Little bits and pieces

So once all the more massive tenants have been dealt with, there are a number of itty bitty fellow creatures who need some care. They're referred to as "babies", and are just that. Animals that are too young or too sick to be in the wild, and need to be cared for on a regular basis. Let's take a look...

There's Grommet, the Bushbaby, who during the day resembles nothing so much as a pile of blankets in his little cage, but as the sun goes down a red-brown hand will reach out from under the blanket and stretch its little fingers wide as it wakes up. Out next are the curious nose and huge eyes, and at last, a bushy tail. He likes to grab hold of things - like your finger - and, when he's let out of the cage and into the cabin in the evening, to climb all over the drapes, furniture, and anyone else who happens to be in the way. He's gorgeous, and mostly friendly, this last hampered by a slight tendency to pee on people. Grommet will spend hours in your room grabbing hold of any small object and examining it in detail - and if you play with him you get a great visual of him on his hind legs, arms raised, stomping childishly towards you like a big bear - raaaarrrr!

They're not always cuddly, though. Also running around the cabins was Spike, a baby dassie who was as nimble as anything, despite resembling nothing so much as an angry guinea pig. Out in the cages, Captain, a wahlberg's eagle, gets fed a handful of cut-up chicks (oh believe me, I know) on the glove at the end of the day. He's definitely powerful, so having him clutched on your arm while his beak's about 20cm away from your eyes is kind of unnerving, but he's also beautiful to be so close to. Just not when he's spraying you with chick innards.

Behind Captain's cage are the porcupines, once apparently the size of, well, Spike, they're about as big as terriers now. Gorgeous, though, and when you give them a bit of corn they'll twitter their thanks. Their tongues are sandpaper-rough, and if you come up behind them while they're eating, they'll suddenly poof out their back ends into this big old ball of spikes, and shuffle around so that they've always got it pointed at you. Whee!

Also in that cage is Olly, the tiny wee scops owl. So while you're waiting for the porcu's to finish their meal, you can sit and feed Olly, by holding up a scrap of food and calling "Ollyollyolly!" Over he flies to perch on your hand while he takes the food and flies off somewhere to eat it.

But my favourite of the "babies", apart from the porcupines, are a couple of animals not entirely fascinating, but just about as cute as can be. To wit: bunnies and squirrels! The baby bunnies are so tame they're allowed to run around in my bedroomin the evening, chewing on my dirty laundry and leaving their...er...leavings all over the place. But if I call them, they'll come hopping out from under the bed or wherever they may be, to be cuddled. Kiwi is aptly named - colouring is just like the kiwi skin, and he's very adventurous in climbing all over me to reach other parts of the room. His little ears are quite often lifted, and he has such a huge appetite at meal times that it's all I can do to keep him away from the milk so I can feed his sister, Skye. Skye is white with red eyes, and a little quieter than Kiwi. She will, however, often climb up my chest to nose around my face, giving me little rabbit kisses. I love them to pieces, and when I'm writing in my notebook they'll come crawling all over it to see what's going on: what's more adorable than us?

The squirrels are just as adorable. Tiny wee creatures, only just gaining control of their bodies, but quite able at this point to crawl over a human being who is lucky enough to help out with their feeding. They get syringes full of milk too, and they grab it with their front paws as though holding a long glass, sucking down the milk with little squeaks and grunts. Once they're done they'll collapse, bellies swollen, into your palm, sleeve or hood for a sleep. Best thing in the world? A sleepy, just-fed squirrel having his tummy rubbed: limbs spread, rolled onto the back, and just enjoying the heck out of it.

Bringing out the big guns...

I wanted to see the lions.

I'd heard them roaring the first night I arrived...echoing yawns around the park that made it sound like they were right outside my window. And the big cats were the animals I was most intrigued by. Just had to find the buggers.

Outside the cottage where I sleep are, immediately, two of the smaller big cats: Shadow and Shade, the hyenas, next to them Xinandi, the female cheetah, and next over Jolly and Juba, the male cheetahs. We're told VERY early on, and quite frequently, not to give Shadow any opportunities to get a hold of any of our fingers, as legend has it she has already taken someone's finger off when they tried to stroke her through the bars. Fine with me...if only she didn't have such a sweet little face...

So while I stand with my hands clasped behind my back, there's time to examine the hyena. It really is an odd-looking creature -- the front part is quite large and hulking, and then quite suddenly it drops away into these tiny little hindquarters. The female is much larger than the male, and her head is very teddy-like, but the call they let out at night is really rather eerie. Not to mention the sound they make when they're chewing on impala bones...

Moving on, to the cheetahs. I love them. Loooove them. They're so graceful and beautiful and soft...ahem. The cheetahs are not exactly on the powerful side (although don't get me wrong, they could still kick my ass), but their weapon is speed. We get to see a demonstration in the parking lot where they let Jolly run off after a lure. It's incredible. I have to grab hold of him at the end, and even though he's paying most attention to the meat in front of him, it's clear that if he wasn't I'd have an interesting time holding him still.

At one point they bring Juba out for us to have a pat (I was SO. EXCITED.), and just having that great animal there in front of you, be able to feel all the muscles under his fur, the beautifully soft hank of spotted fur at his neck, and to have him licking your arm (and drawing a little bit of blood - man, those tongues are sharp!) -- was just the most amazing feeling. I fell completely in love.

Moving on, because otherwise that's where I'm going to stay...there are also 4 lions at the camp, and a great big leopard named Chui. Now you might be forgiven for expecting cheetahs and leopards to be similar in build, but you'd be wrong. Chui is unmistakably powerful, which is unfortunately why we can't go in with him (sigh). In fact, it's six of one as to whether he or the lions are carrying the most power. But Chui has been hand raised, and he still likes waddling over (let's be honest, he's carrying a bit of holiday weight) to lean against the fence and be scratched.

Over to the lions, and for sheer size and power it's Big Boy and Ditch up the back -- oh my WORD, they're huge. Every morning on the way to breakfast we pass them, and sometimes they're there at the fence, prowling, staring that gorgeous green-eyed stare...It becomes clear that they've got way too much muscle weight to be going anything as fast as the cheetahs, and this explains why they're the only big cat to hunt in prides. But man alive, you've got to respect that honey badger for giving it a go...

Over by Chui are Sarah and Blondie, who are ex circus lions. Blondie, in fact, has no teeth, owing to a rather horrible history of being caged, and then breaking his teeth on the bars. Sarah, however, is sheer power, and though she's unwell at the moment and so confined to a smaller cage, she really, REALLY doesn't like it when you bring brooms to clean out the one next to her. Something about the brooms and the circus, I would guess, is recalling something particularly nasty.

Back down to Xinandi, who is the one big cat that we are frequently allowed in with, and who is calm enough to let us go up to her alone and give her a good old pat. And when you're crouching down rubbing the head of a cheetah, and the cheetah is purring her rumbling contented purr...well.

PS -- Important safety tip: when scratching the cheetahs through the fence (which is allowed among the staff, but only advised if the animal is purring), make DAMN sure you're not kneeling on the electric fence wire. It HURTS.

Honey badger maintenance

Routine at the wildlife centre started pretty quickly. Up at 10-to-7, wash face, dress (what to wear, what to wear...thankfully this decision is rendered moot by the requirement to dress always in the camp t-shirt, which ranges from khaki to...darker-khaki), grab camera and a bottle of water and hot-foot it up the hill to the clinic, where we begin our daily rounds.

We're in one of four groups, and mine is in charge of feeding and cleaning the cages of the following:

• Honey badgers (excellent value)
• Wild dogs (would have been more exciting had we been able to go in the cage)
• Mixed Vultures (here's one I would have preferred not to enter the cage of)
• White faced owls
• Guinea Fowl

It starts like this: first we scuffle round to see who wants to do what (mostly it's between the badgers and the dogs, and all the birds together). I'm not a bird person, so let's start with the badgers.

