s bequest of his books, papers and pictures to the State Library in 1907 came with the condition that it be housed and displayed in its own wing. When it opened in 1910, it provided the first public collection of Australian and Oceanic history through original, primary sources, alongside an extraordinary selection of general maps, manuscripts and records. Its holdings have been continually expanded to encompass more local and historical treasures, and, as a venue, it’s become a part of the social history it houses. To celebrate its centenary, the Mitchell Library’s ONE hundred exhibition has 100 of its treasures on display for 100 days, almost jumbling together objects that are significant in their specificity to time and place and revealing in their vernacular documentation of technologies, geographies and attitudes. In one room, there’s a 14th-century prayer book, an ultra-candid portrait of an upper working–class settler matriarch, a photo of a filthy Sydney butcher’s shop in 1903, car ads and a proclamation on marriage and morals from Governor Lachlan Macquarie. The collection is held together by the way its various exhibits all represent and document life and the world, with an emphasis on individual views and moments in time.
Adaptations of ancient Greek plays are scarce in the landscape of contemporary Australian theatre. While Shakespeare productions continue to flourish, the earlier classics attract less excitement. That said, Love Me Tender is no straightforward re-staging. Playwright Tom Holloway, while inspired by Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulis, has twisted contemporary images and ideology into a dreamlike chaos. Holloway's creation is unusual in its rich wealth of symbolism and abstraction and in the fluidity of its characters and representation. The two godlike characters operate to provide context, then confuse it, drive the action forward, then halt it. These two could be seen in realist terms as writers, translators or interpreters, or in historical terms as reminiscent of a Greek chorus. While espousing particular approaches in their discussions, they in fact emphasise the confused and oppositional beliefs at play in the situation at hand. This production draws heavily on the relationship between Holloway and director Matthew Lutton, who previously collaborated on Don't Say The Words. Lutton's work is striking, particularly in his direction of actors' movement. Belinda McClory, as the mother, exerts perfect control to steer between the admirable, violent and pitiful. The design aspects of the production are similarly significant. Water is used in different ways but primarily as a fine mist to create a fog-like effect while gradually soaking the actors. Without giving too much away, the introduction of a live animal to the stage similarly raises the stakes. While the overall tension does unfortunately tend to peter out before what should be the climax, this is an exceptionally brave and generous production. https://youtube.com/watch?v=5fgVdPusorU
Bringing together more than fifty artists in one exhibition might seem a little chaotic, especially when their backgrounds and practices are as diverse as the artists included here. Acrylics, oils, pastels, charcoal, sculpture, drawing, ceramics, metalsmithing - there are more disciplines here than in highschool art class. Yet Small is the New Big has an interesting cohesiveness to it, some kind of organic through line that makes it all work in flowing harmony. Size definitely matters and the smaller the better.Image: Helen Poyser, Shark 2
John Cale co-founded The Velvet Underground with Lou Reed.Well, that should be reason enough to want to see him, but if not...He's worked with such luminaries as Brian Eno, Terry Riley and Kevin Ayers, appeared on Nick Drake's beautiful Bryter Layter and participated in the first ever performance of Erik Satie's 18 hour piano piece Vexations. He produced the following iconic and brilliant albums: Horses for Patti Smith (Horses, goddamnit!), The Modern Lovers' debut record, The Stooges self-titled debut, and fellow Velvet Underground bandmate Nico's The Marble Index, Desertshore and The End. Just to name a few little accomplishments.As a solo artist, Cale has the traits of a wanderer, picking up new instruments here and there, and experimenting with genres that may have seemed like odd choices at the time, but looking back his work has a kind of cohesiveness, an ebb and flow of pattern and talent with a love of drone. While still a student in London, he organised an early Fluxus concert he titled A Little Festival of New Music in 1963. Later he played in famed avant garde composer La Monte Young's Theater of Eternal Music, and while he still delves into pop (the titular single from 1973's solo record Paris 1919 is a real pop masterpiece, see below), there's always an element straying from the path.John Cale will perform as a guest of the Sydney Festival, live in concert with his band, supported by Sydney's own Jack Ladder. He will also present the Keynote Address for Circa 1979: Signal to Noise. https://youtube.com/watch?v=_3ueIweuUvo
