Apples and Oranges

Today is all about procrastination. I am putting off doing the ironing.

So I thought I'd tell you all a little story, that really isn't a story at all, is just me rambling and doing what I do best avoiding the mountain of ironing that awaits.

Anyone who has ever met us would know that the husband and I are completely different (and not just by genitalia) I mean we are totally different. The only thing we have in common (aside from our offspring) is that we are both rabid and fervent Rugby League fanatics. (He moreso than I) But I love Footy season and am becoming sad that it is nearing an end. Because that means cricket season is coming and I hate cricket. (I did decide last season that Micheal Slater is my favoruite player purely because the spousal unit was being excessively pissy towards him)

I am a lover of words. As a child books were my heroin. I shot up volumes of Shakespear, snorted Bronte and Austin, smoked the great books of the western world and ate literature like candy. I was brought up in a house that encouraged political passion and debate at dinner, that was socially aware and lived an excessively bohemian existence.

My husbands world was very different. It was working class full of 6-5 and overtime. Chops and sausages and dinner infront of the tv. Camping once a year and kids sitting in the car waiting for Dad to remember them and bring them a packet of twisties until he was done drinking at the pub and took them home.

The closest thing to culture my husband had ever experienced was the time his mum accidentally bought natural yogurt instead of sour cream at the supermarket. The only literature he had ever read was The Hobbit, that he was introduced to in his year 7 english/lit class. It was the only book he had ever read before he met me, when he was 20.

So it really should have come as no surprise that he thought Michelangelo was a Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle, that Virgil was a thunderbird (not a poet) and that real men don't eat quiche. Which means we see the world in completely different ways. Somehow we work, we have over the years rubbed off on each other, each muting and magnifying certain aspects of each other. (Though no one in his family will watch the news with me, apparently my ranting at the tv scares them)

So it would be only natural that our tastes in movies are completely different. Now I don't mind the odd war movie. (In fact we own pretty much all of them including every epsiode of MASH) My husband is as Army as they come. Had we been americans he'd have been the best goddam marine the US Army would have ever seen. So his taste naturally lies in War and action movies.

Me? Well for one thing I love to laugh. I especially like intelligent comedy. Wit, puns, dry, black, sarcasm, it's all good. but I do have a ridiculous love for the kind of movies that deconstruct boundaries and force us to face taboo. (Bad Boy Bubby comes to mind as the most successful movie to combine humour and taboo in the most engaging of ways, making Australian Film a force to be reckoned with and then leave us wondering why we have failed to make such a remarkable impact since.)

Enter a small DVD, Australian and poorly recieved by critics. I wanted to see it for myself. Had to see it for myself. It promised to tear down gender stereo-types, make us see men and women in ways we had never seen them before. At least that was the promise. The husband of course was resistant to the idea. but since he really is a good husband he sat through it with me. And thank god he did. Without his pithy quips and his pained expression and the six pack he was forced to scull simply to endure the first 20 minutes had me laughing out loud where otherwise I would have fallen asleep before Greta Sacchi had even uttered the words "I want you to dance without ego".

Now, normally when I write about movies I have watched, it's because I like them so I warn the reader of any spoiler I might accidently allow to pass onto the screen in my desire to talk about what I have seen, however, in the case of The Book of Revelations....this is not the case.
1. I did not like it Sam I am, I would not watch it in the can, I could not would not Sam I am.
2. Spoilers? What spoilers? The whole movie is nothing more than a slow torturous sucking of 119 minutes of your life that could have been better spent ironing or cleaning the kitty litter tray.
3. I will tell you everything, to spare you the indiginity of having to watch it for yourself.

Daniel is a dancer. (modern ballet or something, whatever it is it is mind numbingly dull and I would rather have my eyeballs peeled like grapes then watch an actual performance)
His sour puss girlfriend (also a dancer) sends him out for cigarettes and he doesn't come back. Greta Sacchi is the choreographer and Collin Friells (the only saving grace of the movie) is a cop who was once married to her, she asks him to look for Daniel.

Daniel returns after 12 days. During which he was abducted by 3 hooded and masked women who chained him to the floor and used him as their sexual puppet. (An idea my husband thought would be awesome in typical testosterone fashion) What ensues is Daniels downward spiral as he attempts to come to grips with his victimisation and goes in pursuit of his attackers ending in a violent episode that really, leaves one feeling kind of flat. More of an anti-climax really.

The movie was supposed to offer up the role of victim for examination. Man as victim in particular and the stigma attatched to men as victims of sexual crime. (And woman as perpetraitor) Unfortunately the whole tone and mood of the movie falls flat on its own unemotional delivery. The dialogue is stilted and unanimated. No one seems to ever get really angry until the final climax, which in itself seems to be contained rather than the explosive finale one would expect.

I realise the awkwardness of the acting and direction is meant to reflect on the awkwardness fo the material, but it didn't work. It touched lightly on the subject, for example where Daniel goes to the police to report that "his friend" was abducted by three women and the two police officers laugh "Half his luck" and so the crime remains unreported.