Bucket, brush, broom, trowel, and 20 dead one-day-old chicks covered in calcium powder. Mmmmm. Helloooo breakfast. Hopefully the chicks are defrosted, so we don't have to do that whole fill-bowl-with-water-and-poke-at-chicks-until-they-feel-squidgy part ourselves. Trot on down the hill to the badgers' enclosure, wherein reside two little specimens: Stoffel (the male) and Hammy (female). Stoffel is tricksy and slippery and aggressive to boot, so we're not allowed to touch him much. Hammy, however, is mostly friendly, though you have to watch out, because she loves getting out of the enclosure too. She's my favourite, and I like to reach down and let her grab hold of my hand and pull herself up by her tiny, powerful shoulders. Sometimes I let her hang onto the edge of the wall while I scratch her, and once while I was sitting on the wall she grabbed hold of my sneaker, and while it was fun at first, it soon became clear that she was planning to climb up my leg, and then it was all: GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!

Once we've thrown a few chicks to the badgers and they're busy ripping the heads off, we shut them off in one half of the enclosure, jump the wall and start cleaning. Poo-picking, scrubbing the walls to get their paw-marks off, and cleaning out the water bowl. Also, and we'll take note at this one, making sure you don't dong your head on the thick wooden beam that forms part of the back shelter. This is easier to do than you would have thought.

Once you've recovered from the little cartoon badgers running around your field of vision, it's time to switch, switch, switch! Up and out, move the badgers, tempt them with some cleverly placed chicks, close them off and then it's lather, rinse, repeat in the second half. In the meantime you get to reach down and grab hold of Hammy's paw and watch as she tries to climb up your arm to get out. Hammy is occasionally allowed out of the enclosure, but Stoffel is pretty much not, especially since he managed, using a stick, to climb out himself and into the lion cage. I didn't see it, but I'm told that once Stoffel got a good hold on Big Boy's privates, it was a pretty even fight. Hardy little creatures, them honey badgers.

The Wild Dogs are less taxing -- just fill up their water bowl and swimming pool, really, and don't put your fingers through the fence. Check! Just a quick hello to Taz, who is by himself, poor bugger, as he's broken his back and is not fit to run with the pack. He's a skittish little thing, but very sweet.

Back up at the birds, the mixed vultures (the party mix of the animal world) need their enclosure scrubbed -- all that poo off the stumps, trees, rocks etc, and the water pools need to be scrubbed, emptied and refilled. Then do a feather-pick (absolute waste of time, considering how many feathers there are in there) and rake, all the while making sure you don't on any occasion look like you're dead. Holding a rake is a good idea, especially since in the mornings they like to stretch their wings out to warm them, and this makes them look about ten times more threatening. Then we gather up our stuff and make a run for the door. Woo!

Off to the white faced owls, who need very little maintenance. Quick scrub, couple of dead chicks (as food, not dead owl chicks) and a peek inside the next to see whether mum has given birth yet. She hasn't, and doesn't like you staring at her. Hooooo.

Through the cage are the guinea fowls -- silly looking birds with beautiful blue feathers on their chests (though they're pretty tame, they're also hanging on to those feathers pretty tightly, so good luck trying to pull one out). They need their floor raked, poo picked, and feed and water checked. Also you'll need to poke at them every now and then with the rake just to move them along. A quick check for eggs (none!) and you're done!

Phew! After this it's off on a ten-minute hike through the jungle to breakfast, which, surrounded by little grey monkeys who are after the fruit (people are obliged to throw cutlery every now and then to keep them off the food), is completely worth it. A feast of yoghurt and all-bran, a couple of bits of bacon, and it's back into the jungle for the uphill walk home.

Going bush...

Once Cape Town's journey came to a close, and I was suitably done with adventuring, I toddled off to places unknown (no, really -- the booking company told me on the morning of departure that I wasn't going to the place I'd booked at, rather at some other place 8 hours to the north-east, near the Kruger). Since I hadn't planned on going to any malaria regions, I was a little apprehensive, but some complimentary malaria tablets were shoved into my hand, my luggage squeezed into a car, and away we went.

The drive was uneventful for the first half as we traversed the upper veldt -- it's dry and flat and very much featureless -- so I slept for most of it, waking periodically as we were told to drink! Drink! Drink! They're big on drinking (water, that is) in South Africa. This, as I was to discover later, was not without good reason. At any rate, we soon reached the lower veldt, and that's where everything started too look pretty amazing.

It was all looking really green and lush, mountains sprouting up here and there, and great rocky cliffs lining the road. Ahead, a massive grey cloud hung over the Drakensberg Mountains, lit up every few seconds by forks of lightning that crackled through it. The other side of that, I was told, was my destination. Awesome.

The rest of the drive was beautiful -- a vastly different view of Africa than I'd seen in Cape Town and my brief overnight stay in Johannesburg. From green mountains to rocky gullies, where tree roots took hold of the outside of the rock and climbed for their lives skyward, to deep flat dry valleys, spotted with bush huts and where the roads were lined with children making their long, long, long way home from school. As we drew closer to the camp we passed block after block of private game reserves, and at one point, and a shout of "BABOONS!" we slowed to let this group of bare-backsided creatures gambol across the road, frowning suspiciously at as as we passed. Then, "GIRAFFES!" off to the left! Three of them inside the fence of the game reserve, picking at the high leaves of the acacia trees and eyeing us curiously. I felt like I'd really gotten into -- or at least closer to -- what Africa really was.

As the light faded and we dodged the odd rainfall, we made it to the camp, deep in the centre of a reserve, passing kudu and the ever-present impala (not the car), all the way up to the gates, outside of which stood a great grey rhino...I was to see more of him later.

Inside the gates I was met by the centre's "student" liaison, and a couple of bush pigs, Mona and Lisa, who quickly took a liking to my luggage. Apparently they're quite partial to it, as a whole, and so I trundled, first at a trot, then as my pursuers kicked it up a notch, into a full-blown run (which in hindsight was probably the dumbest thing I could have done), down the dusty path with my incredibly unsuitable wheelie-bag, to the safety of the cottages. On the way I passed three cheetahs (in cages) and a hyena (also, and thank heaven, caged), and some odd little guinea-pigs-gone feral that I would later identify as dassies. In my room there were four teeny baby rabbits and a couple of baby squirrels (of which I'll also speak later). It wasn't all going to keep being so amazing, but for now I'll leave it so.

The sun dipped over the mountains and twilight descended.

Getting serious

You can't go to Africa and not see it. It's not an attraction, rather an inevitability, and it's there, no matter how hard you try to ignore it. For us it was right next door, even in front of us, while we went to work. I'm talking about poverty.

There were suggestions floating around the house of a township tour, which to me sounded initially insensitive. It seemed wrong to go to the homes of poor people as though it was tourism. The thing I decided in the end, though, was that to get an idea of Africa as a whole, you've got to encounter its scars. Look at District 6, which used to be an interracial area full of blacks, coloureds, whites, Malay, etc. Until apartheid (still only 14 years ago!) meant that the area was evacuated of any people of colour and declared a white-only living space.

We knew that walking to work each day we would brush against the Site 5 township -- now called Masiphumelele ("we will succeed, in Xhosa) -- 30-40% of its 50,000 inhabitants were living with HIV, and all on top of each other.

Our tour was regrettably voyeuristic for the most part -- us in the van trying not to look as though we were taking photos, but unable to resist it when we saw the children. They were beautiful, standing in front of the most appalling conditions, but as soon as they caught your eye they would break out into a wide-mouthed, white-toothed smile, and it was impossible not to smile and wave back, and open the window to chat to them and show them the photos you just took. The acrid smell of roasting sheeps heads and corn would drift over the road, and tin shebeens would almost shake with the amount of people inside. Of course, just as you began to relax a little too much, there was a shout from our driver, who rolled up his window and put his foot down hard on the accellerator -- we all looked to the left to see the flash of a machete as it was weilded in a knife fight further up a side-street. That's the kind of thing that reminds you you're in a totally different world.

To counter that experience, however, we were shuffled along and out of the van (thank heavens) to listen to street performers and dance with the children along the side of a road. It's the cheerfulness and the love that shoots up in little pockets in those townships that make you really stare. The fact that love can survive or even flourish amongst those conditions, and the sense of community that means all these people would band together to help one another.