How is it that a band can form in 1984 and still sound as fresh and invigorating two and a half decades later? What's more, Yo La Tengo just keep getting more interesting as time, records and tours pass by. Let's all applaud the news then, shall we, that Yo La Tengo return to Sydney in February — a dreamy alterna-rock chaser to the glut of the summer music season. No strangers to these shores, in Sydney they've played in-store acoustic gigs, numerous shows at the Metro, Q&A's at the Chauvel, and made truly heavyvibe festival appearances. The manner in which Yo La Tengo perform is about as surprising as their musical tangents, evident across their almost cripplingly extensive back catalogue. This includes pop classics such as Electr-O-Pura, I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One, instrumental film scores like The Sounds of the Sounds of Science, Old Joy, and rather mental covers records with the tittering titles Yo La Tengo is Murdering the Classics and the recent Fuckbook (released under the name Condo Fucks), right up to 2009's excellent Popular Music. They even have a Christmas EP. This time, on their way to the Perth International Arts Festival, they're playing two separate sets in Sydney. The first is at The Basement on 17 February, the next installment of their ongoing The Freewheelin' Yo La Tengo Tour wherein the audience is invited to request the songs they will play each night and ask questions. The other is at theMetro on 18 February, which is the regular Yo La Tengo show Sydneysiders have come to know and love (if building a whopping big wash of sound, covering Sun Ra and occasional marital bickering on-stage is regular to you). Truly, I can't recommend a Yo La Tengo live show more. If that doesn't convince you, consider this: it's impossible not to love a band that named one of their first records New Wave Hot Dog, no? https://youtube.com/watch?v=zDgpQBaziy0
A band plays by the side of an American highway in a music video. The musicians look kind of catatonically into what they're doing on a grassy patch, oblivious to both the traffic and the camera. The music they're making is catchy and familiar with a great big wash of fuzz over the top. That's a typical slice of Thee Oh Sees surf'n'turf pizza party that's here on tour from San Francisco this week, en route to play the Meredith Music Festival in Victoria.Formed by John Dyer (Coachwhips, Yikes, Burmese), Thee Oh Sees are a four-piece whose sound conjures up images of sixties maudlin college mixers that eventually turn into wild frat stompers. Somebody spiked the punch! That said, their garage band feel is free of boring revivalism, this group mean business...in a laid-back west coast kind of way. A band heard best live to feel their sun-soaked visions of teen dreams and keggers up close.Supporting are Concrete Playground faves Naked on the Vague playing their gothic pop, along with Circle Pit and Yes Mix.https://youtube.com/watch?v=VVL3mEwBhBI
I once stood in line for a really long time to get a book signed by David Sedaris. During the wait, he proposed that smokers go to the start of the line because they've been getting such a bad rap lately. When I, a non-smoker who had to stay at the back, finally reached the front of the line he was just about ready to go. He asked me when was the last time I had eaten a lamington, pronouncing it lamming-tohn. I explained to him the tradition of the 'lamington drive' as a fundraising tool and he took a little notebook out of his breast pocket and wrote it down. He used it the next day in a speech he gave. I WAS THRILLED. Life could not get better. Then I found out he was touring Sydney again.It's these kind of small thrills that make up David Sedaris' memoirs, tales mostly mined from his large family. The first time I saw him speak live he wondered aloud about why his kin might be annoyed by his liberal lifting of their speech, his line of thought being "well what are [they] going to do with it?". His family offer many stories, particularly pertaining to his genius sister Amy (Strangers with Candy) and a filthy-mouthed younger brother known affectionately as The Rooster. His books â€" New York Times bestsellers, all â€" draw directly from his childhood, and more recently include tales of life with boyfriend Hugh in the French countryside that would seem idyllic to many, but to Sedaris it is a hotbed of intrigue teeming with zombie threat and "swimming" mice. A frequent contributor to The New Yorker and the much loved NPR radio show This American Life, David Sedaris is, how can I say this without seeming too forceful, not to be missed. His voice and particular talent with the pregnant pause add a whole new level of dry wit and sensitivity to his books which you should probably run out and read if you've not already. This is his third reading tour of Sydney, and his first at the State Theatre. Run/click quickly for tickets.https://youtube.com/watch?v=upXWyZ9Pe3Q
