Alex’s Neighborhood

The Dark Knight, the second outing of the rejigged Batman series, is a fairly intense movie; more Greek tragedy than your average superhero romp.  It would seem that the darkness of Nolan's Batman has cleansed the palate.  Clooney's ill fated turn behind the wheel is now forgotten and Burton's outings too fantastical for our contemporary world. Bring on the backdrop of Chicago and all the grittiness.

Batman Begins reintroduced us to the characters and the cesspool that is Gotham, and The Dark Knight shows us the bloody consequences of Batman's actions. You can't try to take on the mafia and other assorted hoodlums without them coming after the great and the good.  It's an excellent film and a stellar cast (Gyllenhaal gives us a far more superior performance as idealistic lawyer Rachel Dawes than Joey from Dawson's Creek). I look forward to watching it again on DVD so that I can try to piece together some of the more twisty turny parts of the plot.

Bruce is working hard to dismantle the organized crime lords of Gotham, but they team up with the mysterous Joker to catch the bat. But, Bruce is begining to believe that DA Harvey Dent may be the transparent public figure that can save Gotham and if that is the case then perhaps he wont be needed. Of course the Joker as over plans, and by the end of the film there is a very different type of chaos taking root in Gotham. Sorry about being so vague but I am mindful about giving anything away as there are lots of great and shocking surprises.  I would suggest that you prepare for a lot of misdirection, and carb up before hand as it is a long film.

The Dottir is due to come over to London at the end of the month, and I was looking for something for a theatre night out when I came across a production of 'They're Playing Our Song' at Menier Chocolate Factory.  I hope she gives this musical the green light as I have great memories of working on a production of 'Song' in 1983.  My second career was in theatre, and I spent three happy years working in design at Perth Rep. On this production the quick-changes were  brutal for the leading lady and I ended up doing them myself.  The technology for body mikes was not as evolved and dinky as it is today, and racing against the clock with every kind of fastening, boho-chic layers, sweaty skin, feral battery packs and in 90% darkness in the wings, I was just soooo glad that, the female lead, Cindy Wells, was more brilliant trouper than diva, and that the unseen adrenalin-fuelled frenzy (and silent swearing) accompanying each exit and entrance went well.  Happy days...

I have a lot of work left to do on my house, and am getting through the d.i.y. list painfully slowly this year.  My heart is not really into finishing all the jobs still to do, as I appear to have let the housing price boom (soooo last year) slip from my grasp.  Too busy biggin' it up with the Freedom Pass and cheaper cinema and theatre tickets, and cruising slowly past my old school during lesson time with all my windows down and belting out Bruce's 'Born To Run' and 'Thunder Road' at 'stun' decibel level ...  I think I have the potential for far more irresponsible behaviour in my old age than I ever had in my teens, and I find that thought really comforting.  In today's paper (on line) there is an article on the dearth of activities for today's and tomorrow's o.a.p.'s 'within the community'-  old punks and rockers, etc. as if we came from a generation unable to entertain ourselves.  But, we could take up some modern and apparently acceptable pastimes.  I must admit, I have contemplated taking a hammer up to the phone box at the top of my street and smashing the glass to piss off the local hoodies (they are late risers and usually don't get round to this until well into the afternoon).  Likewise, I have mooted with some of the other retirees if they would like to commandeer the big recyling bin beside the phone box, for a spot of freewheeling it down the hill- so the hoodies would have to wait their turn- and have at least one taker on that idea as it brings out the spirit of competition.   Our local youth are too stoned to complete the full length of the hill and successfully bang it into our cars as by half way down they have either fallen off or out of the bin.  I think that if my neighbour does attempt the Bin of Doom Run we will have to move a few cars first as he fancies his chances and bets may be laid...

I DVR'd this ages ago because I couldn't remember if I had seen it before. As soon as I started watching it I realized I had, and quite frankly it would have been a freak occurrence had a Harrison Ford movie slipped by my radar (the notable exception is of course the one on a submarine with Ford doing a Russian accent because even I have limits).  I am such a scared cat that even Michelle Pfeiffer in varies stages of anxiety puts me on edge, and I have been fast forwarding through the creepy bits.

This film reinforces why I wont live in a large house on the edge of a lake (even if Harrison Ford comes included in the real estate).  Poor old Pfeiffer has just packed her daughter off to college and is left rattling around a large house with her second husband (Ford). Her over active imagination kicks in and she goes all Rear Window with her new neighbours. This is of course a decoy and it is actually her husband's dead mistress who is driving her slowly mad. That's what I like sisters doing it for themselves. No need for Hamlet to send Ophelia doolally when one of the sisterhood of the traveling pants could do it for him. If I had a ghost who was trying to get a message to me I would prefer a more direct route. Reach out from beyond the astral plane and friend me on FB. Don't blow doors open and closed, turn the stereo on at random moments or keep knocking over a photo until I realized that there was an article printed on the back that would explain all - the missing girl, the accident a year ago, why her husband kept bringing her flowers.

