Mad Men as Muse

Mad Men finally got a showing on terrestrial TV in Australia last night and I’ve been doing my bit to spread the word at work. It unearthed a few closet fans, including one lovely person who sent me a link to these incredible Mad Men homages by Ms Dyna Moe at Nobody’s Sweetheart. She's done a new design based on each episode of the two series so far, which is above and beyond the call of any muse. And they're all ace. I think I want them all.

All images copyright Ms Dyna Moe and can be purchased from Dyna herself here.

Rob Hunter's Moosecow, Portland Hotel

I’m not sure why, but until I moved to Melbourne I don’t think I actually understood what the Melbourne Comedy Festival was (despite the obvious clues in the title). Perhaps it was the NSW Tourism Board putting something in my lemonade to convince me it was all a bit crap and mostly involved watching Wil Anderson, Dave Hughes, Judith Lucy and that bloke off Spicks and Specks that everyone loves. Apart from me.

Up until this year my Melbourne Comedy Festival basically involved me sitting in Sydney waiting for Daniel Kitson to play (what I now realise to be) sideshows and tell us all about how much more of a nice time he had in Melbourne than in Sydney.

So, much like Morrissey recently discovering sex for the first time, I’m all wide-eyed and excited about what’s going on right now in these very streets. It was quite exciting standing outside the Town Hall on Thursday in front of a menu of acts on a blackboard and wondering what to take in. I even quite liked the spruikers and pamphleteers, one of whom was dressed like a bee, all trying to tell me that I’d have a lovely evening in their company. I felt quite wanted.

We plumped for a show by Adelaide comedian Rob Hunter, of whom we knew nothing apart from his show was called Moosecow and his flyer had a nice Daniel Clowes- style picture of him dressed as said made-up beast. This stood up well compared to other flyers with pictures of people smiling inanely, looking grumpy or the legions of “if you liked Flight of the Conchords then you’ll love this” musical comedy acts.

The show was in a very small dark room in the Portland Hotel which immediately made us feel claustrophobic and a bit scared. We needn’t have worried as Rob and his friend ‘Joel’ (not his real name) were charming hosts, with Rob as awkward and self-conscious as ‘Joel’ was energised and manic.

This was an enjoyable hour, made up of lots of clever and nicely silly ideas, all backed up by non- sequitur set pieces and clever use of recorded sound and props. There was a gentle and homemade feel about the show with both performers using the third person and imaginary characters to insult each other and poke fun at the audience without ever crossing a line into nasty.

That said, I’d be lying if I told you everyone was laughing out loud the whole time. This wasn’t (as they kept insisting) because we were all confused but was more a question of delivery and pacing. Once it was established that this was a theatrical show and not just straight stand-up (reinforced by Rob’s admission that everything he said in the show was a lie) it became clear that only one of the cast (‘Joel’) was a strong enough actor to raise the energy levels and make us all believe this was something more than a couple of blokes with some funny thoughts. Rob’s slightly forced and awkward presentation (whether deliberate or just nerves) meant that some good ideas - and opportunities to explore them further - were rushed and a little lost.

This said, laughing out loud is not a prerequisite for me to enjoy comedy; sometimes I just enjoy being in someone’s company for a while and listening to their thoughts. This was one of those situations. Moosecow looks like the start of something that will end up a whole lot funnier and, if they get the balance right, perhaps more of a double act. It’ll be interesting to see what beast it mutates into next.

Moosecow is showing from 7pm throughout the Melbourne Comedy Festival at the Portland Hotel, Corner of Russell and Little Collins Streets, Melbourne.

When Childhood Dreams Go Bad

The Mint Custard garden is now 5 months old and despite lack of experience has brought a surprising amount of happiness. They may have been bonsai-sized, but carrots, onions, beetroots have all grown from seed to garden to kitchen table, and lettuces and spinach leaves have grown aplenty.

Next cab off the vegetable rank are the cherry tomatoes (which I suppose makes them the next cab off the fruit/vegetable rank depending upon your persuasions) and harvesting has already begun.

This is now a race against time, because I am under attack from an erstwhile friend of mine – the caterpillar. Yes, where once, thanks to the genius of Eric Carle there was mutual joy that such a small creature could happily much his way through not just leaves but ice cream, salami, watermelon, cheese and a lollypop – now there is the murderous atmosphere of former brothers at war.

