Bernadette Callaghan reviews Hinge– the dating app ‘designed to be deleted’.
How does one date in Canberra? Sleep with someone from your university college? Find a nice ADFA boy? Date your friend’s ex’s ex-girlfriend? The prospects are grim. Single now for a year and a half, I have finally caved and downloaded a dating app, specifically, Hinge. The premise is simple but much more involved than I expected. First, you choose six photos which you can attach a prompt to – “Me during Fashion Week”, “As seen on my mum’s fridge” and “Plandid or candid” are some of the options. Then it’s time to answer three written prompts to fill out your profile. Examples include “I’m overly competitive about…”, “I’m the type of texter who…” and “I want someone who…”. You would think that not needing to write a real bio would take the pressure off, but choosing the right prompts is frustratingly difficult. Despite the time I spent carefully curating all my responses, it seems many of my fellow singles just don’t give a shit. Ah well, maybe it’s easier not caring.
As I start my journey, profile completed, my housemate walks me through the steps of liking someone’s profile. I can either like or comment on any of the photos or prompt answers that people have on their profile, and if I dislike them, simply hit the “X” and move on to the next profile. This makes it easier to comment noncommittally on someone’s fun travel photo or joke prompt answer, if you’re so inclined. I can’t say I’m a very carefree person, and I’m too scared of someone getting the wrong idea that even if someone’s profile makes me smile, I won’t comment or like.
Let’s move onto the scope of folks you will meet on Hinge. There’s the copy-paste white men with chiselled jaws and too many gym photos that make you despair for the human race. These are the self-same men who, when using the prompt “What are you weirdly competitive about?”, answer in the realm of “Everything”. This is not a personality trait, and it’s not cute. Then there are alt-men with mustaches who have at least one photo at a house party who assert that Seinfield is the best show ever (doubtful). The few queer* women on the app seem either to drink as a personality trait or crochet like their life depends on it. There’s always the few people you come across that you know, like a mate from uni whose profile you like “as a friend” (genuinely not sure if this is correct online dating etiquette, let me know), or someone you’ve worked with who likes your profile and makes you feel very awkward as a result.
Not all hope is lost though, dear readers! I have organised a singular date with one of the measly six people I’ve matched with (only three of which responded to my messages). Will this end my search for “the one”? I don’t think so, but it will probably end my experimentation with dating apps. The act of judging people on their photos and prompt responses feels superficial and makes me feel like an awful person, even though I know so many people do it and manage to find genuine connection. As I also fear the mortifying ordeal of being known, having my profile out there for everyone to see is… horrifying.
Download Hinge, or don’t. Staying single is less stressful, in my opinion.
*Editor’s note: the author now has four dates successfully planned on Hinge this week. Woroni wishes her all the best.
I am not one to jump on a bandwagon. Almost every time I try, I end up not enjoying the ride. When, many years ago, I tried to watch an episode of The Bachelor, it made me carsick. And just one look at the long, windy, bloody road through The Handmaid’s Tale forced me to run as far as I could in the opposite direction.
Arguably, the television bandwagon of the year thus far has been British actress and writer Michaela Coel’s new show I May Destroy You. This time, I wanted to jump on it as fast as possible (made difficult by the fact that it aired in Australia a good three months after airing in the United Kingdom and United States).
To stretch a metaphor as far as it can possibly go, I didn’t want to get off.
A Sydney Morning Herald review of the show claims, ‘Yes, I May Destroy You really is that good’. I would like to paraphrase this by re-emphasising, ‘Yes, I May Destroy You really really is that good.’ The show capitalises on everything that I think makes great television: multifaceted characters, a slow-burn plot and coexisting shades of light and dark in its tone. At the heart of it is Coel, who portrays emerging writer Arabella Essiedu. The story kicks off in the first episode with Arabella joining her friends on a night out at a club, which ends on a disturbing note: she finds herself at work the next day with a cut on her head and no recollection of the previous night’s events. It ultimately transpires that Arabella has been raped.
The following episodes take us through Arabella’s unravelling her trauma, as well as its impact on the people around her. One of her best friends, Terry Pratchard (Weruche Opia), tries to guide her through the aftermath of the rape. Sometimes, Terry proves successful and other times, she doesn’t. Meanwhile, Arabella’s other friend, Kwame (Paapa Essiedu), balances his sympathy for her situation with his own complicated feelings regarding his own sexuality.
In the so-called ‘post #MeToo era’, I’ve sometimes worried that we’re losing grasp of the nuances of sexual assault. I May Destroy You keeps these worries at bay. The rape that Arabella survives is clearly depicted as something that can happen to anyone, regardless of where you are or who you’re with. The acting and direction alike are naturalistic and lacking in melodrama, painting sexual assault as a realistic thing that is just part of being human. It’s not something that happens once in a lifetime to someone with extremely unlucky circumstances – it just…happens. It’s sad to think about it in this way, but it is accurate; 17 per cent of women and 4.3 per cent of men in Australia have experienced some kind of sexual violence or assault in their lifetimes (unfortunately, I am unable to find equivalent statistics regarding nonbinary people).
Coel has created an authentic character in Arabella, and an authentic story in the plot. This authenticity is carried through all strings of the plot. In one later episode, Kwame organises a threesome with two other men, one of whom backs out at the last minute. When Kwame and the other man are alone, the man nonconsensually humps him. Kwame brings his case to the police, who dismiss him on the grounds that he doesn’t know the perpetrator’s name, as well as the fact that the assault is non-penetrative. Another episode depicts Arabella seeking mentorship from fellow writer Zain Tareen. What is supposed to be a professional chat ultimately morphs into a sexual escapade, during which Zain removes the condom without Arabella’s consent. This boldly raises questions as to what we should deem ‘assault’ versus what we should deem ‘rape’, and how these questions might not be that easy to answer.
What struck me the most about the plot is that Arabella’s case never gets solved. She ends the series with a question mark above her head, but it’s significantly smaller than it was at the beginning of the series. Therefore, Arabella’s arc isn’t about figuring out whodunnit. It’s not really about the police or crime or the law – it’s about trauma.
As a piece of television production, I May Destroy is expertly made. Coel’s writing imitates life – it’s funny as well as morose, sometimes even at the same time. The themes of sexism, sexual assault and misogyny are not skirted over or taken for granted, probably because Coel’s own life has embodied these themes. When she partook in the 2018 Edinburgh TV Festival MacTaggert lecture, she revealed that she had survived sexual assault and has later named this event the inspiration for her show.
I May Destroy You is nothing short of a cultural reset. I hope that this show will rekindle the fire of the #MeToo movement and pave the way for future women of colour storytellers.
I May Destroy You is available in Australia on Foxtel Go.
Comments Off on The Art of the Confusing: A Review of ‘Tenet’
What makes a great film, great?
It depends on the film – and who you might ask. To a Tarantino fan, the answer may lie in gripping action, memorable dialogue, and the cinematic technique of an evident cinephile. To a George Lucas fan, world-building and adventure are key.
And then there are fans of Christopher Nolan. Right now, cinemas are screening the British-American filmmaker’s eleventh feature film: the US $200 million-budget Tenet. Even by Nolan’s standards, the work is a wild ride – and frequently incomprehensible. Thus, the creator of such mind-benders as Memento and Inception has once again affirmed his own interpretation of cinematic greatness: complexity.
But does Tenet offer greatness?
Unlike Nolan’s amnesia-centred Memento and his consciousness-themed Inception, Tenet’s subject is time itself. The film’s content is not confined to time ‘travel’, either: from the viewer’s perspective, the action in Tenet quite literally flows forwards and backwards at various points. The stakes are high: characters are fighting to save not only the world, but everything that has ever happened.
That makes for some dazzling cinematography. There is something thrilling about seeing gunfire and hand-to-hand combat in reverse, not to mention reverse car chases and explosions. The enormous amount of money poured into this film is continuously evident.
Yet, if Tenet’s storyline seems daunting to follow, that is because it is. Nolan quite patently believes in the philosophy that, in film, ‘showing is better than telling’. Dialogue is seldom used to explain what is happening. When characters do talk, they do not waste a word. That frequently leaves a lot to be desired.
This 150-minute film, therefore, unashamedly demands every second of the viewer’s attention. Those wishing to use the bathroom at the cinema and understand the plot will find themselves unable to do both. If asked to summarise the film for others, viewers may struggle.
It is true that some of that confusion is wrapped up intermittently, particularly at the film’s conclusion. Yet, moviegoers may find themselves grappling with Nolan’s Art of the Confusing for large stretches of viewing. That will be more satisfying for some onlookers than others.
For those considering this film, it would be unjust to solely comment on its complex plot. Tenet has more than its storyline adding to, and detracting from, its favour.
I’ll start with its merits. Notably, Tenet features outstanding acting from its entire cast. What is more, Tenet is the rare type of story that encourages viewers to consider complex themes – like time, war, and loss – from different perspectives. Nolan grappled with Tenet’s central ideas for more than a decade. Depending on their mental preparedness, viewers may reap the rewards.
Keener eyes have accused the film of further shortcomings. Brian Loyd of Entertainment.ie stated that poor sound mixing “often” rendered dialogue inaudible, though I did not perceive that issue. With cause, many reviewers perceive the film’s Russian villain as a ‘Bond-esque’ trope. In a scathing review, Mike McCahill of IndieWire labelled the film “humourless”. Evidently, humour is not a goal for which Nolan set out in this World-War-Three flick. Yet granted the film’s mental and emotional strain, I must agree that occasional relief would have added to his product.
All in all, I find myself recalling the words offered by Rotten Tomatoes for the Netflix series Midnight Gospel I also recently reviewed. Like that series, this “strange brew won’t be for all tastes, but those willing to drink deep will find a wealth of vibrant visuals and illuminating insights.” (That is, if they’re lucky.)
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on ‘The Vanishing Half’ Dives Deep into Issues of Racial Passing and Colourism
‘White passing’, a term used to describe the ability of a light-skinned person of colour to pass as white, is not new to literature. Books such as Nella Larsen’s Passing published in 1929 explore the complicated history of racial passing. From the antebellum period to the end of Jim Crow, a lot of black Americans crossed the colour line to pass as white. The purpose was often to gain freedom from slavery, escape from racial violence, or to enjoy the freedom that whiteness provided.
But in her new novel, The Vanishing Half, Brit Bennett takes a more in-depth exploration into the performance of race and white-passing. Bennett exposes the fluidity of racial categories where nobody can honestly know anyone’s race. And if we can’t know people’s race, then we are just making assumptions. Such assumptions have real social, political and economic implications. And it is these implications that transform the trajectory of Bennett’s character’s lives, shaping who they marry, their education, ambitions and their identities. Bennett asks some provocative questions: How do social categories shape our identity? What does it mean to perform whiteness? And does white-passing reinforce race or destabilise it?
The story is set in the fictional town of Mallard established by the great-great-grandfather of twins Stella and Desiree Vignes. A small southern town established by light-skinned black Americans. Intermarriage in the residents of Mallard has ensured their children become whiter with each generation. Yet, Stella and Desiree still experience the reach of racism as they witness the brutal lynching of their father at the hands of white men. Their mother is an underpaid cleaner for a white family. Stella is quiet, studious and content with her life in Mallard. In contrast, Desiree is wild and dreams of leaving Mallard for a bigger city. Desiree convinces Stella to leave Mallard at the age of sixteen for New Orleans. But after only a few months in New Orleans the twins split. “Stella became white, and Desiree married the darkest man she could find.”
The story begins in 1968 with Desiree returning to Mallard, bruised and battered and with a daughter in hand after fleeing her abusive husband.The arrival of “blue-black” child Jude shocks the town that has prided itself for generations on its whiteness. Jude is relentlessly bullied and ostracized by the town.
Jude meets Stella years later while at university in California. Stella is now a white woman. She is married to a rich man and with a blonde, aspiring actress daughter named Kennedy. Jude forms a relationship with Kennedy, who is wholly unaware of her connection with Jude and her mother’s past.
Bennett’s book spans 20 years, delving into the characters of Desiree and Stella as well as their daughters Jude and Kennedy. The book is fast-paced. Bennett intertwines the stories of the protagonists, not spending too long on each character’s development. This feels important to the book. Bennett emphasises the contrast between Stella’s life as a white woman and Desiree’s back in Mallard as well as their children. Jude is alienated for the colour of her skin at school, while Kennedy grows up as functionally white, experiencing all the privileges that this entails. The book does a brilliant job of showing through contrast how social categories such as race, sexuality and gender influence people’s lives in concrete ways. Bennett places limits on Desiree’s and Jude’s lives whilst handing Stella and Kennedy great freedoms.
There are some drawbacks to the book’s pace. It covers a lot of ground, characters and time in a remarkably short period. The rapid storytelling means that feelings and identities are not fully explored in a depth that would do them justice. Kennedy and Jude often felt two dimensional. Kennedy as a blonde, ditsy actress and Jude as a victim of bullying with low self-esteem.
The Vanishing Half is still a beautiful and worthwhile book about the complexity of identity. But most importantly, about the history of black performance and identity in America. Bennett does a fantastic job at capturing the fluidity of race, identity and sexuality but also showcasing its tangible effects on people’s lives. The book didn’t leave me with answers, but more with questions about the complexity of identity and the danger of making assumptions. The Vanishing Half is an important book that has gained even more fame since the Black Lives Matter movement, a fascinating read into the history of colourism and racial passing in America.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
PSA: Kambri’s newest restaurant Kukula’s is damn good
Kukula’s is what Nandos wishes it was. Kukula’s is so good that I just had my second consecutive lunch there. It’s so delicious that when I ate my chicken burger in the Woroni office, three separate people commented on how good it smelled.
For those who haven’t been on campus yet, Kukula’s recently opened in the corner spot where Green with NV used to be. As a proud carnivore, I have to say this is a huge improvement.
Kukula’s is an upcoming chain of restaurants that started in Parramatta, Sydney, and now has two franchises in Canberra. The ANU store is only the third shop in this rapidly growing chain: iterations are opening soon across Australian and New Zealand.
