One for the Ladies

On International Women's Day, I think it's important that we share some really great news about women, and how it's now become easier than ever to judge them purely on their physical appearance in a nice, polite way.

The Daily Telegraph brings us the feelgood story of the year, the news that women will no longer be compared to fruit, but instead to dead painters.

I mean, if you're a woman - and if you are, I just want to say, WELL DONE, you're a real trooper - you know what it's like to be called a pear, or an apple, or a banana, or a nectarine. It's humiliating. But what's the alternative? Just call women fat ugly hogs? Well, yes, that would solve everyone's problems, but you know, feminism, am I right?

So it's good that underwear brand Triumph (underwear companies: nature's philanthropists) has stepped up to provide an elegant solution that will fix everything: name body shapes after painters!

You see, throughout history women have been facing the same problem: how to get others to use nicer words when assigning them categories based on how fat they are. Finally their prayers have been answered!

Here is a quick guide to the new categories, as designated by the International Society For The Designation Of Nicknames For Body Shapes, which as you know is the body which legislates for body shape labels and metes out punishments to those who use the wrong ones:

"Pear-shaped" is now to be known as "Botticelli"

"Hourglass" is now to be known as "Rembrandt"

"Well-proportioned and carrying weight around the middle" (i.e. "Apple", or "gooseberry") is now "Rubens" - Rubens painted chubby chicks, so this will be good for their self-esteem.

The "Raphael" body shape is the one men like, with the little waist and big boobs - what used to be known as the "Jessica Rabbit" or the "cherry tomato".

The "da Vinci" is the one that's all flat and skinny.

The "Matisse" is the one where you're slightly uncomfortable being photographed in your underwear.

The "Pollock" is the body shape of women who have recently had a tin of paint poured over their heads.

The "Picasso" is the body shape of women who have been cursed by gypsies.

The "Whiteley" is for women who are addicted to heroin.

The "Van Gogh" is for women shaped like mental patients.

The "Dali" is for melted women.

The "Kahlo" is for women shaped like Mexicans.

The "Michaelangelo" is the shape of men who are dressed as women.

And of course the "Ken Done" is for women shaped like prostitutes.

You'll get an idea of how it works from the picture below, which is of a "Pro Hart":



Isn't it great? With these labels, women now have the CONVENIENCE of knowing exactly what box they are in, with the RELIEF of people only implying their physical flaws rather than spelling them out explicitly!

This is known as the "Feminist Ideal", and it's appropriate on this IWD 2011 that we celebrate, finally, the end of sexism.

Hooray!

On Theatre

There has been much discussion this year of the merits or otherwise of the plays of David Williamson, with luminaries such as Jason Whittaker of Crikey's Angry Theatre Review Department, Annabel Crabb
of the ABC's Reviews of Reviews Department, and even Miranda Devine of News Ltd's Miranda Devine? Seriously? Department, weighing in with their opinions on whether Williamson is a national treasure or in fact if he is another thing which is not. Given that most people think of me as a combination of Devine, Whittaker and Crabb divided by three and averaged out over the duration, I think it well-behooves me to take a stab at analysing this peculiar cultural institution to decide beyond all doubt whether it's worth doing.

I am in a uniquely well-qualified position to comment on Williamson’s plays, since I have never seen any of them, which makes me totally unbiased. I have, however, seen a bit of Don’s Party – the bit where Graham Kennedy is nude – and two bits of Emerald City: the bit with the hose, and the bit where Ruth Cracknell laughs. So I have a good overall feel for the vibe, while lacking the dreadful baggage that comes with knowing what I am talking about.

The simple fact is that David Williamson is the greatest playwright this country has ever seen except for maybe Eddie Perfect or that other one who nobody remembers. However, it is unfortunate that despite this, Williamson has degenerated from a theatrical giant to a sad and pathetic parody of himself who embarrasses us all not only with his writing, but his very existence on the same planet as decent people like ourselves. How did it come to this, that the most brilliant genius ever is now retarded? The answer is probably that he was never very good anyway and the first part of this paragraph was wrong, or possibly it is more complicated than this or perhaps not. Let’s examine the issue at length and with a clear sense of which sections of the community are stupider than us.

First of all, there can be no doubt that Williamson is popular, so doesn't that make him good? Almost certainly yes, but then again he's definitely bad, so this theory doesn't hold water. Or does it? Williamson himself certainly thinks it does, writing an elegant article in which it holds water as much as the next pitcher or small jug. Of course, we should take his opinion with a grain of salt, or possibly even an entire shakerful, because naturally he would say that, wouldn't he? Yes he would, because he's the one who profits from the erroneous perception that he is any good at anything.

But then why do people go to his plays? Because they're idiots? Yes, and no, is the answer, or answers, to this question, or questions. While it's true that everyone who goes to the theatre is an idiot, it's also true that I don't know much about art, but I know what I like. And what people like is David Williamson, and if a play is entertaning, what more do you want? Nothing, that's what, and the whole reason you don't like the plays is SNOBBERY.