I am not moved by his cute “inching along” type movements. I am no longer impressed by his ability to camouflage himself against any coloured leaf. I am particularly unimpressed at the speed at which he can eat through an embryonic tomato which I have loving cultivated from just a seed through drought and 46 degree days and (minor) earthquakes.

I have found myself alone amongst my pot plants; silent, stealthy and ready to pounce. I hear the words of Jules from Pulp Fiction bastardised in my head: “And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to eat and destroy my tomatoes. And you will know my name is the Gardener when I lay my vengeance upon thee...”

Of course, as a pinky-lefty commie pescatarian I can’t actually bring myself to execute my new foes (though I did accidentally cut one in half with a pair of shears). To get around this I have found that if you place them up high enough their lush greenness makes them highly attractive to passing birds. Especially when they are deep fried and wrapped in bread crumbs... Let this be a warning to you Mr So-Called-Very-Hungry-Caterpillar - (assuming you have internet access) - stay away from my tomatoes, motherf*cker...

Something to Believe In...

Reading the local newspaper in the park yesterday it was interesting to see that Easter had been reduced to just a couple of articles that took up half of page three. I guess after 2000 years of reporting pretty much the same story there isn’t too much more to say; either you’re into it or you’re not and two public holidays, another speech by the Pope and some chocolate eggs aren’t going to change your mind.

Personally I quite like meeting people with beliefs, as long as they’ve got them under their own steam. It’s more interesting discussing religion with someone who believes in something than just sitting around with a bunch of people going “religion? Meh...” That’s partly why I like John Safran, who quite spectacularly made the news yesterday by electing to have himself crucified (yes, actually crucified with nails etc) in the Philippines on Friday.

Safran is a talented and interesting writer and performer and could easily have stayed in the safe waters of celebrity bating or making shows about music culture. Fortunately for us he has embraced the idea that far from being a boring topic, religion is perhaps the topic. Whatever you believe in, someone else will either ignore you, pity you, disagree with you, be embarrassed by you or in some cases hate you. Safran is fascinated by the power of religion, with its rituals, hypocrisies, insecurities, lies, consistencies, inconsistencies, historical accuracy, comforts and hatreds. It’s good that we have someone so interesting and entertaining exploring these topics, and not just leaving such discussion to late night SBS and ABC serious discussion shows.

I have no idea what motivated Safran to want to experience crucifixion, but those seeking to dismiss it as a stunt should remember that his actions are consistent with his work over the past five years, and especially the SBS show John Safran vs. God. Over eight episodes he exposed himself to the myriad of world religions, organised and clearly disorganised and for his troubles received spiritual, physical and mental pain. He tried peyote in the desert, voodoo in Haiti, joined the Klan in America (despite being Jewish), was beaten as part of Zen Buddhist meditation and memorably underwent an exorcism in front of a Pentecostal church. There are clearly dramatic and highly watchable pictures to be gained from these events, but one also feels that having experienced them Safran is a little closer to being able to understand what motivates their practitioners and therefore maybe the world that we live in. One can only imagine that the act of crucifixion, something that none of us are likely to ever go through, would be a highly personal and powerful experience.

Much like Bill Drummond, my admiration for John Safran comes from his willingness to put his credibility, time, money, legal status (and now his body) on the line in the pursuit of an idea or an artistic endeavour. Many will be quick to reduce John’s act to attention seeking, but I think we’re fortunate to have inspirational people like Drummond and Safran around, especially in an era when Jade Goody is celebrated as a celebrity.

One comment though, if I may. John, what on earth was that wig about? If you’re going to get yourself crucified, make sure your hair looks nice.

Raving I'm Raving

Some photos I took on my recent sojourn up north. Not only is Brisbane's big wheel (it's not an eye - it's a big wheel, stop calling them eyes...) in a nice place, but it also works. I like these pictures. They look like a 1991 rave music video...



I took this one in the bathroom at the art gallery. They were throwing everyone out at the end of the day and I needed to go. I'm sure some will find the idea of taking pictures in a lavatory a bit unsavoury but it was amazing - a bit like the video for The Universal by Blur. My picture doesn't quite capture how white the place was but I still like how it came out...

Always a pleasure...

Some lovely news - Daniel Kitson has just announced himself as a last minute addition to the Melbourne Comedy Festival shenanigans. Doing what he describes as “work in progress towards a new stand up show later in the year,” he’ll be performing in the Performance Space at RRR in East Brunswick from Sunday to Thursday at 6.30pm throughout the Festival which starts on April 1st.

Tickets to see Daniel are available through Polyester Records in both the city and Fitzroy shops for a mere $12.50 (plus booking fee) of your Australian dollars. Mr Kitson also has plans for three live radio shows on RRR on which he will be “introducing comedians from the comedy festival, musicians and playing records and pre-recorded bits and pieces.” I thought I should share this with you so you can have a bit of the smile it gave me.

Television "Not Always Rubbish" Shocker

I’m not sure when I joined the ranks of people who watch telly and then talk about it all the time. I’ve always liked ploughing through comedy shows and quite enjoy finding things that make me laugh other than fart gags, but very rarely proper telly – you know, with plots and actors and the like. Yet having recently over-enthusiastically discussed at least two of these proper TV shows with work colleagues, friends and random strangers I have realised that I’m now part of that boring group of people who wank on about how good telly is these days.

I should share a couple of things. Firstly, apart from the news, I don’t watch regular telly. Adverts on Australian television are beyond a joke; some shows can get interrupted for up to 4 minutes some five times an hour and it drives me crazy. Quite how the writers and directors feel about seeing their shows ripped to pieces is beyond me. I tried watching Heroes on cable and I’d have been better off watching it on You Tube than in the five minute chunks I was served. So mostly I’m watching shows on DVD long after the hoo-hah. This actually suits me, because I can avoid finding things out from other people before they happen.

Secondly, I have watched almost none of the ‘must-see-TV’ of the past two decades. Despite being implored by friends and colleagues with myriad tastes and levels of televisual sophistication, I have never seen a single episode of (deep breath) the West Wing, Alias, Desperate Housewives, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (or Angel), the OC, Beverly Hills 90210, LA Law, ER, the Sopranos, Prime Suspect, Ally McBeal, the Wire, Inspector Morse, NCIS, CSI, Grey’s Anatomy, Six Feet Under, 24, Sex and the City or any science fiction shows since Star Trek the Next Generation finished in 1994. I’m sure there are many others but I’ve probably just never heard of them. I have seen one episode each of Friends and the X-Files and, after being literally forced to sit in front of the telly I have now watched the first few episodes of Lost. All things considered this may be why I’m crap at trivia quizzes these days.

The observant among you will note that most of the programs I have mentioned are American. This might suggest that maybe I just don’t like American TV. After all, I’ve sat through hours of Eastenders and the Bill and despite their dowdy charms even I know that some of the above series are probably better shows. Maybe my expat tastes are tragically and parochially anchored in the United Kingdom, quality be damned. I don’t think so though because my favourite TV show ever is Twin Peaks and despite its qualities it wouldn’t have been quite the same show had it been set in, say, Birmingham.

Others will note that my non-list contains lots of police dramas, science fiction and the TV equivalent of chick-lit. Maybe I just don’t like certain genres? Well, maybe, but I did nerd-out on Star Trek as a youth and I’ve spent many hours watching the revamped Dr Who so I’m not immune to a sci-fi show – just seemingly the new crop of American ones. As for cops and robbers, I would probably agree that it’s not my thing, although I did love the original Manchester-based Life on Mars. All the more interesting then that of the two shows that have so floated my boat of late, both are American and one is so cops and robbers that the hero is serial-killer-catching serial killer who works for the police.

I am of course talking about Dexter, Jeff Lindsay’s “neat little monster” played with charm and the right amount of faux-naivety by Michael C Hall. From the first time I saw the opening credits montage of Dexter Morgan’s morning shower, shit, shave and breakfast routine portrayed as a murderous ritual I was hooked. I can’t deny the possibility that maybe it’s because I’ve avoided all the other cop shows that I love Dexter so much. I don’t know any of the clichés of police drama, and Dexter might be riddled with them but I wouldn’t know. I do know that every episode of seasons one and two left me almost sick with nerves and anticipation that Dexter might be five seconds away from being caught and exposed to his trusting and unknowing colleagues, including his doting sister Deborah, not to mention his slightly insipid girlfriend, Rita. I do know that Dexter made me want to go to Miami and drink tequila and eat lobster on the beach at night whilst people salsa around me. I do know that Dexter got me hooked on Chopin. I do know that there was no need for a season three, despite Jimmy Smits’ rewarding turn.