It touched lightly on it when chained to the ground Daniel begs to be freed so he can use the bathroom and he is left there, lying in his own urine until one of the hooded women comes to his aide, removes his clothing and gives him a slightly erotic sponge bath. If they wanted to truly debase him they would have left him completely naked and chained, exposed in the same way a man would leave a woman. It seemed to want to challenge the generalisations but failed to really pull through. Probably the most frightening thing he underwent was when they released his wrists and ankles and instead chained him to the wall by his balls.

Daniel then leaves his dance company and returns to the spot on the road he was dumped, to trace back his steps in an effort to seek out his assailants. In my husbands words, "You gotta commend his tactics, screw every woman you meet in an effort to find the three." Which is basically what he does. Because his abusers allowed him to see their naked bodies and the identifying marks by which he could some day indentify them. (One had a tatoo on her hip, one had a tatoo on her breast and one had a big birth mark on her ass)

Throughout the movie the husband would pipe up with the same machoistic reactions as the cops. Half his luck, go with it buddy just go with it. It was a highly erotic movie with sex scenes being somewhat explicit. Not XXX explicit but certainly explicit enough for the R rating. What was lost on my husband was the movies subtle attempt to show that this was infact rape. When there is no sexual consent, it is a sexual crime to continue to engage in a sexual act with someone who has expressed no desire to be involved.

It was however slightly more successful in showing just how debilitating this kind of crime is on men. On the stigma atatched to reporting the crime. On the debate that of he was able to perform then obviously you can't really class that rape now can we? of course we can. Sexual stimulation will achieve the required result even if one party is unwilling. In the case of men, more so since anatomically it does seem to have a will of it's own. It does open up a lot of points to address but never really does it adequately enough.

I believe most will still see this movie as three women seducing a man rather than three women objectifying and raping a man. Because the film fails to really go to the great depths of villification. It has swept them aside and replaced them with erotocism, which damages the whole plot.

Collin Friels as a cop who specialises in sexual crimes, is the only one who brings any real warmth, persona and life to the film. He is fluid and emotive, and yet he is the only alive thing in a world of dancers where their art itself relies on emotion, fluidity and passion, and yet they all seem devoid of emotion at all.

The cinematography is pretty good. The scenes of the melbourne alley ways where Daniel is abducted are beautifully done. But otherwise, the movie holds no real appeal. What it promises it fails to deliver.

119 minutes of wasted time. The husband now gloats.

God I hate it when he's right.

The one eyed flying uterine purple people eater

This morning I was awoken by the rise of the uterine monster that gnashes and gnaws and makes me anything but sunshiney happy. Woe betide anyone dare to step on my toes today, I am all bitey and snappy and I hate that I have to go out into the big bad today and actually talk to people.

But one child has football training this afternoon which means I have to go pick him up after school. I hope no one like talks to me, or even breathes in my general direction. (My kingdom for a hysterectomy)

Our new puppy (Cooper) has eaten the bedding so there is white fluff all over the back yard. Stupid dogs. (The older dog- Amos, taught her this nifty little trick) It is cold here at night, not just cold but if I had balls they'd be sitting inside my chest if I had to sleep outside like the dogs (and the man who is currently away and sleeping outside, I hope his balls are warm and not up under his ribs.)
I am not buying those stupid dogs a new bed.

And according to music max, my stars this morning are just so keeping in line witht eh theme of the day, "today someone critques you and frankly you don't deserve it....pot, kettle anyone?"
Oh just let them try. My ovaries are dying to bitch slap someone good.

Oh ick, I better go tie up the garbage bag for the girl to take out before the garbage truck empties the bin.

I've been off with the fairies

I, *insert whichever name it is you know me by here*, hereby vow to post to this here blog at least once a week from this day onwards.
Signed,
ME

Okay. Well. Not much to report. My baby turned five. Which he pouted and teared up over. The kid has been counting down the days for the last 87, waiting for the day he would finally turn five and become a "big boy". When the day did finally come his big brown eyes welled up with tears and he started blubbering, "But Mummy I don't want to be five anymore, I want to be four, I miss being four." So, five is the new four. I told him that being five means that I have loved him longer than when he was four, that his five year old biceps would come in and that his penis would grow a little bit bigger. (Apparently size matters at any age) He's okay with five now.

I celebrated my 13th anniversary alone, (like always). The man being indisposed at the moment and away. He tends to miss most birthdays and anniversaries. But he did call. Which was nice.
I'm wondering how long I can possibly stretch out not cleaning the bathrooms for. My hazard suit is at the cleaners and you'd be insane to enter the kids bathroom without being fully kitted out. My boys are quickly becoming the men Rachel Burger once warned us about, If they can't get it in a hole that big????? Actually, their aim is fine it's that they half turn around to watch the tv or to have a conversation that we end up with a lovely yellow stream splaying the walls and floor. Little boys are disgusting. (But luckily for them utterly gorgeous since they look like their Daddy)

I was reading some friends blogs and came across this link. Much snark, much laughing and now I am possitively smitten. http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2007/08/09/violetblue.DTL Go, giggle. I'm off to find me some fairies, and NOT the straight kind.....the bent and twisted are always so much more fun.