Jump

"There is only so much you can learn in one place, the more that I wait, the more time that I waste." Madonna's lyrics have special significance for me, for I am now living in the fifth different flat this year. Four moves since May, three of which in the last six weeks.

My one-bedroom flat in Holborn may have been spacious, but it was an ice box. In early June, when the temperature was in the mid-twenties, my sitting room remained icy enough to warrant the use of a fan heater. I dreaded the thought of a winter there, but rationalised my decision by likening it to the actions of a bygone era: I've taken a little flat in Holborn for the summer. By the end of September, I reached the point of being ready to flatshare, with the goal of saving enough money to afford an overseas trip each month in 2007. So at the end of September, just before my trip to Sitges, I started my search for a suitable flatshare.

I looked at flats in Elephant & Castle, Lambeth North, Fitzrovia, and NoHo, before settling on a flat in Old Street, sharing with a gentle, gracious, and genuinely likeable guy. Bill is a recently-outed 51yo father of four, who left his wife (and two of those kids) in April this year, to be gay, full-time. Most people would run a mile at that prospect of a flatmate, and I should have done the same, but after repeatedly being knocked back on flats, I was becoming quite desperate. I also quite genuinely liked the guy (even if I was wary of where he was at, with the gay thing). But if I had any doubts, I needn't have worried for too long. Five days before moving in, our landlord decided to break the lease, with the justification that he intended to move into the flat himself. By this time, my deposit cheque had cleared, and I really didn't have sufficient time to flathshare hunt elsewhere. So I moved into Old Street with the knowledge that I'd have to move out by 15 December.

As frustrating as it seemed at the time, this scenario was quite fortuitious. You see, as much as I really like Bill, I don't think a flatshare is the ideal domestic environment for him right now. Presently unburdened by employement, his day consists of trawling Gaydar for the day's conquest, and as was often the case, one of many each day. I consider myself to be very liberally-minded on such matters, but this situation did test my limits, the longer that we shared. All I can do is now laugh at the events that made my eyes roll, and freaked out my friends when I later told them... Like the first weekend, when Bill invited a "special friend" over at 10am for a Sunday morning shag... And managed to leave the door ajar as they got busy in the bedroom. Ewww!!! Who wants to hear their flatmate getting busy in the next room? If only I knew what was in store for me, because that is what happened, with increasing frequency, day after day, week after week. I never thought that chemically-unaided quintagenarians could have that much stamina. And when I wasn't directly hearing it, I still heard about it. After a day at work, it's customary - and only polite - to ask one's flatmate, "how was your day?". Bill always answered in excruciating, detail, leaving very little to the imagination (as if anyone was imagining), each time reminding me of one of life's ironic truisms: that polite people are always at a disadvantage.

After a few weeks in Old Street, I learned the true nature of the circumstances that forced us out of that flat. Bill moved into the flat to live with the boyfriend he had taken up with, around the time of the split with his wife. It turns out that the owner of the flat is an ex-boyfriend of Bill's boyfriend. That relationship had been over for some time, but our landlord was always miffed that he had lost his boyfriend to Bill... even though the landlord himself was married, and living a duplicitous life with a woman somewhere. Confused? I was. And if it weren't for the salacious complexity of the drama, I'd have lost interest weeks ago.

The final straw of Old Street came on the day that I moved out. Bill was entertaining a regular visitor in his bedroom, on this Saturday afternoon. The special friend (an "Oriental", to use Bill's peculiarly archaic and frustratingly non-PC lingo) decided to fix a drink for himself and his host. So while I was preparing a meal for myself, the friend bounces into the kitchen as naked as the day he was born. An awkward moment ensued. I averted my gaze with haste, while the friend awkwardly stopped in his tracks. And what do you think happened next? He just kept on doing what he intended to do when he walked out of the bedroom... And prepared to make two gin and tonics in his birthday suit. Fueled with rage, I summoned every ounce of patience and enquired, with painstaking politeness, "Would you like a towel?" "No, I have one", came the Empress' reply, seemingly unaware of his new clothes. "Well", I seethed through gritted teeth, "I'd prefer that you wear it", as I exited stage right.

From Old Street, I moved into a flat in the king of council housing, the Barbican Estate. I have been desperate to live in the Barbican since arriving in London seventeen months ago. An opportunity presented itself, and so I jumped at the prospect of living in a three-bedroom flat, fitted out in all its original 70s glamour (the Barbican has listed heritage status), with spacious rooms, ceiling-to-floor double-glazed windows, and balconies off every room. Not only is the Barbican right in the heart of the Square Mile, in the City of London, but the sitting room had a view of the dome of St Paul's Cathedral... all for £150/wk including utilities. It was a bargain. But like many bargains, it came at a tremendous price. The night that I moved in, a Saturday, I went to bed around 11:30pm. There was still a bit of road noise on Aldersgate Street outside my window, but I figured this was a Saturday-night-thing, and popped in some ear plugs. At 2:30am, when I was woken by the sound of a police siren, despite the ear plugs, I started to have second thoughts. Even after downing a sleeping tablet, I still lay awake for 40 minutes, listening to the hum of street traffic through the ear plugs, cursing my obsession with the Barbican. The next morning I consulted my flatmates about the road noise, both of whom related how they felt just the same when they moved in... and how they both cried every night for two weeks because they couldn't sleep, and wondered if they would ever be able to sleep there (which is exactly how I felt). I wasn't keen on two weeks of no sleep, so I rang the flatmate who lived at my second-preference flatshare, which by divine fortune, was still available. So within 24 hours of moving into the Barbican, I planned to move out, executing the deed a few nights later. It was only after I made this decision that I learnt that my room in that flat remained unlet for several months - presumably because of the road noise - and that my flatmates weren't that tolerant of the noise either. One of the flatmates wore ear plugs every single night, and the other is partially hard of hearing!!

