How I Would Finally See Them Disappear (O Courage – My King, My Fist!)

How I Would Finally See Them Disappear (O Courage – My King, My Fist!).

 

The Untold Tale of A Greatest Man

 

 

He lay there.

Just there,

Staring at the morning sky.

The sun hidden from his face,

The air breathing across his nose,

The whispers from a busy street kissing his open lips.

His eyes, closed.

 

 

He lay there,

With his back to the earth,

His face hidden from the world,

The stench of the busy streets teasing his nostrils,

The noisy footsteps trampling over his lips.

His eyes, still, closed.

 

 

He was a ‘lonesome’ man,

They would think,

A ‘thinker’, they would guess.

“A mysterious man” he must have been,

“With his long hair and thick grey beard”.

But no,

No one looked,

No one would.

The blind whisperings of their thoughts,

Confined to only roam these streets,

Could not find their way to him.

He must have been that suspicious type,

Not to be told of, and not spoken with…

Hiding behind his thick beard and long grey hair.

 

 

“No, a ‘people’s man’ he once said,

A ‘speaker’ he once thought”  –

A mysterious other could say of him.

But no,

No one spoke,

No one would.

Their noisy footsteps so deafening,

Were left to only roam these streets,

To only trample, so harsh and so cruel.

While the mysterious other,

Now with quite possibly short hair and a clean shave,

Lay quiet in hiding.

 

 

He was one who knew too much perhaps?

But no shots were heard, no one would hear.

A government agent, killed on duty.

But no stabs on his back? No one would see.

A cast-away, A polymath, A millionaire, A sociopath –

Who would know?

No, who could know?

Behind that thick beard and long hair,

He quite possibly was an astronaut,

Intoxicated by the stench in the air.

Or perhaps a revolutionary,

Not to be told of, and not spoken with.

But no, quite possibly not –

His lips are open.

 

 

He lied there last night,

To stare at the night sky,

And the stars looked down on his face.

The garbage lined up,

Oblivious of his presence,

And waited for their morning pick-up.

While the quiet streets listened…

Listened, as they only then could,

Till his final breath.

The one that whispered softly,

and kindly,

To a comfortably deserted world.

He could have been the greatest man,

His lips left an open smile.

If only they listened,

If only they’d look.

Then perhaps yes,

He would look quite possibly like the greatest man.

 

 

Now, there he lay,

Under the morning sky.

The sun hiding from his face,

The garbage still in wait…

Its noise harsh,

and cruel.

The busy streets, still ignorant of his existence,

Looked to be the greatest  man –

A secret agent, a millionaire, an intellectual, an astronaut…

Its stench intoxicating.

They never listened, they never cared.

And now his lips are a quiet smile.

They never looked, they could never have.

And now,

His eyes are closed.

pic. : Shadow-lines (from prophecyblur.com)

 

 