Kukula’s unique but delicious seasoning and sauce is what makes it stand out. According to their website, Two Ceylonese friends started the first restaurant, drawing from both Ceylonese and Portuguese cuisines.. It’s certainly unique and some of the yummiest chicken I’ve ever eaten (and I really love chicken).
I really loved the art on the wall, done by Canberra artist Happy Decay. It seems that similar original murals can be found in all Kukula’s stores which is a very nice touch.
For my first meal at Kukula’s, I had the ‘No frills’ burger – yes very basic. As a first-time Kukula’s customer (and a white person), I decided to start with the mildest sauce called ‘BBQ Rib’. My anglo-saxon taste buds were very happy with this choice, and the burger was delicious. The chips are also tasty; not only are they generously sized, but they are covered in delicious spiced salt.
To justify eating at Kukula’s for a second day, I decided to get the Mediterranean salad with chicken breast. This was also delicious, and the culmination of these two great meals is what compelled me to write this review.
I also think it would be very tricky to open a business at a time like this, so be a #localhero like me, and spend all your money at Canberra dining establishments like Kukula’s.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on Why Netflix’s ‘Midnight Gospel’ is the Anti-‘Rick and Morty’
“Nobody exists on purpose. Nobody belongs anywhere. Everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV?”
So suggests 14-year-old Morty to his sister, Summer, on an episode of Rick and Morty. In many ways, the line captures the series’ world-view. Through its bitter, genius protagonist, Rick Sanchez, Rick and Morty consistently pushes the message that nothing really matters.
True, there are deviations from that message. When Rick and Morty is not following its eponymous characters’ misadventures, the series turns occasionally to the strained marriage of Morty’s parents. Morty’s father, Jerry, is in many ways the opposite of Rick: slow-witted, insecure, and mired in mundanity. Yet, viewers might consider that Jerry’s appreciation for the little things is more desirable, or even more noble, than Rick’s nihilism. Forget the attitude that nothing really matters. Jerry’s existence suggests that small comforts – from whacking weeds to one’s coin collection – matter a great deal. Or, at least, we should pretend they do, if we want to be happy.
Yet, on the whole, Rick and Morty is heavily nihilistic. Its characters do not dwell often, or convincingly, on the significance of small comforts. The series certainly does not emphasise any inherent meaning of existence.
Therein lies a marked difference from one of Netflix’s more recent additions, The Midnight Gospel. As an adult cartoon, this eight-episode series takes the same form as Rick and Morty (also on the platform). Yet, the differences between the two are enormous.
Start with the usual plots. While Rick and Morty generally follows the near-fatal (and near-apocalyptic) journeys of its protagonists, the bulk of run-time in the Midnight Gospel is occupied by just one recurring character: Clancy Gilroy. While Rick and Morty repeatedly evade disaster and save the world, Clancy uses his ‘multiverse simulator’ to visit dying worlds and interview their inhabitants for his ‘spacecast’. Thus, in the words of another commentator who has compared the series, “the world ends over and over again for real in The Midnight Gospel”.
This lays the foundation for the attitudinal difference between the series. Capable of moving between dimensions at will, Rick Sanchez faces few (if any) consequences for his actions. Further, as the smartest person who ever lived, Rick’s adventures have no intellectual objective: he is chasing thrills for the sake of it, or bonding with his grandson. By contrast, the young Clancy’s journeys are all about learning. His conversations – which span topics such as drug use, mortality and spiritualism – are real conversations held by series co-creator, Duncan Trussell, with guests on his eponymous podcast.
Herein lies the reason that The Midnight Gospel is the ‘anti-Rick and Morty’. As Clancy seeks meaning in the universe and how to live a good life, his conversations would be enough to make Rick Sanchez scowl – or worse. Clancy’s conversations simply have no place in Rick and Morty.
And yet, it is worth commenting on Netflix’s newish series in its own terms – and not just by reference to its antithesis. To that end, it should be emphasised that Clancy’s aforementioned conversations are generally very meaningful. The season finale, ‘Mouse of Silver’, is particularly touching. That episode features real conversations between Duncan Trussell and his dying mother, as they extensively discuss meditation and death.
Of course, the series does not always land its mark. Clancy’s guest in the series pilot, for instance, makes some intriguing points about drug use – but then, perhaps, overstates his case by claiming “there’s no such thing as a ‘bad drug’”. In its frequent spiritualist flights, the series occasionally (doubtless, unintentionally) steps around questions of real-world justice. Advising the poor and downtrodden to “get present” through meditation, for instance, might be noble – but it may also leave the viewer wanting more. Even as The Midnight Gospel makes space for other cultures, it brings to mind debates about cultural fetishisation.