My new flat is in Clerkenwell, in the old of parish of St James. My bedroom was the sitting room of a ground floor two-bedroom flat. I have dual aspect windows, southerly and westerly, the latter overlooking a little private garden. Most of the other properties in Wharton Street are expensive brownstones, especially around Lloyd Square. Wharton Street runs down a hill, providing an unobstructed postcard view of the BT Tower in the distance. And because of the aggressive traffic calming put in place by Islington Council, there is almost no traffic, even though I'm only an eight minute walk from Kings Cross station, and even less to Angel.

Gift-wrapped Terrace in Soho Square

Human Traffic Jam

It's not quite Christmas in London until I've been stuck in a human traffic jam on Regent Street.

Carnaby Street Decorations

Fire Juggler on Carnaby Street

Liberty Dressed Up For Christmas

Christmas Shopping on Oxford Street

Oxford Street was closed to traffic today, and there was still only just enough room for all the shoppers!

Tinseltown

Martin and I are at a charity function for World AIDS Day, at Cafe Royal on Regent Street.

Summer's Lease

The summer was really good for me. It was a period of non-stop activity, and barely a moment's rest, and for the first time in months I was able to have fun, and enjoy the weather. On every weekend between the start of June and the end of August, I was either out of town, attending a big festival, or was playing host to a friend. I've previously blogged about some of the bigger things, like Bletchley Park, and my road trip through Bavaria and Austria, but here are some of the other things I got up to, that were equally as fun:

The summer fun effectively began on June 10. Earlier that day I went to Guildford with Troy, then rushed back to London to attend Mark's birthday at a tapas restaurant in Fitzrovia, followed by a Soho night adventure. By this time, Mark had decided to return home to Australia, so we all shared a collective eagerness to enjoy our nights out together. The following month we all went to Love Box, a huge alternative music festival organised by Groove Armada, in the East End's Victoria Park.

On July 15, in dire need to see a beach, I visited Southend-on-Sea in Essex. I chose poorly. Southend is on the north bank of the Thames Estuary, which of course empties into the English channel, so the waves are near non-existent... and the pebbly beach is laughable (and painful to lie on). BUT, once I lay in the sun for a few hours, with my eyes shut, listening to the waves, I felt like I could have been anywhere else, and so the trip was worth it! The Southend seafront may not be beautiful, but it was delightful to visit a typically English seaside town, especially the amusement park, built adjacent to the pier, that has the distinction of being the longest in the world. But the rest of Sowf'fenn - as the locals might say - was chavvy, high street, Anywhere, England.

August was the busiest month of my summer, with two civil partnership ceremonies (Kurt and Max, and Howard and Barnaby), and two friends from Australia in town, Brendan and Geoffrey. This was Geoffrey's first extended trip to London as an adult, and it's fair to say he fell in love with the city in no time. He was in town to celebrate his 30th birthday, but we also managed to fit in a helluva lot of sightseeing. Brendan now lives in Canada, and has lived in London before, so our activities were a little less tourist-oriented, though we did visit Buckingham Palace to tour the state rooms. In honour of the Queen's 80th birthday, the palace presented a retrospective of 80 of her most famous gowns. Organised by colour, the exhibit was quite a spectacle, but a chronological arrangement might have been more forgiving. The Queen had a top figure in her youth, as evident in the gowns of that era. But placed side-by-side with more recent gowns, they only served to highlight the ravages of time, with lowering hemlines, rising necklines, expanding waistlines, and ever-so-shrinking bustlines. As for the rest of the palace, it is spacious and impressive, but devoid of any real style. Most rooms reek of Royal rococo bling, and wouldn't hold their own to say, some rooms in Blenheim Palace.

At the end of July, we (Kurt, Max, James and I) day-tripped to Stonehenge and Winchester. Stonehenge is impressive, but the feeling is fleeting. It's not long before you realise you're looking at an assortment of stoens in a field next to a highway. The nearby town of Winchester is very pretty, and has an impressive cathedral. But we were equally taken with the politically-incorrectly-named Black Boy pub where we had lunch... that also happens to serve XXXX on tap!

But the highlight of the English summer is the plethora of music and outdoor festivals. I love how Europeans really take advantage of good weather in warmer months, and go all out to enjoy every last ray of sunshine. Take for example the fantastic roof garden of Le Coq D'Argent, where we had afternoon drinks one Friday. In addition to Love Box (mentioned above), I went to no less than three gay pride events this summer:

Europe's collective pride event is EuroPride, and London was this year's host. The centrepiece event was a street parade through the West End, which was fun, but nothing on Sydney. At the conclusion of the parade, everyone moved on to Soho for a street party.

Soho Pride is my favourite event, and the original Soho street party that inspired this year's EuroPride effort. It's a really fun and very relaxed afternoon.

Brighton Pride, surprised me by its sheer size. Thousands of people crowded into a large public park, with a fairground atmosphere. Even the dance tent was huge. And unlike some of the other events, there was something for everyone at Brighton, including line-dancing, if that's your thing.

Waiting in line for the Vatican

It took about two hours to get in to the Vatican. One of those waits that totally exhausts you just by waiting, and before you actually get to do to do what you were waiting for. I was about to pass out from dehydration and hunger by the time we got in to the Vatican, but as I was on a guided tour, plus with the Museums closing early on Saturdays, I basically had to survive to 3pm with nothing more substantial than an early morning protein shake!

Station X

On July 8, Troy and I took a train from Euston Station to Bletchley, to visit the top-secret WW2 site, Station X, known today as Bletchley Park. It was here that British code-breakers managed to decrypt the highly complex Enigma machine used by German military command to encrypt secret messages. Today, Bletchley Park is a run-down museum that operates without government-funding. It's a shame, and a slap-in-the-face from the authorities, especially given that the efforts of Station X managed to shorten the war by at least eighteen months, saving millions of lives. The mathematical genius Alan Turing is a central figure to the story of Bletchley Park, as it was his electro-mechanical Turing Bombes that first allowed Station X to decrypt German ciphers. Tortured by his homosexuality in an oppressive period, Turing later committed suicide... or perhaps not... either way, by eating a poisoned apple.