My perspectives on life were being shifted significantly.

Horses, horses, horses, horses...

In every new country I visit, it doesn't take long for me to start hankering to see its surroundings via horseback. And so not too far into my stay in Cape Town I found one place that did rides along the beach at sunset; after a quick scout to get fellow adventurers to come along, I was in!

The horses looked really well cared for, which is always a lovely sign. Occasionally they can look like they've been run too much on too little food, but these were lovely creatures. Mine was called Habana, and had, like the others, an eastern saddle. Thank heavens. Nothing more uncomfortable than a stock saddle, or (ironically enough) an endurance saddle. Or maybe I've just had my rear molded into an eastern fit.

Anyway. Off we went, starting along the roads towards the beach. There were about 10 of us, and only one guide, which was a little unsettling, especially given that the two people I'd gone with hadn't ridden before and were a little nervous. I hung around the back with my friends to keep an eye on them. Then two boys went by on skateboards, and a woman up the front who had professed to be a rider lost control of her horse, which backed into the one behind it, which in turn backed into one of my friend's horse, who (quite naturally) freaked out. I'll say this, though. Given how scared she was and how new to riding, it was the most graceful fall I've ever seen. She hung on until the last possible moment and then just sort of stepped off, not even stumbling over.

Then (and I'm a little ashamed to admit I'm proud of this) I swung into action...

(SWAGGER!)

...and went after her horse, which had bolted into a nearby driveway, shooed it back towards the others, then rode back to the girl and jumped off to give her a big hug for being so brave (she really was, especially that given how scared she was, and once she'd calmed down she jumped right back on the horse!). Meanwhile, completely negating any selfless acts of compassion, I. Felt. Awesome. WOO! The truth is I've just always wanted to rely on my horsey skills in a crisis, and I've always been able to act pretty calmly when things go wrong on horses, but this was a particularly Indiana Jones moment.

Ok, the sad part is the girl who fell soon decided she didn't want to keep going, so I felt pretty bad about getting her to come, and kept an even closer eye on the other girl as we made our way through the brush down to the beach.

It. Was. Gorgeous. The sunset was cold (blues and yellows) but beautiful, just sinking into the sea and lighting all the waves with a bright glow as they crashed into the beach. Wow. And while I tried to convince my horse to canter (it was very reluctant to do so, and kept running in circles instead. SIGH. One of these days I'm going to find a horse riding place that actually does what it says it does, which is offer canters along the beach), the mountains rising up around us, the sun sinking into the sea, it was marvellous. I finally got Habana to shed her inhibitions and go for it, and we had a lovely canter away from everyone else for a bit before I coerced her to the back of the line to walk with my friend there. (Should point out that it's not me in the picture, but I did take it.)

It wasn't the most satisfying ride I've ever been on, but it was pretty spectacular, scenery-wise, and plus there were all my Indiana moments. Pretty freakin' awesome way to spend an evening.

Oh by the way, that cat has ringworm

I've been directed to the cattery to begin my 2 weeks' volunteering in Cape Town, and while I have been known to sneeze around cats, it's becoming clear that I'm much more allergic than I previously thought. Nevertheless, when shut up in a room with a bunch of teeny kittens loose on the floor, I did what anyone would have done, and picked them up and went "A-woo-woo-woodgy-woo". Unfortunately for me, funtime was over when someone came in and said, as a sort of afterthought, "Oh by the way, those cats have ringworm". Awesome.

After being sprayed down with all manner of anti-ringworm sprays, and after exhibiting some alarming symptoms of allergies, including hives, I was taken away from the kittens (including my favourite, electro-kitty, who looked as though it had taken its curiosity one step too close to a power socket) and shunted over to the dog side of town.

Much better. No sneezing...mild requirement to fend off over-friendly dogs, but there you go. There were a number of large dogs who were allowed free rein over the premises, including Skippy, who had distemper when young, and as a result was "a few sandwiches short of a picnic". Quite adorable, with an odd, straight-legged walk, but a generally happy disposition and eagerness to be paid attention to.

Another favourite was Eddie, a Rhodesian Ridgeback who was smitten with one of the clinic workers, to the extent that if you needed to find this particular person, all you had to do was look where Eddie was pointing. Eddie was gorgeous, and friendly, and in the morning would jump up to put his paws on my shoulders and breathe in my face. He was also well-behaved enough to be the only "house dog" allowed in the clinic itself (otherwise he would sit outside and wait for his friend to come out).

Meanwhile I spent a while outside in the kennels, feeding and watering and generally trying to get in and out of each enclosure with all my limbs in tact, and without letting any of the (amazingly strong) dogs out. Never thought I'd stand a chance against a massive German Shepherd, but I grabbed the scruff of its neck and heaved, and somehow we ended up with me outside and it inside. Phew!

One of my favourite sections was the "hospital" which housed a few of the dogs who were sick, but not so much that they needed constant supervision. The best part about this was taking them for their walks -- in particular I remember a teeny, tiny, wriggly little brown thing, called Archie, who was so eager and friendly that it was hard not to scoop him up every time I visited. Of course he did pose a problem when it was time for me to leave. Big heavy gate, tiny, slippery dog... There were two black labrador pups there, one of whom was suffering from mange, and very timid. Had to carry that one to the park and try to encourage it to walk. It did, but only when my back was turned, and in the opposite direction. The other pup was gorgeous. Bright and friendly -- all he wanted was to play, and who was I to resist?

The other place I hung out was in the clinic. Poked my head in there at the start of my stint, and got hooked on chatting to all the poor sick puppies housed there. I also got to look in on some surgeries -- many sterilisations, a cat tail amputation (Paris, pictured, who bit her own tail off to the extent that the vet had to dock it completely) and a dog whose ears had to be cut off. It wasn't always pleasant, and in some cases it was really sad, like when the dog showed up whose owner had chopped off its front leg with a machete. Or the cat that had to be put down due to feline AIDS. But sometimes there were success stories. Like the teeny little Siberian Husky pup, who came in very sick, and wasn't eating. After a blood transfusion (with a massive bull terrier cross) it perked right up, much to the chagrin of everyone in the clinic. Ever heard a husky pup howl? It's sort of a cross between a cat, a lamb and a baby, all of which sound as though they're being skinned alive. So it fell to me to take the little bundle out of its cage at these times and cuddle it -- it would look up with its little wibbly eyes and fall completely silent -- entirely happy for someone just to love it. And I fell in love in about two seconds.

A woodgy-woodgy-woo.

9,000 feet and falling

So there I am, 9,000 feet above Cape Town, wondering, as I suppose many in my position do, why the hell I'm doing this.

I mean, really. When was it ever my idea of entertainment to jump out of a tiny plane and plummet towards earth? Turns out, it started just last week, when fellow volunteer J said "want to go skydiving?" and like a fool, I said "yes".

So before I know it I'm strapped into the world's most unflattering harness, and onto the front of a guy whose name I don't remember (this is my tandem instructor), and we're edging out of the plane door and into the gaping void below...goggles on...harness tight...are you coming out, miss?

I wish I could say I was graceful under pressure, but through no fault of my own, really, as soon as we dropped -- and it was an out and out drop -- my mouth opened and a scream came out. This happened until I was turned onto my stomach, and could no longer intake enough air with which to continue screaming. From here there was nothing to do but open out my arms into the wind, breathe through my nose and try to smile for the video camera guy who was now zooming towards us, apparently with a desire to get a good look at my nostril hairs. One of them yells "We've got a screamer!", which is less than helpful. But once I got all that into line, it was fantastic -- there really was nothing around us but air, nothing above but sky, and nothing below but, well, everything.

After about 15 seconds of free-falling (though it felt like about 10 times that), the chute opened and whooshed us back into the sky and upright, and now it was a lovely floating drift over Cape Town -- Table Mountain to the South, to the East the beautiful sun-lit mountains, and over to the West, the deep blue sea. It was so quiet, so peaceful, and lovely to be floating swiftly through the air, fingertips stretched out into the sky. Closer we drifted to the landing area, where I could make out my friends below, waving. One last roller-coaster whoosh downwards and we were touching down (some of us less gracefully than others) onto the sand, blood pumping and endorphins racing, the general feeling being that I wanted to do that again.