I doubt I’ll be so enthusiastic about season four. But Dexter has proved to be my gateway to a brave new television world. As I enthused about the show and encouraged others to watch however they could, I heard echoing calls of ‘oh you like Dexter? You’ll love this’ or ‘you should try so-and-so.’ And apart from the West Wing, which everyone seems to love, everyone had a different recommendation. It made me realise the possibility that - for a short while- you could probably get addicted to just about any show on Earth if you had the time. Watching TV shows in isolation, either on DVD or downloaded from Bit Torrent sites, with the ability to zoom through a season at your own pace, can make you feel like you’re in on some marvellous secret. If you venture online you’ll find hoards of people just like you, all obsessing about the important minutiae of their chosen shows as if they’d discovered the cure for cancer but didn’t want anyone to know. I’d like to think that I’m above all that, of course. It’s not the secret addiction aspect of watching Dexter that makes me watch more. Is it? It’s just damn fine TV. Isn’t it? I was happy to believe that Dexter was a one-off in television history, a show that knowing people will refer to knowingly in 20 years time like an early Coen Brothers movie.

Only then I discovered Mad Men, a show so clever and grown up it makes Dexter look like early evening light entertainment (with knives and chainsaws, of course). Gazing dreamily at the picture perfect sets, the sculpted hairdos and tailored outfits, listening to the snappy one liners and settling into the somnambulant pace (the first time I noticed that something had actually happened I was midway through the second season) I realised I was addicted again. My secret obsession had moved from modern day Miami to early 1960’s New York, but still I wanted to know everything about my new show.

Now, I’m prepared to go out on a limb here and say that Mad Men is special. I’ll probably never watch any of the shows I mentioned earlier but I just have a feeling that Mad Men is better than any of them. The acting is perfect across the board; the characters deep as the Marianas Trench. Each of them is as distinct and isolated as each other, all of their time yet on the verge of a 1960s which will change the world beyond even their creative imaginations. Feminism, multiculturalism, civil rights, gay rights, technology and globalisation are all just around the corner from where we are observing them.

The show is unashamedly smart too; the dialogue bristles with clever lines and observations that make you realise that some of the characters will do better than others as the sixties unfold. Secretary-turned-junior-copywriter Peggy Olsen’s dual with her own sense of morality, as projected through a young and passionate Catholic priest, is as vibrant an examination of the beginning of the end of religion’s grip on everyday youth as you’ll read in any textbook. Coupled with lead man Don Draper’s existential internal battle spelt out through the words of New York poet and writer Frank O'Hara, you see a show unafraid to wear its brain on its sleeve.

Mad Men lives against but not for the big moments in American history. The historic nature of the Kennedy v Nixon election is portrayed as another day’s work for those working on the campaign, most indifferent to the possible winner. Staff in the office are equally affected by the Cuban Missile Crisis and the death of Marilyn Monroe depending on what they’re into – like people who were more interested in the life and death of Jade Goody than the collapse of the world economy.

The show looks like a dream; Lynchian retro yet as alive as a beat poem in a late night Manhattan bar. The costumes and hairstyles are so wonderful that it makes you feel rather dowdy just watching it, and yet they never shy away from the reality of maintaining such a look (in one wonderful scene, office siren Joan – known for her pert wiggle and gravity-defying bosom is shown undressing at home, tenderly rubbing her shoulders where her industrial strength bra has almost sliced grooves into her perfect porcelain skin). January Jones’ Betty looks like a movie star as she sashays around her suburban home (they cut to the chase with everyman and his dog telling her she looks like Grace Kelly) but you know that she’s not doing the cleaning in those skirts.

There are so many articles out there right now about Mad Men and why it’s so good that it’s pointless to go on (my favourite is this one from last year by Chicago Tribune journalist Mo Ryan) other than to reinforce my already apparent enthusiasm. But in the context of my hopeless addiction and wrapped up in the excitement of someone who has basically caught up to the rest of the world and realised that in front of the television can be a nice place to be sometimes, my advice is twofold and simple: be who you is, and watch Mad Men. It’s ace. Now, where’s that Desperate Housewives box set…