Station X also holds great significance for computer science, as it was here that the world's first electronic computer, Colossus, was built and used. The Americans originally laid claim to this achievement, and it was only in the mid-Seventies, 30 years after the war, when Colossus was declassified, that the Brits could publicly challenge the American achievement. Colossus was not programmable, however, meaning it could only decrypt the highly complex 12-ring Enigma cyphers used by the most senior German command, and do nothing else. So the Americans still have the distinction of producing the world's first programmable computer (which could perform multiple functions, once it was reprogrammed). But because of Bletchley's Park importance to the history fo computer science, there is a fab little computer museum within the park. Other attractions include a Harrier Jump Jet, and part of a German U-Boat.

After the war, Churchill ordered the destruction of Colossus and all Turing Bombes, in fear that they might be appropriated by a new enemy. There is now a reconstructed Colossus at Station X, built by volunteers, which is an incredible feat given that there are only eight surviving photos of the machine, and a few bare schematics. The volunteer at the Colossus building explained to me that while the reconstruction effort began ten years ago, one small section had to be delayed until a few years back, because its design was still classified, and still employed by the the British government until very recently. And that sums up the advanced technological output of Station X.

Sony Bravia Advertisements

Sony have created some brilliant advertisements this past year, to promote the colour accuracy of their Bravia LCD televisions. What is most impressive about these ads, especially these days, is that Sony decided against using computer-generated imagery. Everything you see is real. The first ad depicts 170,000 Super Balls bouncing down San Francisco streets, in slow motion. It's really beautiful, and worthwhile viewing in high-definition via the Sony site, instead of the Google Video below. Also check out the making-of documentary, and a British spoof ad for Tango.


This year's ad depicts the repainting-by-pyrotechnics of an ugly council housing estate in Glasgow. Government-built public housing is found throughout Britain, in areas of all socio-economic standing. In post-war bomb-ravaged London, the concrete estates were put up cheaply and quickly to provide housing for the many people who had none. They're often drab, and sometimes quite ugly, which gives you the background why repainting them is such an exciting idea. 70,000 litres of paint were fired by pyrotechnics experts around a council estate (destined for demolition), synchronised to a classical score like a scene in a Kubrick film. Once again, the high-resolution video on the Sony site is better than the Google Video below. There is also a making-of documentary that's worth checking out.

Eyes Wide Open

On the last weekend in June, I headed north to the Hertfordshire town of St Albans, and specifically a small village just outside called Childwickbury. It is here at Childwickbury Manor, to be precise, that Stanley Kubrick lived for the last 20 years of his life. In the years following his death, Kubrick's wife Christiane and daughter Katharina, respected artists in their own right, decided to hold an annual arts fair on the estate, which is why I visited.

I had a wonderful afternoon, observing local arts and crafts people weaving their magic, including Christiane Kubrick as she painted a landscape. I met a delightful actress named Claire Lams, who regaled me with the story of her recent trip to eastern Europe to film Pumpkinhead IV. Katharina Kubrick-Hobbs was also on site, and very approachable. My favourite of her paintings is Sparks, depicting some gaffers on a soundstage catwalk. Katharina told us the painting was derived from some sketches she made in Ireland when she was stills photographer on Barry Lyndon. And yes, it was her father who taught her the art of photography. How lucky for her, to have him for a teacher!

Katharina was very forthcoming with wonderful stories about her father. Most are probably lost to the excess of my summer, but one springs to mind. On one occasion he showed her some rushes from an early scene in Eyes Wide Shut, when Bill and Alice Harford (Tom and Nicole) attend Ziegler's party. Katharina explained that the entire scene was shot using actual fairy lights that appear on-screen (instead of huge spotlights off-screen), which lends the scene a dreamy, golden glow. Stanley was beaming with delight as he showed his daughter this footage; giddily excited with the beauty of what he'd made, as if it were the first thing he'd ever shot. As Katharina told this story, she enthused with the love that the family proudly declare for their most famous member, who was often dismissed by the press as cold, mysogynistic, and burdened with neuroses.

And as for those fairy lights... like many Kubrick props, they remain with the family to this day. Katharina said they have more fairy lights than one could ever need, and were even using some of them to decorate the bar at the arts fair! This ties into another interesting point that she made, that Stanley Kubrick used, and reused, found objects in his life, rather than the more expensive decision to purchase props for a film. Apparently, some of the furniture in Bill and Alice Harford's New York Apartment came from Katharina's home... meaning that for eighteen months her family did not have a sofa!

Bavaria and Austria

I flew to Salzburg in mid-June for a weekend road trip through Bavaria and western Austria. But stupid me left my portable hard drive in the hire car, with most of my photos on it. Between that and the non-stop madness of the summer, it's only now, three months later, that I've had a chance to post my photos!

For many years now, I've wanted to visit the Kehlsteinhaus, pictured above, and colloquially known as Hitler's Eagle's Nest. It's one of the few remaining intact Nazi-built structures that is remembered as such, and its history is provided in full detail by the tour guides, in a factual manner, without glorification. Designed by Albert Speer, the Kehlsteinahus was built in secret, and presented to Hitler as a gift on the occasion of his 50th birthday in 1938. It was intended to be the showpiece of the party's extensive Bavarian headquarters in Obersalzburg, near Berchtesgaden. And it certainly is impressive, perched on the edge of a steep peak with spectacular 360º views.

Even the trip to the Kehlsteinhaus is impressive: in special coaches that travel up a single-lane road that was etched into the rockface. The mountain road terminates at a car park, with a single stone arch leading into the mountain. Through the arch, one walks about 100m into the mountain in a stone-lined tunnel. At the end is a chandelier-lit waiting room, where one waits for the large brass elevator to take one up inside the mountain, opening directly inside the Kehlsteinhaus. It's all very James Bond villain. One half expects to see Blofeld's white cat lurking around the summit.

The Eagle's Nest was designed to impress foreign dignitaries, and it certainly does impress. It seems to me that National Socialism became the dominant political force on the back of one of the world's first successful mass PR exercises, ie propaganda, rather than an ideological agreement among the people. At the Kehlsteinhaus, one certainly gets a sense of how the German people were seduced by that showmanship.