Yet, however one lands on those prior questions, The Midnight Gospel has much to offer – and not just in the way of dialogue. There is, for instance, much to be praised in the series’ vivid, psychedelic animation. Alongside Duncan Trussell, the series was crafted by Adventure Time creator Pendleton Ward, and it shows. The series is at its best when stunning visuals add to a conversation’s meaning. One example is a character discussing death while being carried into a meat-grinder.
As another commentator has put it, “The Midnight Gospel’s strange brew won’t be for all tastes, but those willing to drink deep will find a wealth of vibrant visuals and illuminating insights”. Rick Sanchez would undoubtedly be in the former group. I, however, find myself in the latter.
The Midnight Gospel is an eight-episode series on Netflix presently spanning one season. Rick and Morty, also on Netflix, presently spans four seasons.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on I Read ‘Normal People’ So You Don’t Have to
“[A] novel that demands to be read compulsively, in one sitting.” – The Washington Post.
‘Thrilling.’ – New York Times
‘The most enjoyable novel of the year.’ – Daily Telegraph
There is intense hype surrounding Normal People by Sally Rooney. Since its publication in 2018, the book has received rave reviews and has recently been made into a popular 12-part series on Stan. Over the mid-term break, I decided to read this much-talked about book. Yet something about it bothered me. Although I was enraptured by its storyline and finished the book in two days, I was uncomfortable with the message it portrayed on relationships.
Normal People introduces Irish high school classmates Marianne and Connell. Marianne is from a wealthy family, and Connell’s mother cleans Marianne’s family home. Marianne is a bookish, awkward, social outcast while Connell is an athletic, popular boy. The pair bond over their fierce intelligence and have an instant physical attraction. Sex and love intertwine into a secret relationship as Connell’s insecurity stops him from recognising their relationship at school. Marianne, whose self-worth is undermined by her cold, unfeeling family, craves his attention and becomes frustrated at keeping their affair a secret. Eventually, the pair break it off when Connell takes another girl to the Debs ball, and they both start their separate lives at Trinity College Dublin.
Rooney explores the class dynamics at play in universities. Marianne fits in easily and finds a group of sophisticated, bourgeoisie friends while Connell’s class disconnect is painfully evident. The pair reconnect at a party. Again, their attraction is too strong and they start up a steaming relationship. However, their insecurities again play a significant role in the breakdown of their relationship. Connell is indecisive and unwilling to commit to a relationship. He is also frustratingly uncommunicative about his true feelings for Marianne. Marianne’s low self-esteem means she constantly craves Connell’s love and attention and continually forgives his lack of commitment to her. These insecurities work against Marianne and continue to break her over and over again. Her vulnerability develops into an unspoken eating disorder as well as a desire to be demeaned during sex through rough BDSM.
By the end of the book, their relationship has left her a shell of her former self, physically and mentally shattered. The book could have been saved by a conclusive ending. Do Marianne and Connell learn from their mistakes and evolve into a healthy relationship? Or do they continue with their toxic behaviour? Instead, there is no thesis at all, and the book ends without the reader knowing if Connell will decide to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in New York or remain in Ireland with Marianne.
Watching their relationship disintegrate through so many pages with no payoff in the end felt soul shattering. Normal People has been heralded by Sally Rooney as well as numerous reviewers as an accurate depiction of ‘normal’ relationships outside of literature. But if this is true, then it is an unfortunate fact. Yes, relationships are imperfect; people are flawed. Yet the majority of people learn from their mistakes. They realise after months, years of mistreatment that somebody is not changing and it’s time to move on. But Marianne and Connell instead continue to spiral in a self-destructive relationship until the end with little hope of redemption.
The only ray of light in this book is the writing style. It felt modern, concise and insanely readable. Pages turned themselves. The storyline itself feels paramount, and the writing style highlights this. Also is its study of issues like male mental health and class divide. But these issues are only glossed over and not explored in the depth that would have made this book a meaningful social commentary. Instead, the story focuses on the deeply problematic and toxic relationship between Marianne and Connell.
This is an easy read with lots of intense emotion between the two main characters. I would read this book if you truly want to decipher whether the hype is worth it. In my opinion, it’s not. The book left me confused and shaken by witnessing the brokenness of Marianne as she continued to forgive and crave an emotionally draining and problematic relationship with Connell. But more than that, this book is an excellent example of how toxic relationships are often romanticised in books and on TV. Normal People is a troubling message for young people on ‘normal’ relationships.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on Not Your Usual Revolutions: A Review of Behind the Lines 2019
“Australian history is boring and dull and largely irrelevant to the trajectory of the future of the world.”
So wrote Chris Rice on The Age’s website in 2012. His comment was in response to the revelation that Australian history would not be a stand-alone Year 11 or 12 subject in the national curriculum.
“The big questions, the genocides, the conquests, the revolutions, the things shaping the world aren’t happening in Australia,” Rice continued.