Snobbery is what people do when they are scared to like popular things because they won't feel special. But what I would say to them is, you're special just the way you are and you don't have to hate beloved playwrights to be it. Or alternatively, you're not special and never will be so shut up. Either way, stop doing snobbery at people, especially at David Williamson, who is trying to chronicle our times in a way that is accessible to the average theatregoer and also Bob Hawke.

If Williamson doesn't do it, who will chronicle our times? Mungo MacCallum? Don't make me laugh.



How long do we have to put up with cultural elites denigrating our icons, and non-elites denigrating the elites? It is a vicious circle, a snake eating its own tail, much like Williamson's new play, "Don's Snake Eats Its Own Tail", in which Don and his friends gather at his house to watch the telecast of the NSW state election in blackface.

Why does this play work? Because it is RELATABLE.

Why does it not work? Because every three minutes the entire cast sings the national anthem and scurries about the stage squeaking, which puts a crimp in the narrative.

But maybe Australians want crimps in their narrative, or perhaps not. Who can tell? Almost everyone, it is not difficult. That's the whole problem: thinking that complicated issues are quite beyond the grasp of the wider population, just because they are.

The point is, why don't we actually ASK theatregoers what they want from a play? Well, why would we? Theatregoers are stupid: they go to David Williamson plays. But maybe we are stupid for judging them. It's hard to tell, but maybe we could have a stab at it by going to see one of these plays for ourselves. We won't though, because we're not stupid. But that doesn't mean that liking David Williamson makes you stupid, it might be other way around or maybe a bit of both. One thing's for sure, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Or to the left. It all depends which leg you put your trousers on with. As examined in Williamson's play Trousers, in which Andrew, a suburban lawyer, falls in love with a wild ape with hilarious consequences.

In a way Williamson's plays are a wild ape, and we are suburban lawyers, and Miranda Devine are hilarious consequences. But on the other hand, what about Barrie Kosky? What does he think? Perhaps this white lion can tell us:



But let's not pretend anyone has all the answers. Except Williamson, who has been in theatre for over 40 years and knows his way around an orchestra pit. But is an ability to read maps the only relevant criterion for a great playwright? Surely not. You also need a pen. Maybe it's Williamson's lack of a pen that has made him so bitter in Don Parties On, in which I am reliably informed there is a forty minute monologue on Viagra.

Still, it must be said that he puts bums on seats, an aggressive behaviour for which he should surely seek treatment, but cannot because he has no time due to his contractual obligation to write twenty nine plays every year and occasionally go on Q and A to show everyone his eyebrows. It is a busy life and he has no time to think about up-themselves wankers who only like plays if they have full frontal nudity and interpretive dance sequences about cowboys raping geese. Although do WE have time to deal with the delusions of an ageing halfwit scribbling down his random thoughts, sticking them to a piece of cardboard, dousing it in petrol, setting it alight and calling it a play? I don't know if this is what Williamson does, but I assume it is.

When it all comes down to it at the end of the day and all things considered in a broad sense, it is certainly true that Williamson's work, while popular, is preternaturally bad, while it is also true that nothing that is popular can be THAT bad, since people don't pay money for bad things except when they do, but then that is the exception that proves the rule, or in some cases, disproves, which only serves to emphasise the basic thrust of my crux.

So Williamson: Living Legend Of The Theatre, or Tired Old Hack With A Stupid Ugly Face? A bit of both, most of neither, and most of all, 110% of everything at once.

YOU DECIDE!!!!!!

The More You Learn

So my first A2 column was up on Saturday. If you're in Melbourne or near a cosmopolitan newsagent, or even managed to find it online, hope you read it, and hope even more you enjoyed it.

Writing the column has, quite naturally, led to much thinking on the topic of TV. It's often said that TV is somehow a "deadening" medium, that watching it turns one into a zombie, staring blankly at the screen.

I defy this assertion. Nothing rouses the passions like TV. Nothing stirs the emotions like one's favourite show. No medium is its master in terms of provoking furious debates, declarations and defences. Standing up for the show you love, and lambasting the show you hate, put the lie to the "TV as neural deadener" interpretation.

I myself am passionate not only about the undeniable quality of the shows I like, and by extension the undeniable quality of my good taste, and not only about the undeniable awfulness of the shows I won't watch, and by extension the etc etc, but also about avoiding a certain kind of like-minded fan.

Because possibly the worst thing about being a TV fan is the other fans who claim to love the same show you do, but who are so bafflingly wrongheaded about them, so ignorant of basic facts, and so mind-bogglingly misguided about the motivations of characters and meanings of plotlines, that they drive you into a rope-chewing frenzy every time you log into their forum. A fellow fan with different views is far worse than a hater. Sometimes.

But really, the point is, television is an artform with just as much potential for provoking intense love, hatred and all emotions in between as any other. Although it is important to remember that when you and I disagree about the quality of a show, it is all just a matter of purely subjective opinion.

And your subjective opinion is wrong.

That said, here's a slice of my new possibly-regular blog segment, Thursday Classics:

I Have Some Problems With This...