After the Kehlsteinhaus, I drove to the adjacent towns of Berchtesgaden and Königsee. The latter is famous for its beautiful fjord-like lake. You can take a boat trip to an isolated Byzantine church, but I didn't have time... the only way to enter the lake is from the small bay at Königsee.

Before returning to Salzburg that evening, I detoured back into Bavaria to visit Hohenwerfen, a beautiful mediaeval fortress built on a steep hill. This stunning castle dates from the 11th century and was variously used a palace, a hunting retreat, and a prison. It's also famed for its falconry tradition. If Hohenwerfen looks familiar, you might remember it from Where Eagles Dare, and in the background of the "Do Re Mi" sequence in The Sound of Music.

Salzburg is a pretty town, especially in the old town... but it's outer-lying regions did seem a little lacklustre, and like Brussels, could have been Anywhere, Europe. Of particular interest to me were the Mirabell Gardens, and the Hohensalzburg Fortress that overlooks the town. From the castle, one can see a solitary house in a field. This was the executioner's house; no-one wanted to live near him!

Next stop on my road trip was Innsbruck, via the autobahn that snakes back and forth across the German/Austrian border. Innsbruck is a lovely old town, set in a valley between some very high mountain ranges. It was quite thrilling to see planes taking off from, and flying in to, Innsbruck; despite the height of the aircraft, they were still dwarfed by the mountainous terrain behind the town. Innsbruck hosted the 1964 Winter Olympics, and the Bergisel ski jump, built for those games, were recently renovated. I was able to snap a few photographs of a ski jumper practising on the Bergisel's jump. In lieu of snow, rubber mats are placed on the slope, and wet down by sprinklers prior to the jump.

The final stop on my trip was the beautiful fairytale castle of Neuschwanstein. Built by mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria, the castle is perched on a hill top against some beautiful Bavarian forest. Neuschwanstein later inspired Disney's Sleeping Beauty castle. Ludwig apparently planned a third castle, Falkenstein, the most fairytale-like of them all, but he died under mysterious circumstances before he had the chance. Ludwig's building programme bankrupted him. Neuschwanstein was not finished before he died, and the government ceased work upon his death. Rumour has it, the Bavarian government had him done in, in fear of the king ransacking the state's treasury. In World War II, the Nazis stored stolen "Nazi gold" in Neuschwanstein. Before the end of the war, the gold reserves were removed, and, according to legend, were dumped in nearby Alat Lake.

All of my Salzburg photographs can be viewed in a slideshow here. And my photographs of Bavaria are in their own slideshow here.

Bittersweet Symphony

One of the greatest annoyances of London life, as noted in my list of 16 things, is how pedestrians will hog narrow Victorian-era footpaths, without nary a thought for the hundreds of other people who also need to share the space.

Earlier this week I had cause to rewatch the music video for The Verve's Bittersweet Symphony. It's an old favourite of mine (and for many others, I gather), with soulful lyrics detailing one man's struggle of adversity of life, set against a beautiful strings score (sampled from a Rolling Stones song, apparently). But it's only now, nine years after I first saw it, and after living in London, that I really get the video. Sure, the video's story is one with global appeal, but nothing else I've seen nails the dilemma of walking on London's footpaths. It's really hard to describe the self-absorbed rudeness of some people in London. They dawdle down the street, hogging the footpath, on their phone, or zoned out listening to their iPod, and absolutely refuse to budge from a pre-determined flight path. And the problem only gets worse with a group of people, because no-one walks single-file.

Like the other ex-pats I know here, one's first response is to naturally be polite and make way for other people, but that quickly wears you out. There are just too many people in London, and far too much rudeness, for that to work. So instead, like the guy in the video, you start bracing yourself, holding firm like Gibraltar, and barge through the bastards until they start making way for you. London hardens. The city promotes selfishness, but the corollary of that argument is that you have to look after yourself, because no-one else will.

Click the YouTube link at the top of this post to watch The Verve's Bittersweet Symphony. The video was filmed in Hoxton, in the East End. Richard Ashcroft, The Verve's lead singer, is featured in the video. He starts his journey at 94 Hoxton Road, walking north on the east side of the road. Here is a map.

Megapixels Doubled!

Phone contracts are crazy in the United Kingdom. On paper, handset contracts look more expensive than SIM only plans. But once you deduct the chequeback redemption, pay monthly plans, including a new handset, cost only a fraction more than a SIM Only plan. So, with my contract up, I signed up again with O2 and the Carphone Warehouse for a new Sony Ericsson K800i. This is the new version of my previous handset, with some great new features. Bigger screen, 320x240 pixel resolution, RSS subscriber/reader, a 3.2 megapixel camera with image stabilizer, and a xenon (ie true) flash for the camera. It's the best phone I've ever used.

But as my new phone offers comparable resolution to my Canon S1 IS camera, I decided now is the perfect time to make the jump to a new Canon S3 IS. It has a host of new features, not least of which double the resolution at 6 megapixels. I got the camera off eBay, refurbished by Canon UK, at a steal for £240.

This past weekend, I had a perfect opportunity to try out both cameras. On Saturday and Sunday was London Open House, where various important buildings around the city are opened to the public for viewing. Many of these buildings are normally off-limits. Sadly, I missed out on a booking for The Gherkin, but so did most of London - apparently tickets for both days sold out in ten minutes.

But I did get to:

- tour inside the Lloyd's of London building. In a word, amazing;

- see the construction site of 201 Bishopsgate Tower, soon to be the third highest building in the City, built over (and carefully straddling) the outbound lines from Liverpool Street Station (which, I learned, is the busiest train station in Europe);

- look inside the beautiful Art Deco foyer of the Daily Express building at 120 Fleet Street (now the London office of Goldman Sachs);

- see the Limehouse Accumulator, once used to pressurise the extensive Victorian-era hydraulic power system that stretched from the Docklands to the West End (and was still operational until 1976!)