PS - the video footage of this is less than flattering. Ever wanted to see your hair flying, terrified, back from your forehead, your cheeks billowing like two puffy pink sails? No, me neither.

Jetlagging through a work day

Howzit!

So I just woke up, which startled me as I wasn't aware I'd fallen asleep at my desk. This isn't just your usual brand of lazy, though. I've been in Africa for the past 5 weeks, and I'm a little jet-lagged. Where's a fluffy pillow and a big mug of chocolate when I need it?

As for Africa, since I've completely failed to update this blog in the interim (not entirely my fault, as 2.5 of the 5 weeks were spent without the company of computer access), I think I'll space it out over the next few days, in a sort of retrospective blog ("retrospective", here, being a big word that means "late").

Cape Town:

Arrived without too much ado, although it turns out my fitness regime has been pretty ineffectual, this becoming clear as I huffed and puffed my way behind a porter at Johannesburg Airport who grabbed my bags, saying something about getting me to my flight on time, and took off down the stretch at a gallop. At any rate, after tipping him the equivalent of ten taxi-rides, I hopped the plane to Cape Town and was transferred to a house near the beach where I would be staying for the next two days.

This part of Cape Town was populated by beautiful houses, mostly white people, and dogs. Lots of dogs. Went for a walk along the beach and 60% of creatures met were of the canine variety. The house is lovely and restful, and feels comfortingly like a real home (convenient, as it is one). Woke up on the first day to a lovely sunrise over the ocean, unfortunately followed by 30 degree heat. (Heat, in Africa? Who would've thought? Certainly not me, having been informed, so I thought, by the ever-trustworthy weather.co.uk...)

Ok, the "white" thing? It comes up. This is a country for whom apartheid has only been over for 14 years (!), and despite the fact that they've come on a heck of a lot faster than the USA, there's still an awkward sort of divide there.

Went up Table Mountain, which was pretty stunning in terms of views, if a tad over-populated by tourists, and then on one ill-fated and frankly unwise trip to "Seal Island". "Island" is somewhat misleading, as it conjours up a decent land mass, whereas the Island actually consists of a large rock in the ocean. And, and I can't stress this enough, it smells. Bad. If it weren't enough for me to already suffer from a failure to inherit my mother's sea legs, the smell would have tipped me over the edge. As it was, I had both, and it was a miserable trip from start to finish.

The rest of the cape is beautiful, though, and it has a laid-back lazy sort of feeling to it. Africa time, they call it.

It's a flower, you nudnik!

Today I've been learning about history. This comes on the heels of having finally gotten around to watching The Last King of Scotland, and Forest Whittaker's beautiful performance. Half the time he seemed like a decent guy, and then, oh then, he was off raving lunatic, and you remembered how much power he had in his grasp and how disturbing that was.

Anyway, history. Turns out in the 1600s there was this massive mania stirred up over the ownership of tulips. Just in case you're not imagining the right kind of "massive", I'll give you a rundown of what you could get in exchange for one viceroy tulip bulb:

8 fat pigs + 4 fat oxen + 12 fat sheep + 24 tuns wheat + 48 tuns rye + 2 hogsheads wine + 4 tuns beer + 2 tuns butter + 1,000 lbs cheese + 1 silver drinking cup + 1 pack clothes + 1 bed + 1 ship.

Then one day the market just crashed, and all of a sudden there were people standing about, letting it dawn upon them that while they used to own a bevy of animals, food, clothes and boats, they were left to console themselves with a Single Freaking Flower. Ooo, de lally.

History is a funny little bugger.

Meanwhile, I'm going to have some chocolate, because I'm sure one day that the scientists are going to tell me how good it is for me.

O

Rabies, and other concerns...

Ok, so my Oscar picks were way off. Well, 13 of them were, anyway, which is not exactly comforting.

Time for something new! Today I shall be waxing lyrical on overseas travel, as I am soon to embark on the same. Yesterday I went to ask people to jab me full of vaccinations and learned that a) whatever your expectations, tetanus injections are going to hurt, and b) the same goes for rabies. Mmm. Rabies. There's a conversation stopper. What I find more disturbing, however, is that if I happen to get scratched by an animal at any time, I need to go have two more rabies injections immediately! Woo!

While I was waiting to be jabbed, I was sat down with six or seven big, burly policemen in overalls, the kind that the Police Force sends to public relations events. Good heavens. All I wanted from then on was a high pitched scream to come from one of their vaccination rooms.

Why is it I'm so afraid of needles? It's only a tiny piece of metal, after all. And some chemicals. And it's going into your arm in 3...2...1... It's the anticipation, I think. You know, when they hold it up and flick it to get the air bubbles out and you remember why they're doing it and what air bubbles can do to a person, and the idea that you know that in a moment something is going to hurt you, and that you're going to let it. Your various systems argue with each other: the brain tells you to stop being a wuss and take it; your muscles get all tough and tense; your stomach has a sort of vicarious nervous reaction and your nerves are backing away going "Hey hey hey, I remember this! Get that thing away from me!"

I still wonder why, with all that modern science can do, they haven't invented oral vaccines for all of these things. Seriously. I mean, thanks for penicilin and bubble wrap and ipods and everything, but come on...is anyone thinking about the vaccines? Are you just going to give up and say "well, we've got that far--who wants ice cream?"

Meanwhile, the day of departure advances, with a worrying sort of too-soon inevitability. Am I ready? Do I have everything I need? Can't someone else do all this for me? The answer to all these questions is, regrettably, "no". I still need boots, documents, phones organised, itinerary sent, doctor's letters assuring the people I'll be staying with that I'm of sound mind...that sort of thing. Hmm. I've travelled quite a bit for someone of my age, I suppose, and on my own, so I should really be used to all this by now. But really what it is, is that somehow it all seems to come together ok.

I think I'll choose to find that optimistic.

O

ACK!

February 24: 1 Sleep to go

ACK! So unorganised. So procrastinatory. I’ve cleaned out my wardrobe now, though, so all that remains is to write this damn thing.

Tips for avoiding early broadcasts of the Oscars:
· Don’t talk to ANYONE. Safe, but kind of anti-social, and a little extreme, so you might want to use this as a last resort.
· Don’t sign out of hotmail. Ever. Because then you’ll go straight to the ninemsn site, who will spoil it all quicker than you can say “antidisestablishmentarianism”.
· Don’t listen to the radio.
· Don’t watch TV. Especially Channel nine. They SUCK.
· Perfect the fingers-in-the-ears/la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you technique. Sure it’s immature, but it works.
· Prepare apology letters for anyone you offend while employing any of the above.

In non-Oscar movie news—I just saw Stardust, of which I had heard almost nothing, but should really be given more credit than it’s gotten. It’s a fairy tale, no doubt about it, but it’s humour is along the lines of The Princess Bride, and like that classic, best viewed without cynicism.

But it’s time for the last big BEANIE of the season, and it is the:

And What Have We Learned Award

Which goes to:

All Babies Want to Get Borned, from Juno

Now I don’t want to seem like I’m supporting or not supporting any kind of view here, other than the fact that it’s a catchy tune, belted out in mantra-form by Juno’s classmate outside the Women Now abortion clinic (“because they help women now”). Little light on the grammar, perhaps, but the intention is there.

Juno is one of my favourite films of 2007—for one thing it’s so refreshing to have a comedy among all the darkness, but for another it’s just damn good. Excellent acting by Ellen Page, who I would so love to win an Oscar, and a snappy script that manages to be cynical and adorable all at once. Arrested Development’s Jason Bateman (woo!) and Michael Cera are fantastic, and Allison Janney and JK Simmons (“Hey there, big puffy version of Junebug!”) are beautiful as Juno’s parents. Even, as a friend of mine grudgingly admits, Jennifer Garner pulls out some real acting chops here. (What the heck are “acting chops” supposed to be, anyway?) (complete aside borne of too much internet searching: “chops” actually refers to musical ability, or more specifically, the mouth, and for someone to have “real chops”, it means they’re really going for it on whatever wind instrument they’re playing. Anyway…)

What I love most is the fact that from the minute you’re plonked in this world you feel like its familiar. It’s grounded, quick, honest in its intentions and just plain funny.

Let’s have a look at Juno’s chances on Monday night:

Best Picture
Oh, how I would love for this to win. I don’t think there’s much chance of that, though, considering the rave reviews surrounding No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood. Still. Stranger things have happened in this category. I mean, Crash won, didn’t it?

Best Actress—Ellen Page
There’s a very small chance that Ellen Page might take this from Julie Christie, but even if Ms Christie doesn’t win, there’s still Marion Cotillard, whose performance in La Mome is receiving a lot of attention. Still, if life were mine to control…

Best Director—Jason Reitman
Again, it’s possible, but I think it’s far more likely that any upset of the Good Ship Cohen will be made by Julian Schnabel for The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

Best Original Screenplay—Diablo Cody
Yay! Juno’s biggest hopes are in this category, and I shall be pleased as a very pleased person can be if it wins. Any movie that includes the line “Thundercats are go!”, you know. I’m pretty sure that was what was missing from Casablanca.

No, in all seriousness, I love this script. Very naturally written, with wonderfully rounded characters, a great heart, lovely exposition, and lines that are plain hilarious.

In my opinion, the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood. Ugly, pretty. Handsome…what have you. The right person will still think the sun shines out your ass. That's the kind of person that's worth sticking with.”
—JK Simmons, Juno—

PS—I suppose I should mention all the other BEANIEs I never had time to devote a whole Omail to:

Most Brilliant Use of Nudity

Bart skateboarding to Krustyburger, from The Simpsons Movie

Is it juvenile that I found this so hilarious? Because I really did. Ahahahahaha.

Best Use of Animals in a Motion Picture

The Swan, from Hot Fuzz (I know, again)

Picture it: a car chase through English county roads. Bullets fly back and forth between the cars as inhabitants of each lean out the window and fire. They fly around the bends faster and faster, they’ve almost reached the highway, when—“SWAN!”

It’s a real stretch not to give this film all the awards. I’ll be restrained. But you’ve got to hand it to that swan. Masterfully evading capture throughout the entire film, only to pop up at the end to kick some ass. Also it gives us this lovely exchange earlier between Simon Pegg and Stephen Merchant:

Angel: Yes, Mr. Staker, we'll do everything we can. Can you describe it?
Peter Ian Staker: It's about two-feet tall, long slender neck, kind of orange and black bill...
Angel: Anything else?
Peter Ian Staker: Well... it's a swan.

Best Performance by an Inanimate Object in a Motion Picture

The Pee-Stick, from Juno

There it is, that unholy little plus-sign, signaling a complete about-turn for the life of one Juno MacGuff. As that guy from the American version of The Office (whom I can’t stand) says, “It ain’t no etch-a-sketch. That’s one doodle that can’t be un-did.”

By the power of Greyskull!

February 22: 3 Sleeps to go

Goodness me. It’s time to switch on some Oscar-nominated music and type! TYPE LIKE YOU’VE NEVER TYPED BEFORE!

The conversations I’ve come across about the original song nominations, three of which contain songs from Enchanted, all seem to go nuts for the song “Falling Slowly” from Once, so I’ve checked it out, and it’s lovely—mellow, sweet, at times aching—also it sounds like it’s being sung by Cat Stevens. This may make or break your interest in this song.

What else can I report on? I saw Eastern Promises this week, despite my lukewarm reaction to A History of Violence (same director), and it wasn’t half bad, actually. Quite involving. Benefits include the return of Armin Mueller-Stahl, who looks exactly like he did in The Power of One, and a lovely bit from Jerzy Skolimowski as Naomi Watt’s uncle. But anyone who’s seen this movie is going talk about one scene, and one scene only, with a faint air of reverence and eyes bugged in awe: “The Bath House Scene”. I’ll solve the mystery. It’s a fight. A pretty violent and well-choreographed one. In a bath house. Also Viggo’s in the nuddy the whole time.
Kind of an eye-opener.

ANYWAY. Let’s look at this film’s chances—only one nomination for:

Best Actor—Viggo Mortensen
It’s well-deserved, actually, and kind of a long time coming, ‘cause he’s awesome. This performance is (…pause as I search for a word that can’t be used as a double entendre…) both natural and tightly-wound. He does “eerily calm” really well, and the nuances in his facial expressions are fantastic. I don’t really think he’s got much of a chance of taking out Daniel Day-Lewis or Johnny Depp, but for now that’s ok, and I’m happy with him being “Oscar Nominee Viggo Mortensen” for the time being.

Heh. Which reminds me of a speech a couple of years ago…
“…It's the funny thing about winning an Academy Award, it will always be synonymous with your name from here on in. It will be ‘Oscar winner, George Clooney…Sexiest Man Alive, 1997…Batman…died today in a freak accident…’”

And with all this talk of Eastern Promises, today’s BEANIE is going to be a bit surprising, but the BEANIE for

Best Fight

goes to…

Simon-Pegg-and-Nick-Frost-firing-two-guns-while-jumping-in-the-air-and-going-‘arg’, from Hot Fuzz

Yeah, Viggo is nekkid, and yeah, Rocky’s a hundred and eleven, but it’s nothing compared to this. At various times during the film, Nick Frost, whose character has seen way too many cop films, asks Simon Pegg’s seasoned cop the following:

“Have you ever fired a gun whilst jumping through the air?”
“Have you ever fired two guns whilst jumping through the air?”
“Have you ever fired your gun up in the air and gone ‘arg’?”

The answers are all “no”, but what follows is all of the above, and the most marvelous piece of filmmaking. EVER. It’s a damn good ride, culminating in a fight sequence between the above and the citizens of a tiny English town, for which you just know the writers were sitting around the table going “ok, ok—you know what else would be awesome?” Octogenarians and shot-guns, that’s the ticket.

This film is a parody of every cop movie ever made, and the inclusion of 007 Timothy Dalton, along with some of Britain’s most venerable actors, is a lovely touch. What makes it hysterical, apart from the fact that the script is BRILLIANT, is the absolute seriousness with which everyone plays it. There’s every British comic actor under the sun, and a cameo each by Peter Jackson and Cate Blanchett. Guns! Knives! Blood! A giant monkey! What more could you want?
If you haven’t seen this film, I’ll hunt you down and make you watch it. I’m talking clockwork orange here. Except not really, because I find that totally creepy. But as for Hot Fuzz, see it!

[about Point Break] “Well, I wouldn't argue that it wasn't a no holds barred, adrenaline fueled thrill ride. But, there is no way you can perpetrate that amount of carnage and mayhem and not incur a considerable amount of paperwork.”
—Simon Pegg—Hot Fuzz—

O

Not many people have basements in California...

February 18: 8 Sleeps to go

Picking up the pace, she says. Pfft. This is a poor showing, I can tell you. I blame work. So inconveniently placed, there in the middle of the day.

Anyway, NEWS! There will OFFICIALLY be an Oscar telecast—the writer’s strike has ended…I think…possibly. It’s kind of hard to get a straight answer out of Google, and who else am I supposed to ask? Ok, here we are—it seems they got some kind of pay rise and voted to end the strike…yay? Well, put it this way, Oscars are back. I’ll bet the costume designers are breathing collective sighs of relief. And isn’t part of the fun just critiquing everyone’s get-up on the red carpet? (Boys, I know, it’s not what you’re prepared to admit, but you’re thinking it.)

Some articles are lamenting the fact that the strike has prevented actors from engaging in the “wooing period” in which they go on every talk show under the sun in order to boost their chances. Heaven forbid the Academy ever base the awards on actual merit instead of who’s sent the best gift basket. “I LOVE beanie babies! But wait, this one has Belgian chocolate…what to do, what to do…who are we voting for? So you’re saying Clooney is the beanie baby?”