Now, the front page story in the Herald Sun today was the story of how Melbourne City Council grants have been given to two artists whose art consists of building and then dismantling brick walls. OK. That's a pretty crucial news story. Bravo, investigative journalism etc, well done on avoiding sensationalism and triviality.

I'm not here to quarrel with the front page story. I am here to quarrel with this editorial on the same subject:

No art to this waste of cash

This story starts like this:

"A MELBOURNE City Council grant to pay artists to build a brick wall, only to knock it down again, gives new meaning to 'thick as a brick.'"

Now here's the thing, "staff writer"...

No it doesn't. I concede that you're just following a trend here, the trend of finding a commonly used phrase with some oblique connection to a story, and then saying "gives new meaning to" in a sad and almost-touching attempt to be witty. I concede that 95 percent of these usages do not in any way demonstrate a new meaning being given to said phrase.

BUT that is no excuse! Can't you think for three seconds before you write?

I mean, how the hell does that give new meaning to "thick as a brick"? If the artists were dressing up as bricks, perhaps, but they're not, are they? They're just building and dismantling walls. And you see, "thick as a brick" means the same thing as it always did, doesn't it? If you said these artists were "thick as a brick", it wouldn't actually develop some devilishly clever double meaning. Dickhead.

And you probably think, OK, "staff writer" has pulled the wrong rein there, but everyone's allowed one wrong rein-pulling in an article, as long as it is an isolated case.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

This is the HERALD SUN, where sensationalism walks hand in hand with semi-literacy, and scaremongering rides tall in the saddle occasionally sipping from a canteen full of cool fresh not-as-funny-as-they-think.

Because it ONLY GETS WORSE. Later in the editorial:

"Another brick in the wall, as we are reminded by the Pink Floyd song, is to cost ratepayers $5500."

Now I was stunned by this assertion, and immediately ran to my turntable to give "The Wall" a spin. And here's an interesting fact:

At NO point during the song "Another Brick in the Wall" does Pink Floyd either say, or paraphrase, the sentence, "Another brick in the wall is to cost ratepayers $5500".

Check it out, Herald Sun! The album is readily available! There is, in fact, no reference to ratepayers at all!

In other words, if you were to listen to any of the three parts of the song "Another Brick in the Wall", you would not be reminded in any way of the cost to ratepayers of another brick in the wall. What is more, I doubt that this was ever Roger Waters's intention! It seems, to say the least, far-fetched to suppose that as he sat down to compose his masterpiece, he thought, "Now we need a real epic protest song so that people will never forget how much it cost City of Melbourne ratepayers to hire two women to build and tear down small brick walls. It was $5500, and after this hits the charts, EVERYBODY WILL REMEMBER THAT!"

I do not think this happened.

And to pile outrage upon outrage, it's not even true that another brick in the wall will cost ratepayers $5500. That is the cost of the entire installation - so one brick would be just a fraction of that. GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT HERALD SUN!

And even if you don't, please note that a newspaper editorial is, ideally, a considered commentary on current events. The purpose of editorialising becomes, at the least, blurred, when the editorial morphs into some kind of bizarre comedy routine/1970s prog-rock medley.

THINK about it.

Spencer Tunick: A Life

Spencer Tunick is a photographer. Through his photography he seeks to reveal truths about the universe and the human condition. His camera is his means of making sense of the world, and communicating this sense to his audience, who are made wiser and more insightful as a result.

Tunick began taking photographs of nude people in 1986. Through his photographs of nude people, he made a profound statement about modernity and culture. However, he soon saw that simply taking photographs of nude people would not be enough to truly impact the world's consciousness in a way that would bring about lasting change in modes of thinking. He realised that only photographs of large numbers of nude people all in one place could do so. This insight has allowed him to explore themes of society, politics, and inner psychological states that heretofore were considered impossible for a single artist to successfully grapple with.

For example, Tunick has managed to encapsulate modern man's struggle with aspiration of status while simultaneously looking for a sense of the spiritual. He has done this by taking a photograph of a bunch of nude people:



Alternately, he has also examined human history, showing how the mistakes of the past are seemingly constantly repeated, but that progress can be and is made, however incrementally and painfully it is done. He skilfully portrays this via the means of a photograph of a bunch of nude people:



Feeling the need to explore new horizons, Tunick turned his attention to the future, and made a non-judgmental, achingly poetic exploration of how technology both shapes and is shaped by its users, and whether increased connectivity is worth the concomitant loss of deeper human feeling. This exploration was cunningly ande evocatively couched in terms of a photograph of a bunch of nude people:



The insights of Tunick on what it means to be human are almost endless. There is his comment on religious intolerance:



His summation of the immigration debate:



His opinion on the politicisation of climate change:



His thesis on tax reform:



And of course his scathing critique of the current system of banking regulation, with almost pithy comment on the urgent need for structural change to the International Monetary Fund's mechanism for providing aid to debt-stricken developing nations:




So, to sum up, Spencer Tunick is what might be called a true artist, a visionary who sees far so that we not have to, and he is no way a creepy middle-aged man obsessed with looking at nude people, or deserving of mocking phrases like "Spencer...for Christ's sake, get over it, man."