- visit Balfron Tower in the Docklands, designed by Ernő Goldfinger in the brutalist style (Incidentally, this architect lived near, and was disliked by, Ian Fleming. In an act of vengeance, Fleming appropriated the Ernő's surname for that of the most memorable Bond villain);

- join a tour of notable City buildings (Swiss Re, Lloyd's, Plantation Place, City Hall), conducted by ARUP engineers who were involved in their construction.

Later that evening, I went to Dust for a going away party. Greg's sister, Rani, is going home to Brisbane, after six years in London.

Voting, Irwin, and Greer

Has the world gone mad? Am I one of the few Australians left in the world who is trying to maintain a healthy sense of perspective over Steve Irwin's death? And why do people care so much what Germaine Greer has to say? Is she not entitled to her own view? Has Australia rapidly degenerated into a national socialist Fatherland of Howard since I left? And just how many Australians have taken the time to read Greer's original article published in The Guardian, earlier this week?

Without a doubt, it's very sad that a man has died, and it's extremely sad for his family... but how many other people died that day? Why should Greer be denied a voice, simply because she disagrees with the jingoism of Australia's collective response? It seems to me that Germaine Greer - with all her eccentricity - is just as uniquely an Australian "character" as Steve Irwin was... and both should be equally embraced. And apropos her benign article, there is nothing that isn't worth mentioning. The only thing that I question, is whether it was appropriate to publish the article so soon after Irwin's death. Would it have hurt to wait a week? Probably not, but it seems that Greer, through her article, is attempting to stem the absurdity of headlines like "Australia's Diana", which The Sun used on Tuesday. Would the Brits do the same thing, I wonder, if David Attenborough passed away unexpectedly?

First thing Monday morning, I suggested to a work colleague that "next, they'll offer a state funeral". And sure enough, "the greatest leader in the world" John Howard did exactly that. Did he hope to book John Farnham to sing at the funeral? The whole state funeral thing is the icing on the cake. It reeks of political favouritism, especially as the same offer was extended to Kerry Packer some months back.

There was a Steve Irwin condolence book at Queensland House, when I visited the government office, on the Strand, on Tuesday, to vote in the forthcoming Queensland elections. Apparently, Australia House is only used for voting when it's a Fedeal Election, which I find a little interesting. Perhaps this is a throwback to the oft-forgotten idea that Australia is a federation of states? Australia House is undergoing renovation work at the moment, to install bollards every 2 feet around its perimeter. Check out this photo for an under-construction cutaway.

Lucy Gao

Poor Lucy Gao. She's an intern at Citigroup's Canary Wharf office, who hosted her 21st birthday at The Ritz last week. Obviously excited, perhaps a little naive, she used her work e-mail account to send a pompous e-mail to her guests. The trouble for Lucy is that her e-mail was forwarded round London to thousands of City workers, and perhaps tens of thousands of e-mail accounts around the world... all within a matter of days. Why the interest? Perhaps it's Lucy's tone... perhaps her control-freakness... Lucy doesn't shy from instructing her guests on what to wear (right down to mentioning specific items), or when to arrive. I have to clarify the last point, because if you read Lucy's e-mail (probably winging its way to your inbox right now), you'll see that she has listed a specific arrival time for each of her guests. It's that consideration that caused my jaw to completely dislocate and hit the floor, and confirmed for me, that despite the post-party spin, Lucy is at least half-serious. And that's a real worry. I think The Times summed it up with the title of their article: What a Gao. Also check out The Daily Mail's article for more info. Some cheeky guy has even posted photographs from the big night. Can you spot the Ritz cutlery?

But funnier than Lucy's original e-mail are the out-of-control wind-up replies sent to her. I don't know how anyone can keep a straight face at Citigroup, especially those who slagged her off in the e-mail thread and have to share a lift with her. Let's hope things improve for Lucy, as Citigroup is quickly becoming the last place in London where I'd like to work. See this article to find out why... Still, thank you Lucy, for providing all of us at The Firm with a lot of merriment on an otherwise dreary, and wet, Friday afternoon...

September Movies

September is shaping up to be the best month for new releases this year, with new films from two of my favourite directors, a remake of an old favourite, and something that was filmed near my work.

I loved Bad Education, so I have high hopes for Pedro Almodovar's new film, Volver. Trailer is here.

Whenever I'm asked to nominate my favourite director, I usually defer to naming anywhere between six and ten directors that I love... but if I was asked to pick just one name from that list, then I would say that the director whose work I enjoy the most, would have to be Brian De Palma. His new film, based on an unsolved murder, and a James Ellroy novel, is The Black Dahlia. Trailer is here.

The little-seen 1973 cult film The Wicker Man is a personal favourite of mine for its quirkiness and shock ending. That film starred Christopher Lee, Edward Woodward, and Diane Cilento,... but the real star is screenwriter Anthony Shaffer, whose work I adore (eg Sleuth, Death on the Nile). Neil La Bute's remake stars Nicolas Cage and Ellen Burstyn. The action is relocated from Scotland to Maine. Trailer is here.

Late last year I blogged about the adaptation of P.D. James' novel "The Children of Men", and how it was filmed on Fleet Street, just near The Firm's offices. Children of Men stars Julianne Moore and Clive Owen. The trailer is up, and can be viewed at the movie's website. The film looks great, but I was particularly pleased by the inclusion of the Fleet Street scenes in the trailer, especially one that replicates my favourite view of St Paul's. During a lunch break last week, I snapped a few photos so you can see a fictional and real comparison. If you're interested, check out all three comparison photographs on Flickr.

Why The World Needs Superman Returns

The British Film Institute offer a Film Journalism course that looks really interesting. I enjoyed my time with Q News as their film reviewer, and thought this course might be a good why to formalise my interest. Applicants are required to submit a review of a recent film, written in the Sight & Sound style. I applied in January, by reviewing Match Point. Unfortunately there were almost three applications for every place, and so I missed out on that occasion. This time round, I reviewed Superman Returns - a film I really enjoyed, and I'm quite the fan of the earlier films. This past weekend I was advised that I was accepted into the course! Yay! But sadly I have to decline the offer. There is a compulsory attendance seminar, which clashes with my vacation to Sitges in October. I'll apply again next year.