Anyway, I’ve decided to look out some ways to liven up Oscar night, and what better place to start than with a slurping game. Grab whatever substance you think it’d be fun to slurp (hey hey hey, put down that washing liquid!), and go for it whenever:

Red Carpet
· Someone says “it’s an honour just to be nominated”.
· Anyone says they’re wearing a designer (as in, “I’m wearing Armani”…seriously)
· Any celebrity looks appalled at what they were just asked by a journalist.
· Anyone trips (HEE)

Inside
· Jack Nicholson is wearing sunglasses indoors (only once, not every time he’s on screen, or you’ll be slurping all night)
· Anyone thanks God…as if the guy isn’t busy enough without having to turn around every five minutes and going “oh, yeah, no worries.”
· Whenever a winner goes the wrong way after his or her speech and needs to be ushered to the exit by some nuclear scientist in a skin-tight scrap of material posing as a dress.
· Whenever Jon Stewart makes fun of the Baldwins
· Whenever Jon Stewart is awesome
· Whenever anyone mentions the presidential race
· Whenever two presenters are forced to go through some demented “joke” before presenting their award.
· Whenever anyone bursts into song (two slurps if it isn’t a staged musical number)
· Anyone remarks on how cool Jack Nicholson is. Seriously, what are the Oscar producers going to do when he dies?

In turn, I shall be throwing things (food, socks, obscenities) at the TV whenever:
· Philip Seymour Hoffman is on screen. You don’t want to know what I’ll do if he wins.
· Anyone remarks on how heavy the Oscar statuette is. It’s heavy. We get it.
· They don’t play excerpts from the nominated scores. For heaven’s SAKE, you devoted something like an HOUR to Warren Beatty’s acceptance speech, you can spend five minutes on this.

Speaking of Warren Beatty, let’s take a few moments to feel thankful that he’s not accepting an honorary award this year, and see who is…

Some guy called David Grafton will be accepting the Gordon E Sawyer Award: Given to an individual in the motion picture industry whose technological contributions have brought credit to the industry.

…hmm. He’s been involved in two—count ‘em, TWO—films, one of which was optics in the Empire Strikes Back. HEE! Light Sabers! Well, if you’re going to make a couple of contributions to film, I suppose that’s a pretty big one to start with.

Moving on. Hey, we’ve got a BEANIE to give out! (Yay, meaningless awards!) Today’s is awarded to the:

Best Oh-God-Don’t-Go-Down-The-Stairs! Moment

And the BEANIE goes to…

No, Jake! No! (from Zodiac)

Oh god, what is wrong with you? You’re hunting a serial killer and a prime suspect has just invited you down to their basement?! RUN JAKE RUN!

It’s incredibly stressful, is what it is. Did anyone see Zodiac? It was awesome. Nominated for nothing, obviously, but it should have been. Why? Because I liked it, that’s why!

So here’s what we’ve got: a serial killer who sends in ciphers and codes to the newspapers in San Fransisco, seems to kill for the heck of it, and whom no one can catch. Not even with the best efforts of Jake Gyllenhaal, Mark Ruffalo AND Robert Downey Jr. But the film isn’t about who the killer is, not really. It’s about obsession, and the way it can eat away at people. Deep, yes?
There are a few scenes where quite a bit of violence is done—it is about a serial killer, after all—but the scenes in between are where I had the most fun. It’s the interplay between some great actors and some genuinely funny moments, a nice manipulation of the audience’s nervous systems…

So there’s another one. Phew! Not long now, folks.

O

“Jesus Harold Christ on rubber crutches Bobby! What are you doing? You're doing that thing again. That thing we discussed... starts with an L...”

“Oh, looming.”
---Robert Downey Jr, Jake Gyllenhaal—Zodiac---

Yeee haaawww!

February 11: 15 sleeps to go

Picking up the pace now, because I’ve been kind of remiss, but here’s some news: the BAFTAs were announced today. Here’s the link: http://imdb.com/features/rto/2008/baftas

Basically, Atonement won the Best Film award, but was out-paced by No Country for Old Men and La Mome in the all-round tally. Hmm. Not sure how much of a barometer they are this year, but in some cases they have more interesting nominees.

Meanwhile, talk is brewing of the writers’ strike reaching a resolution any day now. YAY! Oscars! If not, however, I have a plan. I say we grab some ordinary people and designate them celebrity identities for the night. “You sir, with the grey hair, you can be George Clooney. And you, lady with the red hoodie. You’re Ellen Page.” It’s brilliant, I say. Just think of what those speeches would be like...

Anyway. As we wonder whether or not there will be a red carpet upon which the actors and actresses can strut, waving from a safe distance at screaming fans, today’s BEANIE is for:

Best There-But-For-The-Grace-Of-God-Go-I Moment

...and it goes to...

I’ve always wanted to be a cowboy… (The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford)

Jesus, if there was ever a case for a cautionary tale against fans (for those of you who learned nothing from Fatal Attraction), it’s here. Young Robert Ford (he’s a coward, didn’t you know?) is in awe of his idol, outlaw Jesse James, and creepily, he winds his way into the latter’s life. Then things get weird; it’s the pressure of outlawing, you know. First you’re riding around with a hanky over your face yelling “YEE HAW!” then there’s a price on your head and it’s just gotten high enough to interest people. The winters are cold and bleak, the paranoia stakes are high, and life on the lamb doesn’t seem as glamorous as it once did. Outlaws have feelings too! Just like celebrities!

Brad Pitt is pretty good at portraying Jesse’s spiral into mild insanity, and there’s not a moment that Casey Affleck spends on screen where he doesn’t make my skin crawl, but that’s actually a good thing. So if you’re dreaming of one day meeting and befriending Al Pacino, careful. You might end up shooting him, and then Nick Cave’ll be singing derogatory songs about you for the rest of your life.

I’m just saying.

But it is a good movie—slower paced than you might expect a western to be, but then it’s not really about the “western” aspects of Jesse James. The movie comes in where Jesse is already famous, and in a sense shows us the beginning of his end. We all know how it turns out, I suppose (apparently Brad Pitt got it in writing that the title of the film wouldn’t change), but there’s always more to it than that. None of this is as simple as the title suggests. Sam Rockwell is always a welcome oddity on screen, too.

So let’s look at this movie’s nominations:

Supporting Actor—Casey Affleck
The only one who might come within a hair’s breadth of taking this award from Javier Bardem, other than Hal Holbrook. But really, this award is Javier’s to lose. Pity, because as mentioned, Affleck is skin-crawlingly good.

Cinematography—Roger Deakins
If you haven’t heard of Roger Deakins, I don’t know what I’ve been doing wrong. Here’s his resume: The Shawshank Redemption, Fargo, Kundun, O Brother Where Art Thou?, The Man Who Wasn’t There, and No Country For Old Men. Oscar nominations all. He plays a lot with colour and texture in his lighting, and really seems to be trying for something special in each frame, which is more than can be said for some (Pride & Prejudice, I’m looking at you). But Jesse James is shot at points as though it’s through one of those old sepia cameras—it’s extraordinary. I’m pretty sure he’ll win this year, the biggest competition coming from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, whose cinematography is really pivotal to the film, and possibly from Atonement, for no spectacularly good reason other than that huge one-shot I mentioned.

Ok, time to close, and leaving y’all with another quote from our BEANIE winner. This here’s what we call “clutching at straws”, or “who in their right mind would welcome this guy onto their gang?”

“Well, if you'll pardon my saying so, I guess it is interesting, the many ways you and I overlap and whatnot. You begin with our Daddies. Your daddy was a pastor of the New Hope Baptist Church; my daddy was a pastor of a church at Excelsior Springs. Um. You're the youngest of the three James boys; I'm the youngest of the five Ford boys. Between Charley and me, is another brother, Wilbur here, with six letters in his name; between Frank and you was a brother, Robert, also with six letters. Robert is my Christian name. You have blue eyes; I have blue eyes. You're five feet eight inches tall. I'm five feet eight inches tall. Oh me, I must've had a list as long as your nightshirt when I was twelve, but I've lost some curiosities over the years.”
-- Casey Affleck – The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

BLOOD! GORE! POLIOSIS!