The Forsaken Tale of An Unnameable Kid

I shall begin, like all stories do, with a static shot, one that establishes our setting, our place in this world. And by that, it should be one that bears weight, a certain kind of heaviness or lightness, of significance from which the plot of the story that is about to be told can be derived from. And with the success of that, what could ultimately be achieved is a sense of suspense, one that could drive both the reader and writer, or the viewer and actor to continue reading or viewing, to go on… and on, and on and on. So this is that shot, one of a baby goat – or a ‘kid’ if you like – left to wander astray, far away from where it had come to be what it is now, or rather in this point of the telling of this story. Let’s say it has had no food, not any for quite some time, and more sadly it has no prospect of attaining anymore than what it had, say, almost seven hours ago. It stands on its four little legs in the middle of the street. Could it possibly know, somehow, at this tender age, that standing here in the middle of this vast country, on this stretch of gravel we humans call ‘road’, is probably its best chance of finding its next meal. How could it know that its chance positioning at this setting or its one deliberate choice of place could be the only possible strategic one in this world, and therefore one that could possibly be only better than any other. A bird descends in front of it, to alight on the burning gravel. There are seven seconds of awkward silence between the two before the bird takes flight and leaves the lost soul confined to envy.  Now let’s just say this kid, or little goat if you like, is seven months old. It would be an interesting coincidence, which could quite possibly lead to an interesting story, if say, this seven month old kid, starved for seven hours, is standing on a street, THIS street, or THIS stretch of gravel that we humans have, for some statistical reasons and significance, named ‘Route No. 7’. Then there could very possibly be a bus, full of people travelling on this very route. Of course statistics cannot be starved of reasoning or of what we humans like to call logic. Therefore, if this is to be a street or a ‘road’ that is used, if it be a stretch of gravel significant enough to be accounted for where statistics are concerned, then there should be more passersby than a lone No. 7 bus. As coincidence have dictated or repeated the one number most commonly used throughout this story so far, it should hence be only appropriate if it were to do the same here and now.  So let’s just say there were seven vehicles that passed this seven-month old kid, starved for seven hours and left alone on this Route No. 7… before the bus approached. It was carrying three housewives, who were at first committed to small talk for the sake of ridding any awkward silences, but had soon grown tired of it and were now staring out the window thinking about… thinking about perhaps their sons or daughters; a group of five construction workers… going home after a tiring days work, thinking about… thinking about their beds at home… a nice warm shower and their beds, at home; A brother and sister after school, one talking to a group of friends at the back of the bus, the other with another group of friends in the middle of the bus. Talking… perhaps talking about chocolates and sweets, big cars and rich people; And two big men, no not big, just one bigger than the other… or perhaps just older than the other, sitting and talking, talking about… about god and creation, about the wonders of the world; about Zeus… and Callisto, about the jealous Hera who turned Callisto into a bear; about Callisto’s kid who could not recognize his mother… about the two then banished by Zeus, left stranded together amidst the vast heavens, to become the seven stars of the Big Dipper; The driver in the front, who has been driving his dear old bus for seven years now had just finished two energy bars and was down to the last gulps of his coke, all of which would have cost him around about seven dollars. He was about seven hundred meters away from the goat, when he dropped his drink on the ground. He was driving at about seventy kilometres per hour and, statistically speaking, he would not have enough time to bend down and look for his drink, pick it up, regain his awareness of the bus’ position on the road and of the supposedly strategic positioning of the seven month young kid in the middle of the road, to jam his foot on the breaks, while hoping to the ‘God’ he prays to that his dear old bus would not skid off Route No. 7 and harm any of the seventeen people on it.  But defying statistical reasoning, logic and the little goat’s hopes of a chance meeting – ie. A pleasant coincidence, the driver, let’s just say his name is Fahreed (Yes, spelt here with a ‘h’ and two ‘e’s’ for the sake of a nice fit for this story), bent down to pick up his drink. Seven hundred meters away, at that precise moment, the little goat, still lost and confined, cried out. Could it have known of coincidence, statistics and logic? Could it possibly have known that fate had taken over the plot of this story, and the one ascribed for it was no longer in its own four limbs but in someone else’s?

****

I stopped at that, and sat up just as Salman came into the room. I saw his lips move about his face – left right, left right, up down, open close, up down, open close… But no words, at least not any one that resounded over the little goat’s cry that lingered for just a while in my head. The use of that word we call ‘fate’ has become, at least for me, some sort of a cliché. And like all clichés do, it repeated itself over and over again in my head, in sync and perhaps intertwined with what I imagined a seven-month old kid’s cry would sound like. Salman climbed up the ladder attached to our bunk bed. The metal mesh stretched across the four borders of his part of the bed morphed into the shape of a bowl. Salman was not a big guy; he was just older than me, but nowhere near to what I would imagine a ‘big guy’ would look like. He was an ‘ideas man’ as some would call a man with ideas. And like most of them ‘ideas men’, his heaviness and lightness in weight seemed very much susceptible to his thoughts, and thus so too was the size of the metal bowl above me. Salman was obsessed about finding her, as much as he was obsessed with his favourite number. Tomorrow shall be the seventh day of the seventh month. He seems much lighter tonight; I guess we will be leaving this place tomorrow then, ‘off to somewherebetter’ he would say. Yes, he must have made his decision. That would explain his lips’ dancing to the little goat’s cry. I wonder how MY metal bowl looks like now, how my weight should shape it … If only I could see the suspense. I leaned over and placed my pen on the ground. And then the story of the goat. And to make sure I don’t accidentally step on it when I wake up in the morning, I pushed it under my bed. I stared at the metal suspension above me and I thought of the little goat. Perhaps I should think of a name for it… I will be leaving here tomorrow… Maybe tomorrow… it would be easier to think in the fresh-lightness of tomorrow’s day. I turned around and closed my eyes. I began counting to ten like I so often do when trying to sleep. But, the little kid faded away at seven.