Anyhow, I thought I'd post my review. There are no major spoilers but I strongly advise that you stop reading now if you haven't seen the film. If the title seems somewhat dramatic, then you might remember it's a play on the title of a newspaper article which appears in the film. Enough preface, here's what I wrote:


Why The World Needs Superman Returns

Released at the dawn of high-concept cinema, Superman: The Movie had a simple mission summed up by its punchy tagline: “You’ll Believe a Man Can Fly”. The film was a spectacular success, and the genre of comic-book adaptation was born. But how does one follow that film, with a new sequel, twenty-eight years later? Franchise film entertainment may be a function of momentum, but it’s often the case that each new sequel leeches something from its predecessors, potentially undermining the franchise as a whole. Batman & Robin is often cited as the nadir of franchise disasters, but really, one needs to look no further than Christopher Reeve’s fourth outing in Superman IV. And yet, while both films were panned by critics, their box-office suggests that Bryan Singer could have slept on-the-job, Joel Schumacher style, when directing Superman Returns, but still found an audience and still had a moderate hit. It’s little wonder that genre films, especially those with £110 million price-tags, are often overlooked for artistic value.

While effectively rebooting the franchise, Superman Returns is not an origin story, as was the case with last year’s Batman Begins. Instead, Singer ignores the calamity of the latter sequels and consciously picks up the action five years after the events of Superman II. It’s a conscious decision by Singer, and perhaps the most important of all. He’s crafted a sequel that is respectful of the franchise’s myth, yet enriches and builds on it through post-modern appropriation. Singer does have an original story to tell, and does reference other works (a child’s telekinesis subplot hints at The Shining, even going so far as include characters locked in a kitchen), but he also manages to texture the story with subtle references to the franchise’s own cinematic canon. (At the Fortress of Solitude, Lex Luthor is asked if he’s been there before. Luthor says nothing, nor does he have to). The synchronicity is impressive. At times, it’s as if Superman Returns was written concurrently with the first films.

The first two Superman films, (mostly) directed by Richard Donner, were scripted as a two-part feature, (mostly) shot back-to-back, and intended to be viewed as a single coherent story. Tom Mankiewicz infused his script with religious symbolism, telling Superman’s back-story through a Christ metaphor. Rather than going it alone with his sequel, Singer, a self-avowed Donner fan, has consciously reused, rather than reworked, the most successful elements of the earlier films: John Williams’ original score; the ground-breaking opening titles; the allusions to screwball comedy, some of it directly lifted (regarding flying: “statistically speaking, it’s still the safest way to travel”); more Judeo-Christian mythology (by film’s end the characters of Superman, his son, and Jor-El, become the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost); and the myth-making of an unknown actor in the title role who sounds very much, and occasionally, even looks uncannily like Christopher Reeve. As mentioned, the Fortress of Solitude makes a return, though fans will remember it was destroyed at the conclusion of the theatrical release of Superman II. (Singer is faithful to Mankiewicz’s script, rather than Richard Lester’s edit). But Singer’s greatest production coup, firmly tying this film to its predecessors, is the appropriation of Marlon Brando’s likeness (recreated in CGI), and some of his dialogue, recorded for Superman II, but excised from that film for litigious reasons.

At its heart Superman Returns is a story about religious myth (read: cinematic myth) and the cyclical nature of life. Speaking from beyond-the-grave, literally and cinematically, Brando, as Jor-El, is the film’s Holy Ghost. On more than one occasion, he says, “the son becomes the father, and the father the son.” The plot arc of Superman Returns can be reduced to that single line of dialogue, taken entirely from an earlier film. Superman leaves Earth to search for his past; the search for one’s own history (which we’ve witnessed in earlier films) is the search for the father. Later, near death, Superman is reborn with the reincarnation kiss on the forehead from his son, just as Jor-El kissed his own son, Superman, in the first film. By the film’s end we can fairly ask, who is father, and who is son? But one might also ask what is original, and what is sequel? The line is deliciously blurred.

A Very English Understatement

Our work kitchen has a flat-panel television, streaming Sky News 24/7. Sky News is owned by the News Corp., and in my opinion is no better than the sensational-prone print tomes of the Murdoch Cartel, like The Sun, or The Courier Mail. Our nickname, here at work, for Sky News, is Chav News, as it seems to appeal to the sensationalist sympathies of the struggling conservatives. I've seen some doozy Sky News ticker-tape headlines, but the one I saw today, easily the best, can't be attributed to the news organisation:

IRANIAN PRESIDENT SAYS SOLUTION TO MIDDLE-EAST PROBLEM IS TO DESTROY ISRAEL.

The situation in Lebanon is equally tragic and appalling, but that outrageous headline made me laugh. It's like something I'd expect so see on South Park, not a news channel reporting a factual statement. While Ahmadinejad's remarks had me giggling, Tony Blair's response had me rolling on the floor. With what can only be described as definitive English understatement, Blair described the President's remarks as "deeply unhelpful".

The Jury's in for the Orange Set

I've previously blogged about Do Not Pass Go, a wonderful London travel book that explores the city through the Monopoly board. Packed with trivia, one such tidbit I gleaned from the book concerns the relationship of the streets in the orange set, viz Bow Street, Vine Street, and (Great) Marlborough Street. All of these streets are in the West End (as is most of the Monopoly Board), and all were once home to magistrates courts. I lived next door to the courts, for nine months, in the council estate on Martlett Court.

The last of those courts to remain open is that on Bow Street, in the building that once housed a police station, which in turn once housed the Bow Street Runners, the world's first non-military police force. Bow Street also turn up in Hitchcock's Frenzy. The courts finally closed to the public today, after 271 years of service. I visited the courts in late 2005, and blogged about the experience... but there is also plenty more to read in this wonderful BBC article.