Rice’s view is shared by many. A thread on Reddit debates whether Australia’s history only consists of “bogans with beards” offers much excitement. One historian concedes: “our students often leave school feeling that Australia’s history is boring and dry as dust”.
Rice is correct that Australia has never experienced a political revolution. Yet, as a current exhibition at the Museum of Australian Democracy at Old Parliament House affirms, Australian history is hardly mundane.
The exhibition in question – Behind the Lines – catalogues some of 2019’s “best political cartoons”. Although its purview is restricted to one year, the exhibition is a reminder that Australia confronts many challenges. From the Murray Darling Basin Royal Commission report in January, to bushfire responses in December, the exhibition chronicles a turbulent year.
Behind the Lines is frequently playful. One sketch that looks like it could feature in a children’s book features ‘actifishts’ – sea creatures aligning to spell out ‘REEF NOT COAL’. ‘Stop Adani’ reads a sign in the corner, held by a clownfish.
The rest of the exhibition is both joyful and sombre. One cartoon mourns former Nationals Leader and Deputy Prime Minister Tim Fischer, who supported Prime Minister John Howard’s gun control measures against the opposition of much of his party’s rural base. Arriving at the gates of heaven, a dishevelled Fischer is greeted by Saint Peter. “Ah, Mister Fischer!! There’s heaps more room up here than we expected … thanks to your courage on gun law reform”.
For those bored with Australia’s lack of revolutions, Behind the Lines provides an answer. Australia is undergoing revolutions all the time. What is more, we have many left to go.
Let’s start with the first of my takeaways. Although rooted in 2019, many of the displays in Behind the Lines engage with Australia’s past. Some cartoons comment on the hard-won abolishment of Uluru’s tourist climbs. Others comment on constitutional recognition of First Nations Australians. Those sketches emphasise that history is anything but boring for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. Indeed, if a revolution is “a forcible overthrow of a government or social order”, I argue it’s difficult not to characterise the dispossession of First Nations peoples this way.
What’s more, Behind the Lines reminds us that Australian revolutions are ongoing. A series of cartoons on the environment, political representation and refugees challenges Australians to do better. The exhibition’s lengthiest cartoon mourns the recent extinction of an Australian rodent due to climate change. Our ongoing destruction of species are surely “forcible overthrows,” and thus sinister revolutions, to nature.
Behind the Lines is not perfect. The exhibition’s framing as a rock tour through 2019 does not add much value and frequently feels forced. A friendly greeter dressed as a mid-century reporter, stationed at the exhibition’s opening, reminds visitors of the importance of satire. That is an important message, but there is surely a better way of conveying it.
Still, Behind the Lines is an entertaining, thought-provoking way to spend one’s afternoon. It also dovetails well into a second exhibition on Australian journalism, which delivers something absent from Behind the Lines: a look at those behind publications. A more mentally taxing exhibition, one might prefer to tour the latter first. Both activities are free.
Behind the Lines is also a needed reminder that the Australian story is full of pain and triumphs. This country is more interesting than a land of “bogans and beards”. What is more, our contributions to that story matter. Every day, all around us, the ‘Australian revolutions’ continue.
Details and bookings for ‘Behind the Lines 2019’ can be found on the Museum’s website.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on ‘The Last Airbender’ in the Time of Covid-19
61 days.
That’s how long Avatar: The Last Airbender recently appeared in Netflix’s Top 10 list for TV shows. That length broke the previous record on the streaming giant, of 57 days, set by Ozark. In continuous placement on Netflix’s Top 10, no other TV show comes close. That feat– already remarkable– is yet more impressive when one considers that Avatar is, nominally, a children’s cartoon. The show is hardly new— its first season aired more than 15 years ago.
What, then, explains Avatar’s recent success?
Avatar is benefitting from the moment.
The global pandemic has arguably created an opportunity for Avatar. Lockdowns and isolation across the world have triggered a Netflix boom– with their share prices jumping 80% since the beginning of March. More specifically for Avatar, as viewership on the streaming platform has increased, so has the opportunity for older, familiar shows to get a re-watch. According to Forbes, The Office has recently experienced similar success on Netflix.
Avatar also has some unique advantages for the moment. The show’s renewed popularity may partly lie in the unique difficulties and tedium faced by its primary audience: children and young adults. Many viewers in the latter category first watched the series in their adolescence, and are revisiting the cartoon in nostalgia.
Some additional benefits are more speculative. Series co-creator Michael DiMartino recently guessed that the series’ linear, ‘continuous’ storytelling (although there are plenty of standalone episodes) is particularly well-suited to Netflix. Conceivably, the mental health challenges felt by children and young adults as a result of climate change and COVID-19 foster an appetite for hope. Avatar delivers that feeling in its quest to restore global peace and balance. More simply, tedium might also cry out for the fun, fantasy world of the Avatar. It might also call for the surprisingly complex issues – among them war, genocide, imperialism and authoritarianism – dealt with in this ‘children’s’ show.
There is also something to be said about the anti-discriminatory thrust of Avatar. With its strong female characters who repeatedly overcome interpersonal and systemic sexism, Avatar fares well 15 years after its first airing. More broadly, the show emphasises inclusivity. The show’s fan favourites include Toph, a blind girl, and a permanently disfigured teen named Zuko. One episode features a paraplegic boy who possesses the power of flight. Maya Phillips of The New York Times recently wrote that at a time of widening racial consciousness, the show “imagines a world free of whiteness”, “where the characters seem, by default, Asian and view life through an Eastern lens rather than a white Western one”.
Good storytelling also drives Avatar’s success.
However, Avatar’s recent surge in popularity owes as much to good storytelling as it does to the current historical moment.
To start, the series’ world-crafting is excellent. The story unfolds in a universe where people are defined by their relation to one of the four classical elements: air, earth, fire and water. Each society possesses gifted ‘benders’ who can manipulate their nation’s element. As the returned Avatar – master of all four elements – takes up his responsibility to end the Fire Nation’s imperialistic war, viewers’ appreciation for the elements grows with that of the protagonists. Further buoyed by a range of creative creatures and much Eastern mythology, the series carries a magical energy. In this sense, Avatar is comparable to the Game of Thrones, Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings series.
The stories that play out across this backdrop are, for the most part, varied and engaging. The three-seasons show is particularly strong when its stories build upon one another. When standalone episodes do occur, the show approaches, but generally avoids the brink of tedium as a familiar story of improving or saving a community unfolds. The greatest standalone episodes feature in Season 2, where they diverge from that pattern most markedly.
Avatar is also notable for its vivid range of characters, and in some cases for their nuanced development. In particular, the show’s antihero, Zuko, reminds us that moral development is not easy or linear. His uncle, Iroh, is a paternalistic source of wisdom for whom one’s appreciation should grow with age. The series even weaves narratives from the perspectives of the protagonists’ animals.
Underpinning all of this is a masterful waxing and waning from seriousness to humour. Between its explorations of spiritual enlightenment and mortality, Avatar features the over-the-top facial animations of anime. Humour and death dance closely as the Avatar’s would-be assassin becomes ‘Sparky Sparky Boom Man’. An unfortunate cabbage merchant is recurrently rattled by Aang and his friends.
In all of that lies Avatar’s renewed success– not just in its historic pertinence. If you, too, are looking for a way to pass time in the time of the coronavirus: I cannot recommend the show enough.
Avatar: The Last Airbender also has a sequel series, Avatar: The Legend of Korra, which will appear on the U.S. Netflix on August 14 and potentially on the Australian platform at a later date.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on Where I Stand: A Kambri Exhibition Review
The initial feeling I experienced walking down University Avenue witnessing Where I Stand was one of intrigue. Six gigantic cubes stand in a single row. Twenty-four frames of stunning photographs each one as striking as the one before it. Like many around me, I succumbed to curiosity and took a closer look. What followed was a profoundly emotional, enigmatic and exciting adventure as I engaged with each of the images.
Where I Stand is an exhibition presented by aMBUSH gallery together with Moshe Rosenzveig, director of Head On Photo Festival. Since the initial planning of Kambri, aMBUSH Gallery and Wiltshire + Dimas envisioned a walk of art for students, staff and the public to enjoy art outside the setting of a gallery. Exhibition Avenue is the fruition of this vision, an initiative to showcase year-round exhibitions in Kambri. The current show is photographically based, although future efforts could use more diverse art forms such as live street art.
For those who have not had the pleasure of viewing the exhibition, Where I Stand incorporates the work of six iconic Australian artists; Michael Cook, Dr. Judith Nangala Crispin, Sarah Ducker, Murray Fredericks, Barbara McGrady and Michael Jalaru Torres. Together, the artists present 24 deeply personal works that delve into themes of identity, history, nature, connection to the land, The Dreaming and the major theme of healing.
The first cube that I encountered was that of QLD artist Michael Cook. Cook began making art photography in 2009 in response to his desire to explore issues of identity and how his own life was affected by adoption. Cook was born in the late 1960s to a sixteen-year-old mother who had become pregnant to an Indigenous Australian man. Keeping the child would have been severely frowned upon, and so Cook was put up for adoption. In his series of four photographs, Cook delves into themes surrounding mother and child. ‘Mother’, the collection that the exhibit images are chosen from, showcases Australian Indigenous women alone in a landscape. There is a feeling that a child is missing through symbols such as an empty pram or tricycle. I was disquieted by seeing the loneliness and loss of these women. The grey colouring of their desolate backgrounds intensified my empathy. Cook speaks to the incredible pain caused by the Stolen Generations, the innate human bond between mother and child and the pain caused by the breaking of such a pure connection.