You can be somewhat sympathetic of Ford's character (even if he is a philander) because sharing a creepy house with such a highly strung wife would be a challenge (especially when she gets that far away look in her eye - is she short sighted and squinting or is a repressed memory floating to the surface) but then he commits the cardinal sin, and starts looking into having her committed. At that point I am all for Pfeiffer's character being possessed by the ghost and going after her errant husband.

I have a fairly unhealthy relationship with my iPod. The geniuses at Apple make it really easy to listen to one song over and over again. At least with a Walkman you had to go to the trouble of rewinding and checking you were in the right place. But with an iPod you can repeat with ease until your ears bleed.  For the past ffew days I've been obsessively listening to Hunters & Collectors 'Throw Your Arms Around Me', however my preferred version of the song is by the Doug Antony All Stars.  Way back in the mists of time (the late 80s and early 90s) these guys were boss. They could loosely could be described as a rather salty cabaret act. The bulk of their show was comedic songs (one focused on the dangers of meeting a "girl" in a saliors' pub in the early hours of the morning when it is easy to over look that see has an adams apple) but they would always do a few straight songs that always had more resisence because they were few and far between.  In 2003 DAAS reformed for one night to perform 'Throw Your Arms Around Me', and I think Australia (and their fans) were very happy.

I was chatting away with my mum this week, and we got onto the subject of how the British PM had likened himself to Heathcliff.  My mum summed it up as ""Fantastic, we're being governed by a fictional character from a Yorkshire farming ghetto".  I don't quite get why Gordon would go for Heathcliff.  Has he read Wuthering Heights? Did he fall into the pre-GCSE trap of seeing Heathcliff as a brooding, misunderstood character than roams the moors and not the inarticulate chav that sets out to destroy all around him.  Perhaps Gordon is trying to imply that he is a closet farmer, a man's man who wants us to get back to a simpler time when there were foundlings in Liverpool. Of course it could be something more sinsiter if Gordon is Heathcliff then is the British populous Cathy - being held captive as Heathcliff takes out his revegne and expands his empire.  The flip side to Gordon 'Heathcliff' Brown is an article about how much of a reader Obama is, and if he wins in November he could be the most well read President and that is an exciting prospect. I'll over look that he favors Melville because I don't think that he will fall into the trap of comparing himself to Ahab, Ishmael or Queequeg.

And finally, before I got to lament the near passing of my laptop, how the hell did Rushdie win best of Booker? How many people have actually managed to finish Midnight's Children. Come on be honest is it sitting on your shelf next to A Brief History of Time?

Summer pud

The barbecue was a great success, and my food went down a treat. No great surprise there since I had mined the depths of Nigella for her best recipes: buttermilk chicken drumsticks, vodka marinated steak, cornbread, coleslaw, watermelon with rosewater, and seasame peanut noodles. For desert I decided to keep it simple and made a truck load of madelines and a summer pudding.  I wasn't quite prepared for the overwhelming compliments for my summer pud because it is just moulded berries and stale bread. It's a simple desert that I grew up with as a kid, though my dad was a bit more sparing with the sugar than I am. 

Our friends always tell me off for doing the bulk of the cooking and not sharing the load but I can't help it as I love to cook and I am a complete control freak in the kitchen (just like my dad).  More photos of the barbecue over at Alex's Flickr site.

Last night an astonishing amount of food was delivered to our pad.  The fridge is packed with fresh produce, the freezer is awash with chicken drumsticks and my cupboards are full of every condiment and herb know to man. What can I say other than - we're having people over for a picnic slash barbie tomorrow afternoon.  I actually think that the cooking bit will be almost as much fun as the entertaining segment of the weekend. The sense of achievement that you have managed to turn all this raw ingredients into a feast, and people are like eating it!!!! Planning what dishes to make (and cooking them) has filled the void that is left when I am not incessantly studying. Both tasks require thought and contemplation, and to rise at an ungodly hour on the weekends.

I should really be getting a jump ahead this evening but we have dinner plans at Babbo, and I am hoping that delicious meal should put me in the right mind frame for cook.

She died four years ago today. I don't really have any words for it. I haven't seen my sister for four years and I'll never see her again. She'll never be any older than sixteen. All I can do is put roses on her grave and stick photos in an album, lie on the sofa and stair at the TV and then the wall, and cry, and wonder when would be an acceptable time to pour a drink.

I'm supposed be writing something for a memorial we're holding on Sunday. But I don't have the words to do justice to her. I can't build her from words, or memories, or tears.

So here's something truly beautiful, to give you a glimpse of my wonderful, dancing sister: