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Pictures – Simon Sherry, Stevie O’Cuana, Jane Stradwick, Ele Jenkins

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Garth Jones, John Schork, Eliza Harper Hesford, Eliza Murphy, Caitlin Major, Laura Renfrew, Josh Fargher, Anthony Castle, Lauren Bedggood, Frank Candiloro, Matt and Tash Nicholls, SA Jones, Justin Hamilton, Dr Kate Roddy, Dan Machuca, Philip Bentley, Susie Obeid, Christie Wilson, Paul Caggegi, Emma Beddows, Ben Kooyman, Simon Sherry, Ele Jenkins, and Jane Stradwick.

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WELCOME TO HOPSCOTCH FRIDAY BLACK METAL REVENGE FANTASY LAUGHS + GORE: ASH V THE EVIL DEAD RORY COCHCRANE: 90S SPIRIT ANIMAL REVIEWS: TICKLED, I, DANIEL BLAKE, A NIGHT IN THE LONESOME OCTOBER, THE NICE GUYS, SUMMERLONG, SING STREET A GODAWFUL SMALL AFFAIR

ROCKY ROADS OF HOLLYWOOD

FOLK AND TALE: THE HOUNDS OF THE MORRIGAN

WELCOME TO H O PS C O T C H F R I D A Y S T E V I E O ' C U A N A - E D I T O R - A T- L A R G E

The Hopscotch Friday Podcast http://hopscotchfriday.libsyn.com/

I started Hopscotch Friday out of a love for pop culture. I wanted to celebrate the things we choose to read, watch and listen to. And I wanted to do it in a considered way, rather than simply play into the hype or the PR driven pap that fills our feeds. This is why I encouraged my contributors to put themselves into their reviews and features, but to balance that with argument and justification, not just consensus views, and frankly, not just opinion. Herein you will find a collection of original features produced by Dr Emma Beddows, Anthony Castle, Ben Kooyman and Emmet O’Cuana, with accompanying art from Simon Sherry, Ele Jenkins and Jane Stradwick. What you are reading is a testament to the their chosen pop cultural loves, expressed through essay, prose and illustration. This magazine has been a long time coming. With the best of intentions it was begun over a year ago, and without foreseeing the collectively slap in the face pop culture would give us in 2016. In a year we’ve lost so many pop icons – from cinema, literature and music. But through our collective mourning we should remember how impactful art can be – that we are not alone in appreciation, experience and

feeling, and that mass appreciation of an art form does not devalue it, rather it is empowering. The relevance of pop today is essential to contemporary living. It reminds us of our basic need to contextualise ourselves within a cultural space. It bridges boundaries, finds kindred spirits and thinking, brings communities together and helps us create our own identities. It also reminds us of a need to be critical, where criticism, of course, does not take away the ability to still love. In many respects our pop culture heroes have replaced the role of elder statesman, pioneers, explorers and inventors – or those who were lauded in previous eras as examples for us to follow. This magazine is about celebrating the stories, songs and sights we’ve loved – today, yesterday or many yesterdays ago. We have thoughts on a treasured childhood novel, the Australian films that could – and the American film stars given more chances than most, a piece on 80s video nasty turned television event Ash Vs The Evil Dead, the return of Peter S. Beagle, and then our farewell to the Starman. We hope you enjoy. In 2017 we will be changing Hopscotch Friday’s format, so stick with us.

BLACK METAL REVENGE FANTASY WORDS: ANTHONY CASTLE PICTURES: SIMON SHERRY

As the rise of Daesh fed imagery of massacre and destruction to the media over the last few years, we’ve seen a corresponding rise in Islamophobia. Former Prime Minister Tony Abbott dramatically warned Australians of the ‘death cult’ on hundreds of occasions. In June 2015 he suggested the death cult was ‘coming after us’. It may seem impossible to drown out this anti-Muslim sentiment but a two-piece black metal band out of Sydney is certainly trying. Formed as a ‘black metal revenge fantasy against the racists’, Hazeen is doing its best to look and sound exactly like the death cult Abbott fears. ‘As a teenager, I played drums in a couple of death and black metal bands in Turkey,’ Can says. ‘We