February 9, 2008

Woooo!

That’s what happens when I see a Johnny Depp film these days. This week I saw Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (or STTDBOFS), and now I never want to get my hair cut again. YIKES. Seriously, the barbers union is going to be suing Mssrs Burton and Depp for loss of profits.

Ok, here’s the story: former barber and erstwhile wrongfully accused convict Benjamin Barker returns from Australia (WOO! AUSTRALIA!) with a brand new ‘do and a heck of a vengeance. Turns out Alan Rickman had him arrested so that he could move in on Barker’s wife (must have seemed like the most logical plan at the time). Unfortunately for Mr Rickman (who has now adopted Barker’s child), it turns out that Barker (now named Sweeney Todd) is pretty much focused on killing him. Hijinks ensue. Did I mention this was a musical? Awesome.

Depp is very good, and at times terrifying (never knew anyone could make that hair do look so chilling), and hey, the guy can sing a tune or two. Helena Bonham Carter (aka, Mrs Burton (are they still married? Where’s Entertainment Tonight when I need them?)) is also fantastic, and Sacha Baron-Cohen makes a nice appearance in a spectacular pair of blue lycra tights.
Sound weird? It should do. It’s Tim Burton.

I should probably also say something about how violent this film is. I mean, really violent. Who would have thought there was that much blood in the human body?? Eeep. Depp has a wonderful time (you can tell) going jab jab jab with the razors…splat splat splat with the blood…but this little black duck was going “AAAH!” all the way through.

Tell you what, I’m dying for an Oscar telecast now, because I really want to see which clip they use for Johnny’s nomination.

Actor—Johnny Depp
He’s really the only one of the four remaining who I would expect to be able to steal this one from Daniel Day-Lewis, but I’m not sure how likely that is. Stupid Academy. He so should have won it for Pirates…

Art Direction—Dante Ferretti, Francesca Lo Schiavo
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Tim Burton knows how to direct art. (Heh.) His movie canvases are always so colourful and vibrant—even though most of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (HEE) is quite dark, comparatively, the colours it does have aren’t shy about expressing themselves. It’s like a bruise—a world of black and brown and blue with frequent bursts of vibrant, candy-apple red.
(side note: Dante Ferretti also did the art direction for Titus, which also heavily features pies composed of dubious substances…)

Costume Design—Colleen Atwood
Heck of a chance here—mostly due to Atwood’s historic record (she won Oscars for Memoirs of a Geisha and Chicago) and her collaboration with the always visually stunning work of Tim Burton (the guy is like a mad hatter loose in a fairy tale paintbox)—but she’ll face strong competition from Atonement (I still say the green dress wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be) and La Mome (which I’ve also heard called La Vie En Rose…emm…)

Back on track, anyway, and it’s time to hand out another BEANIE.

Best Performance by a Hairstyle

And the BEANIE goes to…Damn near everyone for Hairspray

There’s only one thing better than hairspray, says James Marsden, and that’s James Marsden. Some seriously gravity-defying do’s in this film, and I shudder to think how many asthmatics were lost during the making of it. I could tell you that the hair dos also act as integral prop-pieces, but come on, you know better. It’s just about the hair.

I’m pretty damn peeved that this film isn’t nominated for ANYTHING (would it have killed them to go for Art Direction or Costumes? Or Makeup? Pffft) as it was one of the movies that made me GO OFF—it’s pretty impossible to leave the theatre without a smile on your face. James Marsden is excellent as host Corny Collins, a character he describes as being sort of like Frank Sinatra, with a big dollop of cheese on top. Nikki Blonsky is excellent—so cheerful and effervescent—and Michelle Pfieffer really should sing more often.

The runner up in this category, in case you were wondering is Depp himself for Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (I just love typing that out in full), who rocks that whole white streak thing. Found this online:

“The actual medical name for the white forelock is poliosis. It can occur in otherwise normal folks as a form of a birthmark…white hair in Waardenburg's syndrome correlates with hearing issues, a unibrow, and irises of two different colors…”

Well I think we’ve all learned something.

Also:

"Mr. Depp’s Sweeney isn’t a regular guy either. With a Susan Sontag patch of white streaking his pompadour, ghostly skin and distraught eyes, this Sweeney is both wretched and mad."

Wow. He’s wretched, you see, AND mad. And oh ho! Not regular. Another person on the page where I found this helpfully points out that Cruella DeVille from 101 Dalmations also has a white streak. That settles it, I guess.

Anyway, it’s time to sign off, so I’ll leave you with my favourite lyric from Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street…

O

“There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit
And it’s filled with people who are filled with shit
And the vermin of the world inhabit it
And it goes by the name of ‘London’.”
-- Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street --

PS—For those of you who were wondering about Punxsatawney Phil—he did eventually emerge, yawning, in time to proclaim there would be six more weeks of winter. Not here, but, somewhere.

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

February 2nd – 22 Sleeps To Go

- ...but the big question on everybody's lips...

- On their chapped lips...

- On their chapped lips, right: Do ya think Phil is gonna come out and see his shadow?

-Punxsutawney Phil! -

Thats right, woodchuck-chuckers - it's --GROUNDHOG DAY!

All a long and draw-out way of welcoming you all to this day. Mine hasn’t been especially exciting so far, so I’m kind of hoping it won’t be repeated. But according to Groundhog.org (yyyep) Punxatawny Phil has yet to emerge from his warm little bed, so I’ll keep you posted re: the weather for the next six weeks.

Back to the Oscars! Yay!

So the Screen Actors Guild Awards were given out on the 27th, and….mostly they were as expected, with the exception of Ruby Dee winning for American Gangster instead of favourite Cate Blanchett in I’m Not There. Hmm. A little worrying for Our Cate, especially since she’s got two nominations—if ever there was a death knell for Oscar hopes, it's the double nomination… So I wouldn’t say she’s got it wrapped up—especially since Amy Ryan is winning a lot of independent awards for Gone Baby Gone… Hmm.

Otherwise, Daniel Day-Lewis, Javier Bardem and Julie Christie kicked everyone else’s collective ass.

So this week I saw Charlie Wilson’s War, whose sole Oscar nomination this year goes to Philip Seymour Hoffman, otherwise known as IckyMan, for Best Supporting Actor, and who to my astonishment is pretty good in this (A theory has been put to me that the reason is that what with his big spectacles and fraying moustache, parts of his face are…how to put this…not immediately visible? I’m just saying.). On the pro side, the movie’s major plus is the fact that Aaron (The West Wing) Sorkin (who is not, we shall note, nominated for ANYTHING at this year’s Oscars) wrote the script. It’s moments like this you need a really withering one-liner. And so today’s BEANIE is:

Best Withering One-Liner
(I’ve got to work on these award names)

Anyway, today’s BEANIE goes to…

Charlie Wilson’s War, for “Can we just take a moment to reflect on all of the ways in which you are a douchebag?”

I know, I’m as surprised as the rest of you that this is going to a line uttered by Philip Seymour Hoffman, but then I’m even more surprised that I watched the whole of Charlie Wilson’s War without him irritating me. Yay. And it’s lovely to have Aaron Sorkin back writing again (how I’ve missed him).

Other nominees included:

Hot Fuzz, for “Playtime’s over”
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End, for “If I may lend a machete to your intellectual thicket…”
The Simpsons Movie, for “Rats can’t be trapped this easily. You’re trapped like…carrots.”
Juno, for “Oh yeah? Well I still have your virginity!”

So what kind of chance does the Hoffman have at this year’s Oscars? Well…not much, to tell the truth. Sorry, PSH, but you’d better thank your lucky stars for your other little statuette, because if anyone’s going to take out the Best Supporting Actor Award, it’s going to be Javier Bardem for No Country For Old Men, and in the (slightly unlikely) event that it’s not him, then it’ll be Hal Holbrook for Into the Wild, or Casey Affleck for The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.