The next cube I met was donned with photographs by Canberra based artist Dr. Judith Nangala Crispin. Crispin is a talented poet, visual artist, academic, writer and photographer. Her work explores themes of displacement, loss of identity (including her Indigenous Australian ancestry) and connection with Country. Crispin has spent time in the Tanami desert living with the Warlpiri people who she says she owes the development of her unique photographic technique of lumachrome glass printing. The method involves the use of natural materials such as blood, wax, ochres, honey, mud, seeds and roadkill animals arranged on Perspex over light-sensitive paper. In this way, lumachrome glass prints arose from her attempt to delve into a deeper connection with the Australian landscape. Crispin drives out to find roadkill and waits with the animals for up to 50 hours while the artwork is developing. The attention to detail is evident when I saw her work, with even the smallest hairs of a joey delicately captured. Crispin’s artworks, at first glance, felt warm and comforting. Seeing the four lifeless animals wrapped in the embrace of the landscape reminded me of Indigenous Australia’s deeply nuanced connection to Country. However, there is also a sense upon viewing of aloneness — a disconnect with each animal surrounded by darkness. The photographs also highlight the pain that has been caused and continues to be caused by the Stolen Generations.
I then followed on to the third cube by Indigenous fine art photographer Michael Jalaru Torres, who is originally from Broome. Torres’ art draws on his personal history as well as exploring contemporary social and political issues facing Indigenous Australians. I was struck by how simple Torres’ images were. Each photograph seemed to focus on a subject with contrasting colours creating a sense of lightness and darkness. I felt a sense of joy as well as pain when viewing his images. Torres highlights the dark history of Australia as well as illuminating thriving Indigenous peoples all around the country. His artworks upon viewing are subtle, but poignant. Torres wants his photographs to inspire people to learn more about Indigenous Australian culture.
The next cube was by Sydney based artist Sarah Ducker. Ducker was inspired by her trip to Broken Hill in creating this exhibition. Ducker visited the landscape after the 2019-2020 NSW bushfires that were unprecedented in its destruction. However, Ducker was transfixed by the resilience of the bush standing bare yet magnificent in its ashes. This beauty found in the wreckage is evident when viewing these photographs. The naked trees stand tall and strong despite their blackened exterior. The carnage of the bush is a symbol of rejuvenation and transformation. Just as the bush regrows from its ashes, Ducker portrays humanity’s own need for rebirth. The artworks demonstrate our need to radically change our behaviour to fight climate change and its devastating consequences.
The next cube was by artist Aunty Barbara McGrady, a Gamilaroi/Gomeroi Murri yinah (woman). Her works portray her passion for telling stories about the lives of Indigenous Australians today. McGrady is a sociologist, athlete and sports lover who photographs many famous Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander sportspeople at the NRL, AFL and other matches. Her work aims to show empowering images of Indigenous Australians, particularly through their positive contributions to society such as through sports, activism and culture. I was struck by how powerful the subjects of her photographs stood out. Each Indigenous Australian was showcasing their strong cultural ties proudly against the colonial backdrop. Additionally, McGrady states that the art form of ‘black box’ is a work of decolonising the traditional colonial archive spaces such as museums and art galleries.
The final cube on my walk down University Avenue was by NSW artist Murray Fredericks. Fredericks is a well-known artist with his works showcased internationally and around Australia, sitting in significant institutions such as the National Gallery of Victoria, National Portrait Gallery and Commonwealth Bank as well as owned by Elton John and Valentino. In this exhibition, Fredericks chose four images from the Salt Project (2003-2019) produced at Kati Thanda (Lake Eyre), in South Australia. Upon viewing this cube, I was struck by feelings of the sublime. Faced with vignettes that trailed onto the horizon, I was afflicted with the thought of the omnipotence of nature. I felt small but in a profoundly comforting way, as though there was something greater in the universe. It was Fredericks’ own meditations of infinity in the landscape that inspired him to replicate the experience in images. Fredericks’ use of colours and light demonstrates this feeling perfectly. The fading sunsets and barren infinite desert reminded me of the immense beauty of our earth.
After I had finished walking down University Avenue, I was overcome by the poignant messages and stories of each artist. Personal histories, political and social issues all interwoven into a beautiful exhibition centered around themes of healing, identity, culture and loss. This exhibition succeeded in creating a challenging, yet rewarding experience that forces viewers to think deeply about each image. If you are walking down University Avenue, I highly recommend that you take the time to experience this provoking exhibition.
Where I Stand will run from 27 July until 31 October 2020. It is part of Kambri’s ‘Exhibition Avenue’ series, curated by aMBUSH Gallery, a free year-round program of art and performance. You can find more information about this exhibition here.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.