decided to start a Muslim black metal band as a response to the rampant Islamophobia.’ But Hazeen isn’t your average metal band. Guitarist and front man, Safdar Ahmed has a PhD in reform and modernity in Islam, while his cohort, Can Yalcinkaya is an academic who studied media and Turkish culture. Inspired by classic acts like Morbid Angel, Slayer and Death in their younger years, their shared experience of being Muslim in the West led them to the likes of Sepultura and Napalm Death, which express anti-racist themes. Their love of the dark and shocking extends to horror films, particularly zombie movies. The affinity for heavy metal and horror is evident in not only Hazeen’s sound but also

their ghoulish appearance. ‘Zombies are great metaphors for repressed, and not-so-repressed, social and cultural fears,’ says Can. ‘[That’s] why we put on the corpse paint, typical of the black metal look, to embody the feared Other: the Muslim zombie.’

At their first gig in an abandoned theme park Hazeen played up to the Muslim-as-monster concept. They performed surrounded a decommissioned ghost train, which they say deliberately cast Muslim stereotypes as monsters and Islamophobia as horror.

They’re also not subtle when it comes to the ridiculousness of fearing Islam. Beneath the Black Crescent Moon threatens fascists and right-wing ideologues with death by the forced consumption of halal yoghurt. The lyric ‘we’re coming for you’ echoing Abbott’s grim warning that jihadists are ‘coming after us’. ‘The audience didn't know quite what to make of it all,’ says Can. ‘People [weren’t sure] whether they should take it on face value.’ Safdar believes most people seem to understand what Hazeen’s about. ‘Now and then a keyboard warrior will vent their hatred towards us online. The response from Muslims has been positive. I think people can see this is political art.’ Invoking the imagery of Islamophobia can seem like a risky enterprise and society doesn’t always know how to respond to evil in art. Popular culture can portray the devil as a conservative who punishes transgression or a decadent figure inviting indulgence. Equally, ‘evil’ can also be applied to those who do not fit with cultural norms. Muslims can become villains in pop culture and its products as a result. Safdar is acutely aware of this. ‘Images of evil in popular culture are fascinating precisely for revealing the inherent fragility of established hierarchies, conventions and

attitudes,’ he says. ‘In this sense, horror themes are important for social criticism and deconstruction.’ ‘This is what the Muslim world, particularly those in the West, are experiencing,’ says Can. ‘In pop culture they’re turned into lessthan-human figures – monsters and zombies. Our performance as Muslim zombies essentially subverts and satirises this image.’ With a spate of shocking terrorist attacks in Paris, Beirut, Jakarta and elsewhere, a suspicion about Muslims remains in Australian politics. Conservative voices struggle to make the distinction between a minority of extremists and an entire religious tradition. ‘As Islamophobia and anti-Muslim hatred grows, we have to up the ante and make art that’s extreme, subversive and thought-provoking.’ Safdar says. ‘You can expect a dark and soul shattering response to any form of racism,’ Can promises. As long as there is a “death cult” coming for us, Hazeen will use extreme metal to mock extremism.

LAUGHS + GORE: ASH V THE EVIL DEAD WORDS: DR EMMA BEDDOWS PICTURES: SIMON SHERRY

1981’s The Evil Dead was released to critical praise and a disappointing Box Office. Although it performed better than was expected, it wasn’t the hit Director Sam Raimi and Producer Bruce Campbell (who also stars as the lead character, Ash) had hoped for. Yet, in years to follow, it has achieved cult status and made up for what it lost in profit with renewed cultural relevance. In fact, The Evil Dead is one in a league of ‘cult’ films that seemed fated to bomb on release only to be resurrected (no pun intended) and loved by fans for years to come – think Labyrinth (1986), Blade Runner (1982) and Clerks (1994). All have become cultural ‘classics’, with the limited merchandise from the original releases coveted and traded for bragging rights. Ironically, the cult success of these films has afforded many of them mainstream popularity and opportunities for revival. And, entry into their fandoms is still weirdly patrolled. Box Office revenues undoubtedly figure in a films status as ‘cult’, this

is largely a symptom of another variable: taste. The notion of bad taste, particularly, is relevant to the cult genre. Just look at John Waters, a man whose transgressive dedication to bad taste has become his trademark and a defining characteristic of the cultist sentiment. Even when bad taste becomes acceptable through evolving social mores, the subversive quality of crass cinema as ‘cult’ allows it to survive beyond the lifespan of the initial release. The Evil Dead is no exception to the Bad Taste Rule. For the uninitiated, the original of the series follows a group of friends staying at a cabin in the woods, where they unwittingly release a plague of unearthly demons. It’s what’s known as a ‘video nasty’ – coined in the UK to describe a series of films released on video in the late 70s, many of which were included on the Director of Public Prosecutions list. Although released in 1981, The Evil Dead is typical of late 1970s horror, reflecting the pessimism and

instability that characterised North America at the time. Fans of the film will remember it as gruesome, disturbing, horrific and violent. Some of the more abject scenes, Cheryl raped by demonically possessed trees, for example, are typical of its tone. Yet, something happened in 1987 that changed the face of The Evil Dead franchise. The sequel, The Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn, was considered a comedy-horror. Again, this is typical of the era given the popularity of comedy in the 80s, particularly of the supernatural variety. By 1992, Raimi released the third instalment, Army of Darkness – an outrageously camp rendering of the mythos that even the Monty Python crew would label as, ‘a tad silly’. To say that this was a departure from the tone set in the original is an understatement. Although classified a comedyhorror, Army of Darkness is about as horrific as a kitten launching itself with might at a steadied camera. The plot (a term used loosely) begins where The Evil Dead 2 left off and finds Ash trapped in the Middle Ages, fending off the same primordial evil as he struggles to return to the present day. Indicative of the film’s tone is a scene that riffs on the The Three Stooges’ slap-stick physicality where Ash is mocked by a series of skeleton arms reaching for him from out of

the ground. His efforts to negotiate are rendered useless as multiple arms appear inexplicably from off-screen and slap him around the face. It’s a joy to watch Campbell revel in his new role as hapless warrior. As silly as it is the film is also a legitimate satirisation of the machismo. For the most part, fans have embraced the tonal discord between the movies, with each attaining cult status. The gradual evolution of the franchise from 70s video nasty to 90s slapstick satire also demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of pop-cultural trends and cunning marketing. The most recent iteration of the franchise and by far the most interesting from a creative standpoint is the television series, Ash vs Evil Dead. Helmed by Raimi with Campbell reprising his role as Ash, the series explores the mishaps of our ageing hero as he finds himself at the centre of yet another Evil Dead spawn, this time joined by a band of unlikely teenage misfits who eagerly help him slay demon ass. Much like Army of Darkness, the series playfully sends-up masculine tropes, but to a greater and more knowing degree. Where Army of Darkness borrowed from genre conventions to characterise Ash, Ash vs Evil Dead draws from within the franchise mythos, allowing it to

target both new and old fans. What makes Ash vs Evil Dead so compelling is not only the revival of a beloved character for those keeping score, but the way it channels tone from the first and third films. Whilst each of the franchiseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s films offers a

unique perspective on the story, the television series aggregates the sum of these parts creating an experience that is more context than text. The guise may be new but the series is a fractured amalgamation of what has come before.

Don’t be mistaken for thinking this means it’s shallow – what makes the series so enjoyable is the unexpected nature of it. Not only does the series draw on the tonal qualities of the original texts, it does so while retaining the essence of each. That is, by juxtaposing horror, comedy and satire. This is particularly evident in the very first episode of the series, El Jefe. During the first 5 minutes, Ash has a fleeting sexual encounter with a stranger in the bathroom of a bar. During intercourse, he slaps the bar girl on the rear with his wooden hand (a reference to The Evil Dead 2, where Ash hacks his hand off when it becomes possessed), shouting, ‘you like that?! You like my wood?!’. Seconds later, he asks his partner if they can stop since he’s getting ‘a little winded’. This scene is a playful reference to Army of Darkness Ash, who is a caricature of masculinity rendered pitiful in a contemporary context. Ash’s retention of that same machismo, yet his portrayal as ‘out of time’ shows Raimi’s understanding for context, which is integral to the growth and ongoing appeal of the franchise. It can be difficult to conceive of Ash vs Evil Dead as anything other than a satirical send-up of the franchise and horror tropes more broadly, however it is surprisingly faithful to the abject tone of the first film. In each episode

there is at least one ‘scary’ scene (note, I use quotation marks to draw attention to the fact that the scares are inconsistent with the tonguein-cheek writing, not to trivialise the horror work). These scenes are truly reminiscent of the first film: grotesque, sadistic and gratuitous. Based primarily on demonic possession, the horror in Ash vs Evil compels a confrontation with the uncomfortable subject of bodily violation; a commentary inherent in all possessive horror. This is not for the faint hearted. Furthermore, abject horror – blurring the boundary between the self and the intolerable ‘other’ – offers no catharsis. When accompanied by the comedic and satirical tone of the series, and playful references to canon, Ash vs Evil makes for an unexpected, layered and highly contextual post-modern experience. Ash vs Evil Dead is less a continuation of the franchise and more a commentary on it. Regardless of taste, an audience familiar with the original text should recognise the show for what it is: a love letter to fans. By choosing television, not only does Raimi capture the Netflix generation (ironically), but he has the space to honour the original text at new lengths. It’s sloppy, offensive and oddly paced while always a heartwarming tribute to a cult franchise delivered in the only way possible – in glorious bad taste.

RORY COCHCRANE

90S SPIRIT ANIMAL WORDS: EMMET O’CUANA PICTURES: STEVIE O’CUANA

So the other night I was watching Empire Records. It’s like a trip back in time. There’s the oversized woollen jerseys, grunge rock as an automatic signifier for authenticity and of course, the record store as a Mecca you could escape to after school. Or during school. Or perhaps instead of school. Empire Records captures all of this with its plot of a record store staffed by freaks, losers, teens with a druggist store in their purse – threatened by a takeover notice. Acting as loco parentis to these disaffected youths is Australia’s own Anthony LaPaglia, essaying a gruff Philly accent as record store manager Joe. He spends the movie trying to keep the business afloat even as corporate vultures circle, looking to exploit music culture for profit.

Oh, and it’s Rex Manning Day. But while the cast of Empire Records all acquit themselves well, with LaPaglia and a young Renée Zellweger impressing the most, it is Rory Cochrane’s Lucas who remains immortal. Joining the ranks of savant-like screen rebels such as Malcolm McDowell in If…, Lucas’s antiauthoritarian rhetoric is depoliticised and stripped back to a single phrase - ‘Damn the Man’. Empire Records is a mid-90s film after all. Post-Cold War, Berlin Wall reduced to rubble – ain’t nobody got time for politics! The enemy is a vaguely defined corporate culture represented by an expensive chain of stores – Music Town. In Empire Records, rebellion is being free to hang out, get high and buy cheap tunes.

Lucas sets the film’s plot in motion by stealing the store’s takings and blowing it all on a night in Atlantic City. What appears at first to be a breakdown is revealed over the course of the film to be a singular act of rebellion. Lucas does what Joe never could, forcing a confrontation with the store owner looking to sell out. And all of this while talking to camera, implying he is aware that this is a story with some trite morals about following your dreams wrapped up with drug humour. Oh and Zellweger wearing naught but an apron bopping nude. Somehow the presence of Lucas, with Cochrane’s knowing glances, raises the game, making all of this much

more memorable. Despite spending the majority of the film sitting on a couch under orders from Joe, you find yourselves wondering ‘What’s Lucas doing now?’ Cochrane also made a notable impact on Richard Linklater’s aimless – yet fine-tuned work of 70’s nostalgia – sophomore effort Dazed and Confused. Just as Altman confused audiences with the timeliness of M.A.S.H. (which war is this film about actually?), Linklater’s love letter to wandering your home town on a weekend looking for something to do feels apposite to the 90’s. Go ahead, throw on The Smashing Pumpkins’s 1979 and tell me that’s

not the perfect complement to Dazed and Confused. Did Misters Corgan and Linklater both intuit that the 70s were to the 60s, as the 90s were to the 80s? Off decades, giving us time as a society to breathe between periods of upheaval. In Dazed… Cochrane plays Slater, a mumbling, weed-tragedy who delivers an amazing speech about the herbal history of George Washington, the Masonic traditions of the United States and aliens. Also it appears Martha Washington was a hip hip hip lady. But it is again a simply delivered line from Cochrane’s character that serves as the arc dialogue for this film. While smoking grass atop the town Moontower, Slater looks out at the lights below – “Imagine how many people out there are fuckin' right now man, just goin' at it.” That in a nutshell is the adolescent experience. Sitting around waiting for life to catch up with your expectations, while deeply suspicious everyone else in the world is more free, more loved, and ultimately happier than you. Unlike Lucas, Slater lacks any sense of ironic distance from his peers and circumstances. He is lonely, lovable and already written off by society as a waster.