The Inspiration of St Paul's

The summer solstice has come and gone, but the days are still gloriously long. I've truly settled into my job at The Firm, and enjoying it more now that I have some software development work, instead of the tedious support work that was bringing me down. Still, it amuses me that I find myself often perilously close to the nasty cycle of "getting up each morning, going to work, gymming, then coming home to sleep". My strategy for resisting that nightmare is to remind myself that I am in London, and I use every London cliche to pique my memory. I might spot a red phone box, or a red double-decker bus, or a red Royal Mail pillar box, and in an instant I can barely conceal my joy at remembering where I am. It's a real-world analog to how film-makers open a scene with an establishing shot.

Lately, I've been using St. Paul's Cathedral, which might suggest a lack of imagination on my part, but frankly, it's so bloody big, it's hard to ignore. Each afternoon when I leave work, and turn west onto Fleet Street, I never resist the urge to stop, turn back, and look at one of the most beautiful views of the cathedral's dome, sitting high on it's pedestal of Ludgate Hill. (I've snapped this view in the photo at the right). It's no wonder that the view of St Paul's is protected by town planning law. These Protected Views ensure that the dome will always be seen from London's greatest vantage points, such as Hampstead Heath, Waterloo Bridge, The Tate Modern, and Richmond Park, among others.

It is accepted wisdom that the view of St Paul's was a source of inspiration for Londoners, and a symbol of the nation's determination, throughout the Second World War, and especially the blitz that razed parts of central London. Folklore suggests that this house of God survived unscathed through divine intervention. But it is more likely the case that the Luftwaffe purposely avoided a direct hit on the cathedral. With London ablaze during the Battle of Britain, the German pilots needed a navigational aid to find their targets... and, when you think about it, there was no bigger navigational aid than the dome of St Paul's.

There is a very famous photograph of St Paul's Cathedral, taken on 29 December 1940. It's often reproduced without credit, and yet remains one of the most iconic photgraphs of the war, and perhaps the definitive photograph of the United Kingdom's steadfast resolve to stop Hitler. Over this past weekend, I visited the British Library to see their new exhibit Front Page, which details the history of the British newspapers (and the rise of the tabloids) over the last 100 years, by reproducing 200 front pages. It is here that I learned the history of this photograph:

PHOTOGRAPH - War's Greatest Photograph
On 29 December 1940, Daily Mail photographer Herbert Mason braved an air raid to spend the night on the roof of Northcliffe House in Fleet Street. He captured what became the defining image of the Blitz - St. Paul's emerging defiantly from the smoke of surrounding burning buildings. The image appeared in the Daily Mail two days later, with evident retouching, under the headline 'St. Paul's Stands Unharmed in the Midst of the Burning City'. Ironically, only four weeks later, the photograph was reproduced by the Berliner Illustre Zeitung who used it not to show the resilience of the blitzed city, but to show that London was burning to the ground.

It's a fantastic photograph, made all the more interesting because of my tenuous personal connection. The Firm's offices are located in the refurbished building that once housed the Daily Mail. Every day, I take my seat in the basement of Northcliffe House, where the Mail once housed its printing machinery, and where, six floors above, Mason snapped that famous photograph. And with that in mind, each afternoon when I leave work, I look back at at sunset-drenched dome, and can't help but smile at my little connection with London's wonderful history.

Two More Festivals!

Next month, Murder's a Drag will have its first continental North American screening at Outfest: The 24th Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. This is very exciting, as Outfest is a market festival, meaning that industry people attend the screenings, as well as being one of the largest and most prestigious gay film festivals worldwide.

And this Wednesday past, Murder's a Drag screened in London - its European premiere, so to speak - at the Talent Circle Short and Sweet short film night, which is the short film event attached to the EuroPride London 06 programme. (London Pride is also EuroPride this year, hence the name).

After the Melbourne screening of Murder's a Drag (and despite winning an award there) I worried that the film's humour was too Brisbane-centric to really work elsewhere. But the film was really well-received by the London audience, who laughed in all the right spots, and lauched into a rousing cheer at the closing credits. About a half-dozen people from the audience approached me after the screening, to congratulate me, which was really nice. Some were filmmakers and actors too, so it was a good networking opportunity... despite my aversion to anything "networking".

There were three films that I really enjoyed, being The Last Supper, Rock 'n' Roll Suicide, and Seafood. I was looking forward to Attack, but the organisers were unable to play the disc for that film.

The venue for the screenings was Too 2 Much, which is a nightclub/bar/dinner-theatre in one of the seediest parts of Soho. Once inside, the club is quite beautiful. Still, the drinks are outrageously priced, even for London. £7 for a vodka-cranberry! I've written about Too 2 Much once before, I think, as it's where Elton John and David Furnish held their pre-wedding stag party, late last year.

What Am I Doing Here?

May was a crappy month.

The move was an expensive exercise, leaving me particularly short of cash, and leading me to worry how I will cope paying a higher rent. Given that my bank account regularly dips into overdraft by the third week of every month, I have reason to worry. Enough is enough, I thought. I chose May to be the month when I'd get my spending under control, even if that meant my social life was non-existent for four weeks.

But the frugality of Monk Month May was not my only source of worry. After a warm start to the month, the weather quickly turned foul. Cloudy skies and a constant drizzle of rain are not my idea of spring, but they defined the weather pattern for more than two weeks. My depression seemed bottomless, and I found myself asking a familiar question in recent times, what am I doing here?

It's been very easy - too easy in fact - to waste a lot of time on this question. I loved my first seven months in London, but there was an undeniable still-born quality to the proceedings. I felt that half of me was elsewhere. It's easy to blame London for the break-down in my relationship with Paul, when I now understand that is not the reason... and it's too easy to romanticise about the ease and comfort of life back home in Brisbane.

And now, when my thoughts turn to the future, I am just as easily confused.So what happens now? After all, London was intended to be my gap year. Now, and not by my own choice, it is the short- and medium-term, future. If thinking about the past saddens me, and thoughts of the future scare me (senseless), it's easy to understand why I keep asking, what am I doing here?

