Monday, March 20, 2006

R for Recovery

In the pub (again), I’m in the Walkabout, you probley know the sort of thing- there bloody everywhere, for those of you that don't live in an area with a high street (I don't know maybe you live in a box on the moon or maybe a cave in a remote middle eastern mountain range) its what they you could laughably call an Australian theme bar, I say laughable because if you have ever been to Australia you will know it absolutely nothing fucking like the Walkabout bars, so much so it borders on racism. Its like the interior designers only experience of Australia had been the third Crocodile Dundee movie, you know the one with the drug dealers, where they are only actually in Australia for the last half hour. The music is also worth mentioning because it is so hardcore bland that my indifference is making it hard to swallow down the overpriced and bad tasting beer (so at least the beer's authentic Aussie)

I'm only here because I'm killing time until yet another private view which, due to my chemically enhanced Saturday night, I am in no mood for. Then why go? Is the inevitable question and the sad and shameful answer is that I feel I have to go. The art school system is a microcosm of the art world's macrocosm and despite what you think, to succeed in the art world you have to be a one of three things: talented, intelligent or hardworking. Now you can get by on just one of these things, a combination of two or three? Great. But we all know that I am neither talented nor particularly intelligent and let's face it, hardworking isn't exactly something people are clamouring to describe me as. So I have to attend these things with a big plastic grin because being here is what the intelligent, hardworking and talented people do. It helps that all the people I consider my friends are exactly the sort of people I have to pretend to be and if it wasn't for them private views would be hellish, also we do get to go to the pub afterwards and while I realise the pointlessness of trying to drink away an ecstasy come down, it doesn't mean I'm not willing to give it a go.


Last night I went to see V for vendetta , and I have to say that I enjoyed it a great deal. I feel a little bit guilty for say this, as a fan of Allan Moore I should reject it out of hand or slavishly attack it, I'm looking at you Jonathan Woss- how can be expect us to take any review of a film which the original author disowned, when you was on the Culture Show not a week before giving the guy the biggest on screen blow job seen since Deep Throat was released on wide screen? Not that Allen Moore doesn't deserve praise, he does, lots of it. And as such I wanted not to like this film but I did. Although I will hand to you Wossy, Natalie Portman couldn't act her way out of a wet tissue, you were right on the money there.
The film is actually a good bit of storytelling, and the political message was more relevant in the eighties where the shadows of a totalitarian government where being cast by the slabs of Thatcher and Regan, rather than being introduced like a friend by the slick veneer of Tony and the bumbling façade of Dubya, but neither the less the film raised interesting and poignant issues with out shoving them down your throat or talking down to the audience. And, being English, it's defiantly heart warming to hear “Bollocks” being said in THX surround.
Say what you want about the Wakowski brothers (some suggestions: psudo-religious whore bastards, fucktards or media shits) but they can cobble together a pretty impressive fight scene. I cried all the way through, but then again I did brain fuck myself the couple of days preceding with drugs and sleep deprivation.


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