For him the ultimate rebellion is to smoke a joint on the fifty yard line on the football field, which he suggests to star quarterback Pink (Jason London) who is feeling ambivalent about his future as a player. There is something sweet about Slater’s belief – with his radar sense for grass and comical mannerisms – that he has a future waiting for him and he’ll wind up at college despite no qualifications. Lacking the tortured self-awareness of Lucas, Cochrane gives Slater a doomed quality familiar to anyone who spent time behind the school bike shed. His druggy confusion and tinfoil hat conspiracy theories resonate with 90’s-era disaffection. The inchoate suspicion of authority represented by The X-Files (Slater would have dug Agent Mulder) and grunge’s raging at the darkness were symptoms of a broad scepticism about society, lacking a forum for expression and exploding forth. Cochrane went on to work on CSI: Miami, reteamed with Linklater for the Philip K. Dick psychotropic romp A Scanner Darkly, and worryingly now bears an uncanny resemblance to English actor/tosser Danny Dyer. But for me he will always be the actor who perfectly captured the feel of the 90’s, a time caught between ironic cool and a narcotic retreat from reality.

R E V I E W S WORDS: EMMET O’CUANA

TICKLED

I, DANIEL BLAKE

DIR: D AV I D FA R R I E R , DYLAN REEVE

DIR: KEN LOACH

A NIGHT IN THE LONESOME OCTOBER AUTHOR: ROGER ZELANZY

When pop culture journalist David Farrier happened upon a video on a website hosted by Jane O’Brien Media, he knew he had a story. Tickled started as a Theroux-esque trip into the world of online fetish videos, but quickly becomes a suspense drama about two Kiwis refusing to back down in the face of bullying and legal strongarming. Without spoiling any of the labyrinthine twists and turns of this disturbing tale, this is also an important film about the use and abuse of power, the exploitation of the poor and desperate.

Director Ken Loach and screenwriter Paul Laverty are not interested in subtlety. In a culture where you are either a ‘striver or skiver’ (think Joe Hockey’s lifter or leaner), there is no room for people who fall outside those terms. Daniel Blake demands respect, but is treated like an ungrateful child. There are a number of scenes in I, Daniel Blake that confirm Loach’s ability to captivate an audience with emotional honesty and simple tragic circumstances. This is a film for the families on the breadline with no more options; the so-called bludgers who simply need help; the women and men crying out for dignity, and treated like an unwelcome statistic.

This was Roger Zelazny’s last novel. It was also reportedly his favourite piece of writing and I can see why. With its Victorian setting and slapdash riffing on pennydreadful characters – along with a nod to early Hollywood horror cinema too – it is a wonderfully wry piece of pastiche. Its plot concerns a society of animal familiars coordinating a ‘Game’ with apocalyptic stakes. The lightness of touch Zelazny brings to the proceedings gives a sense of whimsy too, which would no doubt appeal to fans of Gail Carriger’s supernatural drawing room horror.

R E V I E W S

THE NICE GUYS

SUMMERLONG

SING STREET

DIR: STEVE BLACK

AUTHOR: DEAN BEAGLE

DIR: JOHN CARNEY

Take away Ryan Gosling’s performance from Shane Black’s The Nice Guys, and tell me what you have? Very little I suspect other than a stack of establishment shots featuring vintage cars and the LA hills.

In Beagle’s first novel for some time, we meet Abe and Joanna, a couple with failed marriages in their past just enjoying a companionable relationship.

John Carney’s film is deliriously hopeful and bittersweet.

The juxtaposition of violence, death and sex – the core of this film – is best achieved before the titles role. Unfortunately, what comes after is carried squarely on the shoulders of Gosling. For his performance alone, The Nice Guys is worth a watch.

Then one evening at a diner they meet a waitress named Lioness, who is experiencing financial difficulties. Seemingly on a whim the couple invite her to stay in their garage. What follows is a quiet drama interwoven with hints of a larger, mythical story. In exploring the theme of a couple questioning why they are together through mythic archetypes Beagle gives a sense of universality to this gentle fable.

The 1980s was the decade of the music video, when fame and glamour was contained by the family television set. Just out of reach. Pop music, Carney suggests, perfectly captures the idle daydream escapism and longing for romantic fulfillment of adolescence. Sing Street duly serves up some wonderful tunes - you’ll be dancing in the street afterwards to Gary Clark’s Drive It Like You Stole It while subtly developing a rich poignancy.