 

Tents, Poles and the media

(From Media blog – April 27th, 2010)

 

I have only recently been made aware of the term ‘tent-pole programming’, which I believe (that is if I have not misunderstood my lecturers or Wikipedia’s brief explanation of the term) has an obvious affiliation or association with the terms media convergence and transmedia storytelling mentioned in this week’s readings. The term is rather self explanatory, it is most commonly used in the film production industry where a particularly high budget/highly anticipated film is seen as the ‘tent – pole’, or the pole that helps hold up the tent that is none other than the production company that produces and markets the film. Of course it is a strategy not only reserved for the motion pictures industry. Television networks often produce tent-pole programmes/shows for their benefit as well.

I am guessing there would be no need to mention what the biggest and most successful of these tent-pole films is. I would bet my last Lindt ‘mega easter egg’ that at least the entire population in Australia (except maybe the really young and really old people) has at least heard of that annoyingly pervasive ‘name’ referencing giant blue creatures roaming a fictitious planet. 150million American dollars was the estimated figure that fuelled the efforts to not only make that James Cameron film common knowledge but also to create an enormous universal buzz for it. It is almost typical of producers and distributors to invest large amounts of money in the promotion of these tent-pole films or programmes, and many are now beginning to reappraise, in the wake of the success of that film, the amount worth investing in extensive promotional methods. Like promotions for other big budget productions (ie. American Idol), advertisements for the film in the form of posters, trailers, snippets, behind the scenes footage, all trudged its way across various media platforms to meet our adoring eyes. The role of media convergence could be seen as most evident in this case, where one same intended content have permeated every side of the border between old and new media technologies, reaching out to media users (a.k.a the whole wide world) through every single media platform available.

In addition to that, these tent-pole films/programmes work as a medium for other companies to advertise their products. Like the Coca-Cola cups parading itself on the judges’ table in American Idol, we see the characters in the film that is being discussed here use particular brands of technological equipment. Companies anticipating the potential success and extensive reach of the film, embrace the opportunity to showcase their products and advertise their brands on the big screen, which most of the time in the case of this film would meet audiences’/viewers’ eyes in a rather impressive three dimensional display. Other companies also share in the film’s revenue simply by partnering up with the producers to help promote and advertise the film, like what was done by the Coca Cola Company (surprise surprise). But it does not end there. The film created hype not only for itself and the very special coke zero bottles and cans, but also for newly emerged technologies such as the HD and 3D TVs. All that manufacturing companies were left to do was compete among themselves and take advantage of the ‘migratory behaviour of media users’ (Jenkins, 2006) by offering them a viewing experience similar to that of which had buzzed their enthusiasm when they looked into Pandora. AND it does not end there as well! After all that the producers had done, it would seem unwise of them to ignore potential profits of transmedia storytelling. Hence, unsurprisingly, the film has been made into a video game and of course there are books written to supposedly enhance the narrative of the film. And that’s not all! There are action figures of those blue creatures (I am going to quote information from Wikipedia here) that come with a ‘3D web tag’ that if scanned using a webcam would reveal, on its supporting website, some information specific to that particular action figure. Way to stretch the limits of advertising.

One could be forgiven for thinking that this is the end of the possibilities that media convergence presents us with. The same could not be said for anyone who, at this point, still does not know the name of that film.

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Gunning down the exploitation debate

Exploitation cinema has been around for ages. Made famous by of course one of its quintessential directors and propagators Roger Corman, around at the more famous part of the global film community – Hollywood. Sex, violence, and all that triggers those chills, thrills and spills within you, are showcased within the magnified boundaries of the silver screen. The most long lasting effect it entails is none other than the familiar questions surrounding its horrifying degraded qualities and its frightening usefulness to the film industry. If you agree that Easy Rider (Dennis Hopper, 1969) is a teenage – motorcycle – exploitation flick, than you could be well on your way to champion the effectiveness of such exploitation cinema while still having some ammunition for the case against the claims of horrifying degraded qualities secured within your limited armoury. The same could be said for Australia’s very own Mad Max (George Miller, 1979).