Another reason this particular BEANIE is relevant (well, you know, as relevance goes) is that the writer’s strike continues, picketing, marching…jotting down anything vaguely witty so that when this is all over they can go up to the networks and say “SEE? THIS is what you almost missed out on!” Don’t get me wrong, I love the writers, I want them to be paid fairly (well, you know, the Hollywood version of “fairly”), but I also want a purty little Oscar show. You can see my problem. I say we blame the networks.

Right. Gotta go. A merry Groundhog Day to you all!

O

PS—As of the time this email was sent, Punxatawney Phil was still snug up in his little groundhog bed, refusing to tell us anything about his shadow until the sun had actually risen. Lazy bastard

The BEANIES, or, Lots About Atonement

January 27: 29 Sleeps To Go

And so after much deliberation, I have decided that the theme of this year’s Omails shall be Awards I Would Give If I Were In Charge, affectionately known as Best Ever Awards Not In ExistenceS, or the BEANIEs. (Contrivance? Moi?) I plan one day to have a little gold beanie statuette. With a pom pom.

I’ll attempt to keep it to one a day, and while it’s going to have to depend on how much I know about a movie, I’ll try—really I will—not to focus too much on Hot Fuzz.

Actually, the best thing to start off with is the following:

Most Annoying Child Actor in a Motion Picture
goes to... Saoirse Ronan (Atonement)

This award was initially going to be named for the Least Annoying Child Actor, but then I saw Atonement (just the other day), and I’ve never wanted to slap a little girl so much in my life. I’m not saying she was necessarily a bad actress, but I do think it’s becoming a bit like “Oh look, there’s a child in a movie who can string a few sentences together. Let’s give her a nomination!” Haley Joel Osment is taking a break from becoming a Rowdy Teen just to glare at the Academy and yell “Hacks!”

Anyway, remember those days when all the kid had to do was wear shorts and look cross and occasionally come out with a nasal line like “Okay, mister.”? They weren’t great days, mind. And I’m not saying I’d like to return to those days. But the fact is it’s difficult to be a child actor and not grate on at least half the audience. If we learned anything from Macauley Culkin, I think that was it (that, and the fact that any intruder to your home can be foiled with a tarantula, a few cans of paint, and a hot poker under a door handle).

As for the actual film—you have no idea how much this pains and surprises me, but—it was actually pretty damn good. This is attributed mostly, I suspect, to a well-written and very involving story, in which the pivotal character acts, reacts, punishes herself, but never quite redeems herself. The film is not without its faults (a bit of residual “Oh, this is pretty scenery, let’s shoot it” left over from Pride and Prejudice, and, you know, Keira) but still. Nicely done.

So let’s look at the awards it’s up for:

Supporting Actress—Saoirse Ronan

Ugh. I sort of hope not. Not that she was bad. She was…well…she was there.

Adapted Screenplay—Christopher Hampton

Not a bad shot at this one, really. I’ve never read the book, but hear on the grapevine that it’s a decent adaptation. I also think it’s quite nicely structured.

Cinematography—Seamus McGarvey

Hmmm. Not sure. There’s a brilliant tracking shot about two thirds through that lasts for something like four minutes, weaving in and out of soldiers, shipwrecks, choirs, smoke, fire, ash, picking up a character, dropping him, picking up another, following him until we meet again with the first—and it’s All. One. Shot. Good lord. So for that, I’m pretty impressed. Otherwise…not sure.

Art Direction—Sarah Greenwood, Katie Spencer

Meh. It was fine, I suppose, but not enough, in my opinion to beat anything Tim Burton does. I’m just saying.

Costume—Jacqueline Durran

It’s always possible, I suppose. Mostly I get inscensed when I see this category due to a recent poll that rated the green dress that Keira Knightly wears in this film as the GREATEST COSTUME EVER, or something. I mean, ahead of Marilyn’s white dress in the Seven Year Itch, or Audrey Hepburn’s little black dress in Breakfast At Tiffany’s…or Olivia Newton-John’s leather pants in Grease, for heaven’s sake… For this reason, I shall not be voting for it. I told you petty was the new black.

Original Score—Dario Marionelli

I have to say, it’s not bad. Mostly in the way that it links in the intrusive and hungry sound of the typewriter to the percussion behind the tune…it ends up sounding ominous, like a ticking clock, and because it keeps time, rather than getting faster, it creates a constant tension. It’s pretty damn good.

Ok, enough of that.

O

“Dearest Cecilia, the story can resume. The one I had been planning on that evening walk. I can become again the man who once crossed the surrey park at dusk, in my best suit, swaggering on the promise of life…” – James MacAvoy (swoon) – Atonement

Rescuscitating the Oscars

(23 Jan 2008)

Happy New Year to y’all, and as we wind down the Year of the Pig, and scuttle forward into the Year of the Rat, a very merry Oscar Season to you all.

The big question at the moment is, of course, will there be an Oscars ceremony? It’s the Writers vs Everyone Else, and Alien and Predator will be nothing compared to this. I mean, writers have pens, and laptops and typewriters - they’ve got paper and scripts and George Clooney, while Everyone Else has…well…money. Hmm.

But assuming the show does go on, it’ll be doing so with the fantastic Jon Stewart at the helm, waving, grinning, making fun of the Baldwins… Oh, it’s going to be great.

Most unfortunately, my cinema viewing has been pretty lacklustre this year. I haven’t seen No Country for Old Men or There Will Be Blood (which, I have to say I’m having trouble distinguishing between), I haven’t seen Atonement (this as part of my reluctance to see Keira Knightly (ugh, “Keira” is accepted by spellcheck) pouting her way about another film set, although this is raged against by my having no objection whatsoever to James McAvoy doing the same). I’ve got some ground to cover.

Anyway, with regard to today’s nominations…

In Which We Are Happy

Hurrah for Juno, which is an absolutely gorgeous film (and one I’ve seen!). Punchy and hilarious, and with a kick-ass lead performance from Ellen Page, deservedly nominated for Best Actress. She’s got a formidable opponent in Julie Christie (Away From Her), but if anyone can cause a real upset, I think it’s her. Also nice to see Laura Linney up there.

Hurrahs will also be voiced for Johnny Depp, nominated for Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (my favourite title of the year) (nope, it’s been usurped—that title now belongs to nominee for Animated Short Film Even Pigeons Go To Heaven), who I think should always be included in every awards show. Yay also for George Clooney, and my pick for a dark horse (of which I’m pretty proud), Viggo Mortensen (Eastern Promises).

Hal Holbrook, a perennial HITG! (ie—Hey, It’s That Guy!) gets a nod for Into the Wild, and I’m all for it. Happy as always to see Cate Blanchett in the Kodak, and it looks like she’s the one to beat (for I’m Not There, anyway…not much chance of getting it for Elizabeth: The Golden Age, especially when they didn’t give it to her the first time…but that’s another rant…).

I’m also pretty tickled that three of the songs from Enchanted have been nominated for Best Original Song—I can’t help it, I find it all adorable.

In antidote to that…I know it’s petty, but I’m really glad that the inexplicable hysteria that surrounds Keira Knightly wasn’t enough to get her nominated. Hurrah! Petty is the new black!

In Which We Are Disgruntled

No nominations for Hairspray?? What?? Not even Makeup (which includes, I suppose, hair)?? What about those few original songs?? What’s going on!? Seems wrong, and all the more reason for me to start my own awards show, in which Hairspray and Hot Fuzz would take home just about everything.

Norbit? NORBIT got nominated? This makes the whole shunning of Hairspray even worse.

Also, I mean, would it have killed the Academy to get James MacAvoy up on that stage? Really.

In Which We Are Seriously Ticked Off

Wither Simpsons Movie? WITHER?

In Which We Are Interested…But Otherwise Unaffected

So Michael Moore’s Sicko got nominated for Best Documentary Feature.

Anyway, in the next few weeks I will opt to defibrillate the O-posts, bringin’ ‘em back, just to annoy you.

Hope you’re all well and, wherever you are, happy.

O