Quite simply, this is a fantastic film.

A GODAWFUL SMALL AFFAIR

LONELINESS, DETATCHMENT + DAVID BOWIE WORDS: ANTHONY CASTLE PICTURES: JANE STRADWICK

As a teenage boy I found myself alone on a Saturday night. I wanted to see a movie. I talked some money out of my parents. But her mummy is yelling "No" And her daddy has told her to go I phoned a friend to see if they to come with me. They didn’t. I phoned another friend. They didn’t want to come either. But her friend is nowhere to be seen I didn’t have a large social circle or a girlfriend. I didn’t have any choice. I went to see the film alone. To the seat with the clearest view The film was bad, a saddening bore. I remember drifting out of the cinema and being struck by the loneliness of it all, feeling a tangible detachment from the crowds around me.

So she walks through her sunken dream

I walked until I found a street party. There were lights and music and families milling around. Then I heard the word, ‘faggot’. Not particularly out of the ordinary. I didn’t look ordinary and I’d been called it before. I turned to see a boy much younger than me, flanked by three older friends. Shaved scalps. The boy, a child who wouldn’t have posed any threat alone, pointed and laughed at me. I walked away. Look at those cavemen go Two girls my age loitered near the bus stop. They asked if I had a lighter. I said I didn’t. They asked if I had a bottle opener. I didn’t have one of those either. They smiled. I wasn’t sure what else to say. I sat down at the bus stop, disappointed. I caught my ride home a few minutes later. The bus was empty.

I think she finds herself disappointed by reality. I think she sees herself living in the doldrums of reality. She’s been told that there’s a far greater life somewhere and she’s bitterly disappointed that she doesn’t have access to it. - David Bowie, on Life on Mars

Now, even at that point in this maudlin anecdote, the scene was familiar. I already knew this story.

a seemingly artificial world because of class, sexuality, culture and mental illness.

For she’s lived it ten times or more.

As all teenagers do, I grew up and out those feelings. I found ways to manage and understand. I discovered ideas like depersonalisation disorder, Martin Buber’s work on the de-actualised self and Martin Heidegger’s concept of Dasein. But no piece of psychology or paragraph of philosophy quite summed it up like Life on Mars.

I had heard this story before. I had felt it. Wonder if she’ll ever know. You get it, right? I’m doing a thing. Is there life on Mars? Bowie’s Life on Mars is a surrealist portrait of a lonely youth. First released on the 1971 album Hunky Dory, it was originally composed as a mockery of Sinatra’s My Way. The track was rewritten as an earnest ballad about a girl who goes to the movies alone and questions not only her loneliness but also the nature of reality. I was already a fan of Bowie’s music but on a night that I ended up at the movies by myself, I realised that Life on Mars had become real in an eerie fashion. After that god-awful small affair, it became a reference point for my reoccurring feelings of alienation. Most teenagers feel alone and some of my experiences – crippling anxiety, skin hunger, the awful sense that nothing seemed real – are common among adolescents. I was not socially marginalised, just an awkward middle-class boy, but that song gave me the inkling that countless others also felt lonely and detached. With that, I understood that others felt little connection with

Bowie’s art taught me many things, but a pop song about loneliness and detachment always said the most. I may have felt alone, but I wasn’t. Others, even pop stars, could feel this way too. Bowie sang for many whose loneliness and detachment left them unable to function like ‘ordinary’ people. A problematic figure at times, he became an icon for many struggling with creativity, sexuality or mental illness. His voice resonated for countless dirt-poor kids who dreamed of making wondrous things, for young outliers in the nascent LGBTIQ community and for many struggling with apocalyptic imaginations and the edges of madness. His music eclipsed a little of that loneliness and disconnection for his audience. Bowie’s art is extraordinary for many because it shows just how ordinary loneliness and disconnection actually are.