However, the quality of exploitation films do little to pose too much of a concern, because frankly speaking (and I’m sure the films speak for themselves) they more often than not have very little of it. What is more important is whether or not these films, which most of the time portray cinema in the darkest of lights, have benefited national cinema and the film industry as a whole. Take Mad Max for instance – A fearsome Mel Gibson, clad in vicious looking leather, bolting through the desert land in an equally daunting, menace of a car. Exploitation? Cars – Motorcycles – Gangs and Guns – Macho male and a whole load of ‘exotic’ outback sand – Yes! Good film? No doubt. But what is most important is its role in building the Australian film industry. Money? Made for only 400,000AUD and garnering an eventual 100million from worldwide sales, good old trusty Wikipedia tells us that: “it was a major financial success.” And: “the movie held a record in Guinness Book of Records as the highest profit-to-cost ratio of a motion picture, conceding the record only in 2009 to Paranormal Activity.” So what’s so bad about it all? Well sadly for films like Easy Rider and Mad Max, ‘exploitation cinema’ is usually synonymous with B – grade films that never really end up being as good as them, thrusting all those carrying forms of exploitation with them right through to the common negative stereotypes. But, again there are buckets load of cash to be gained from making these films, which could in turn help the industry. Only logic and reason would dictate that richer filmmakers and producers can afford the choice between quality and quantity, or even both. Plus with the figures in hand and shotgun – wielding – Max Rockatansky for backup, who are we to stand against them.

 

Sequence Analysis: Beneath Clouds

I’ve always thought of the task of analysing the film Beneath Clouds as one too daunting to undertake. It is TOO brilliant a film, in my opinion, and I am still slightly afraid that I might do it injustice by presenting a wrongful interpretation of it. However, I find that as an obsessive lover of this film, it is my duty to attempt a dissection and thorough read of it. My excuse, would be that its director Ivan Sen, after all the work put into the creation of this beautiful and almost impeccable piece of work, would like to see it being appreciated through an effort of identifying and reading every bit and piece of its construct. Of course a thorough analysis of the entire film would be a little too much for this humble blog entry, so I will review a sequence from it and try to tie it with the ideas and themes that I THINK are echoed in this film.

Here we go…

Lena and Vaughn’s journey is symbolic not only of the search for identity and belonging that they are forced to delve into, it also signifies the status and place of Australian identity today. It works tirelessly to inform us that we are still in search for our identity, the meaning of that identity as well as for recognition and identification. The vastness and monstrosity of the Australian landscape is emphasised without any clear signs of exaggeration, and yet it does so well to display the extreme loneliness of the characters. We are immediately reminded of the role of this extravagant piece of nature in the Australian lifestyle and culture, and we instinctively think of the impossibility of the task that Lena and Vaughn are undertaking. A truly disturbing thought that implies the blatant hopelessness we tend to create towards the prospect of seeing one achieve self identification, recognition and security.  The film forces us to pay such close attention to representatives of minority communities that we have so often failed to sufficiently acknowledge. The absence or void surrounding Lena and Vaughn can only be symbolic of the ignorance or disregard we have towards the existence of the various minority groups. It toys with our sense of security and community as it reminds us of the loneliness rendered to the neglected. The characters Lena and Vaughn are such a powerful presence to us. We are constantly driven to look beneath the skin, behind the almost expressionless faces to seek out their thoughts and feelings, to pay due attention and care for these representations of the minority cultures. The very fact that we learn so much from the simple few words that they utter from time to time is testament to how much we do not know of them as well as the people and place they represent. Very often almost half of the entire frame is taken up by the beautiful and almost dream like sky and clouds, is this a reminder for us to remember the role of the aboriginal and their aboriginal and their cultures and beliefs, the significance of dream time? What I am sure of is that it adds to the idea of ambiguity, the same uncertainty that plagues our sense of identity in this period of transition. Its omnipresence becomes a statement of intent, a demand for acknowledgement and a place in the Australian community and at the same time a warning against intrusion of their own place and identity.

On a lighter and more optimistic note, our very ability and tendency to feel for both Lena and Vaughn and sympathize with them may very well indicate that we are on the right track in this journey of searching and providing recognition as well as finding a wholesome Australian identity for all.