Dirty Projectors, and front-man Dave Longstreth's pre-DP projects, initially copped more than their fair share of flack for being too intellectually obfuscative (read pretentious). Their fourth album Bitte Orca seems to have soothed the critics and it's pretty easy to see why. Dirty Projectors happen to be particularly good at what they do and in Bitte Orca they've made it all a little more likeable without giving up on complexity. Their slightly off-kilter arrangements and the occasionally choral-like vocals of Longstreth, Amber Coffman, Angel Deradoorian and Haley Dekle make for a remarkable sound. With Bjork, David Byrne and The Roots among their fans, they've well and truly won the 'darling' tag.By all accounts Dirty Projectors' live shows are an experience and they'll be in Sydney in March for their inaugural Australian tour. https://youtube.com/watch?v=YMPF6lpM0XM
To be or not to be? This is a question that every theatre company should ask of themselves whenever attempting to stage a classic text, for no quicker are old words rendered obsolete than through boring, unimaginative parroting. Brave is the company, Berlin's world-famous Schaubühne in this case, that takes its production of Hamlet to an international audience.Performed in a German translation by master playwright Marius Von Mayenburg, this Hamlet demands your attention. Six performers recreate the antics of over twenty characters, ghoulishly inhabiting a stage covered in dirt and overlaid with grainy, live video feeds. Director Thomas Ostermeier has unearthed the rotten heart of a Denmark not unlike the spasmodic lurching of our own, often tragic, political landscape. Prepare to fight for a ticket!Image by Arno Declair
From the opening intertitle of The Informant! (or even from the title’s exclamation mark) it’s abundantly clear Steven Soderbergh is gearing up to have a lot of fun. Though based on the bizarre true story of white-collar whistleblower Mark Whitacre, there’s no way Soderbergh is going to let the facts get in the way of a good yarn. And what’s more he has Marvin Hamlisch supplying Broadway-style tunes (BYO jazz hands!) to further heighten his stylised, corporate caper. A chubby Matt Damon positively revels in the role of the Machiavellian yet ludicrously naïve agri-businessman Whitacre. Outwardly the role (and the extra pounds) is similar to Russell Crowe’s Oscar nominated turn in Michael Mann’s The Insider. Perhaps due to the success of that film, Soderbergh takes a self-reflexive, ironic about face and presents us with an entirely unreliable protagonist, one whose dealings with the FBI feel like something out of a movie. Case in point: most exposition is muted by Whitacre’s voice-over, where he quite randomly muses on life rather than narrating the facts. 
Then there are the visuals. Soderbergh, his production designer Doug J. Meerdink and his trusty RED camera recreate the Midwest of the 1990s with some splashings of 1970s kitsch. It’s an amusingly cheesy mix only aided by Whitacre’s succession of truly terrible ties and requisite taupe walls. Like all of Soderbergh’s experimental films, The Informant! is exercise in style as well as a refashioning of generic conventions. At times, however, it feels like everyone on set is having a little too much fun, forgetting to move the story along. Consequently the third act drags and Damon’s character borders on becoming a cloying caricature. It’s worth sticking with The Informant! despite this; just enjoy a decidedly Coen-esque, darkly comic romp around corporate America with the delusional man who decided to cry wolf to the FBI. The Informant! screens at Sydney Theatre Company at 1PM on Sunday afternoon, followed by a talk with director Steven Soderbergh. Sodenbergh's STC production Tot Mom opens on December 18.https://youtube.com/watch?v=ph4x5yw_DMQ
When Luigi Pirandello's Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore premiered in Rome in 1921, the play introduced the idea that fictional characters could exist beyond their creator, lost out in the world as orphans craving attention. But if there's anything that reality television has taught us, it's that many real people want to take part in a story bigger than their daily life. Even flesh and blood needs an author, so it seems.Rupert Goold, artistic director of the British company, Headlong, has re-imagined Pirandello's tragicomedy for a world besotted with the media. As the title suggests, six people interrupt the filming of a docu-drama and claim that they are fictional characters seeking an author. So, of course, someone with a handy camera decides that the only solution is to record it all for the world to see.https://youtube.com/watch?v=Dx6ClxxJXGE