I now understand that the answer to the problem is hidden within the question. Asked and answered, so to speak, because in my pit of depression I was doing nothing! There are (lots of) things about London that brought me here in the first place. And even when the madness of London life approaches a fire-and-brimstone vision of hell, those reasons prevail. I would be foolish to buck this opportunity, or not take advantage of all that is on offer. No-one in my family, and very few of my friends for that matter, have had the opportunity of living and working in London. Mum and Dad have been wonderfully supportive these last few months - calling me most days - and offering tidbits of advice along the away. As Dad says, I should be grateful for what I have, rather than lamenting the loss, or absence, of what I don't have. This simple advice is so true, as it's all too easy to fall into the trap of middle-class whining, and whinge about what has happened, and could have been. And as for the future... well, if 2006 has taught me anything, it's that expectation is the mother of disaster. For the time being, I'm learning to live in the moment.

So with all that in mind, I have been trying to take in as much as I can. Here is a list of the things I've done, and the places I've visited, in recent weeks. Follow the links to see my photos:

- The Sultan's Elephant - no words can give justice to this spectacular £1 million street theatre experience. Imagine a giant marionette elephant, made of wood, and powered with hydraulics, walking through London's streets. There was also a gigantic marionette girl, who rode on the elephant, and sewed cars into the pavement. The Royal de Luxe theatre company staged the production, commissioned by the French cities of Nantes and Amiens to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the death of Jules Verne. My photos aren't that great - captured on my camera phone - so also check out other photos on Flickr.

- London is gorgeous in the warmer months. Everyone hears a lot about London's bad weather, but very few people take the trouble to mention how beautiful it is when the sun shines. New York may be physically impressive, best viewed with some distance... but London is a dreamland when the sun shines, and built on a human-scale. As soon as the weather is warm enough, the parks are full of sunbathers and friends partying in the sun. Be sure to check out my photos of Primrose Hill, my favourite spot in all of London.

- With the warmer weather, I've discovered that working Londoners love to lunch in the sun. Temple Gardens is located just near The Firm's offices, and I often eat my lunch here. Shakespeare set a pivotal scene in Henry VI Part I in Temple Gardens. It is here that opposing parties pick a red and a white rose respectively, heralding the start of the War of the Roses.

- Temple Gardens are part of a larger complex comprising the Inner and Middle Temple, both of which are Inns of Court, and have a historical connection to the Knights Templar. Within the Inner Temple you will find Temple Church, which will be familiar to fans of the book and film of the The Da Vinci Code. The movie was filmed here. The chaplain was not pleased, and has published a book discrediting the quasi-factual basis of the story. For those who are interested, in the movie, the protagonists arrive via Middle Temple Lane, and leave via Fleet Street.

- I was terrified to move out of Covent Garden, for a dozen reasons - all silly. Thinking back now, the most silly of all is to think that I was scared of living in an unfamiliar place. Isn't that what I came to London in search of? Once I got over all that, I realised how exciting it is to have a new 'hood to explore... that 'hood being Holborn, Farringdon, Clerkenwell, Smithfield, and the nearby Barbican Centre.

- I've been to the theatre four times in the last six weeks. First up was Royal Hunt of the Sun. I saw this because it was written by Peter Shaffer, he of Amadeus and Equus fame, and brother of Anthony Shaffer (whose work I adore). The show was very colourful, but I was tired... and left in the intermission. 'Nuff said!

- Also in May I caught one of the final performances of Smaller, starring Dawn French and Alison Moyet, and directed by Kathy Burke. The jokes come thick and fast, but ultimately the play is a tearjerker, concerned with two sisters dealing with the death of their mother.

- Next up was two one-act plays, performed back-to-back by the same company. Greg organised this little outing for us, and it was beaut. I forget the names of the plays... but that has more to do with the very late night of drinking in Soho that followed... on a school night too. Ouch!

- And most recently I went to a preview performance of Evita. This is my favourite of the Webber-Rice musicals. Perhaps Eva's story of struggle appeals to a gay man... perhaps the lyrics concerning Eva's triumph over Buenos Aires appeals to me... or perhaps I've watched the movie too many times! I loved every single minute of this new production. It's the first time that You Must Love Me, written for the 1996 film, is incorporated in a stage production.

- Kurt's school had its annual fair in May, which was quite fun. The school is adjacent to Richmond Park, which we drove through for a quick look. The park is beautiful - and huge, covering hundreds of acres - and is populated by wild deer, which you can see in one of my photos. Richmond Park is 12 miles from the City, and yet there is still a protected view of St Paul's Cathedral from a particular spot in the park. This means that not only can you see the dome of the Cathedral from this spot, the view is protected by law, and no building can ever obstruct it.

- I love architecture - and there is a lot to love in London - so you can imagine that I was over the moon when I happened upon the New London Architecture Exhibition at The Building Centre. This is London's first permanent exhibition dedicated to the wonderful variety of new architecture in the city. The primary exhibit is a huge 3-D model of the city, as shown in my photograph. The new buildings are grey.

- A set-jetting trip took me (and Troy) to Guildford, a market town south-west of London, on the River Wey. A scene from The Omen (1976) was filmed at the town's huge art-deco cathedral, located on an imposing hilltop overlooking the town. This is where Damien had a panic attack, when he realised his parents were taking him to a house of God. It's a great scene, and a wonderful location to visit, looking just as it did in the film. The cathedral is signficant for being the first to be built on new ground, in southern England, since the Reformation. We also visited Guildford's castle ruins in the centre of town, just near a cute high street, and an unfortunate chavvy shopping centre.

As I finish this post, I'm embarking on a new adventure. I arrived in Salzburg a few hours ago, with plans to explore not only this city, but also to venture into Bavaria, to visit Berchtesgaden, Hitler's Eagle's Nest, and Neuschwanstein Castle. If there is any one single reason why I'm in London, it has to be the city's accessibility to Europe. It's taken me a few months, but it's nice to finally remember why I am here.