ROCKY ROADS OF HOLLYWOOD WORDS: BEN KOOYMAN

It’s a good time to be Ben Affleck and Sylvester Stallone. The former is a two-time Oscar-winning filmmaker who parlayed his debut in the Batsuit in Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice to a directing gig on the Dark Knight’s next solo outing. The latter against all odds looked set to collect Oscar gold for his performance in Creed, forty years after his first Oscar-nominated bout as punchy pugilist Rocky Balboa. A little over a decade ago, things looked grim for both stars. Affleck torched audience goodwill with mediocre films like Gigli, Paycheck, and Daredevil, scooping up Razzies along the way. He even inspired a song in Team America: World Police with the lyric ‘I need you like Ben Affleck needs acting school’. Stallone, meanwhile, slummed

through the early noughties with underwhelming efforts Get Carter and D-Tox, seemingly put out to pasture. However, both actors began bouncing back mid-noughties. Looking back, it’s easy to spot the turning points for each: Hollywoodland (2006) for Affleck and Rocky Balboa (2006) for Stallone. Both were films where the situations of their protagonists – washed-up has-beens – paralleled the career funks of the actors playing them. The idea of actors playing versions of themselves onscreen has always appealed, even if the point of acting is supposedly playing other people. There’s a voyeuristic kick to seeing a performer go introspective, exposing themselves and playing raw notes on film. Watching a star eat

humble pie is an added bonus. While ostensibly playing variations on their off-screen lives, nonparodic self-portraits can also showcase the actor’s range. It’s compelling to see these sorts of exercises in self-portraiture, where the slumps and struggles onscreen hold a mirror up to those off-screen. And of course, everyone loves a comeback, which these roles often represent. Hollywoodland sees Affleck play real-life figure George Reeves, best known for playing Superman on television in the 1950s. The movie follows a private detective’s investigation into Reeves’ death. Flashbacks chart Reeves’ bumpy road in Hollywood, including his relationship with Toni Mannix, wife of studio head Eddie Mannix, the height of his fame as TV’s Man of Steel, his later typecasting, and his subsequent professional slump and mystery-shrouded death. Similarities between Reeves and Affleck aren’t hard to miss. Both are conventionally handsome leading men; both played superheroes (though Reeves’ cultural stamp as Superman was far greater than Affleck’s as Daredevil); both were heavily defined by romantic relationships – Reeves as toyboy to Toni and Affleck as accessory to J-Lo; and both were typecast and underestimated as actors.

Like most actors who’ve donned the iconic garb, Reeves struggled to escape the shadow of Superman. In one scene, he attends a preview of the prestigious From Here to Eternity, in which he has a small role. Reeves’ appearance opposite Burt Lancaster provokes whispers, laughter and heckling in the audience, unable to separate him from his famous character. Film lore alleges that Reeves’ role in Eternity was trimmed due to the comical reactions it provoked, which Hollywoodland indulges despite evidence to the contrary. Affleck sells the moment, squirming uncomfortably in his seat, disappointment and dread tangible (a prophetic scene given the “Sad Affleck” Batman V Superman meme). Reeves’ professional struggles are likely something Affleck recognised. At the time of Good Will Hunting’s release, rumours circulated that screenwriter William Goldman authored his and Matt Damon’s Oscar-winning script. Later, Family Guy would mock Affleck’s involvement, suggesting Damon did the work while Affleck smoked pot on the sofa. This fuelled public and professional underestimations of Affleck. Affleck’s efforts as Reeves – playing him with a rumpled, lunkheaded integrity and grace his

public denied him – show a clear empathy with his predecessor’s plight. Affleck also brings a depth to Reeves missing from paycheck roles in Daredevil and, naturally, Paycheck, which might be attributed to the parallels between Reeves as character and Affleck as actor drawing on his own offscreen persona. Sylvester Stallone film career has long been similarly underestimated and lampooned. After 1976’s Rocky, there was a time where Stallone could have gone in a number of directions. F.I.S.T., Paradise Alley, Victory, and Rhinestone are not titles indicative of a career that would become straightjacketed to action movies. However, the mid-80s double whammy of Rambo: First Blood Part II and Cobra – both shorn of niceties like story and character in favour of physical decisiveness, forward propulsion and montage, and featuring Sly completely ‘roided out the ass – wedded Stallone irrevocably to the genre. This strong association proved problematic when both genre and star began to fade mid-90s. 2006’s Rocky Balboa offered Sly a chance to bounce back from his career doldrums. Playing an older, vulnerable Rocky afforded him an opportunity to flex dormant dramatic muscles while exploiting similarities to his own life and

circumstances. The film begins with Rocky a widow, retired from the ring, and a lonely restauranteur with only his cantankerous brotherin-law for company. After a televised computer simulation hails Rocky victorious against current champion Mason Dixon, entrepreneurs approach him to compete in a special match with Dixon. Energised by the opportunity, Rocky montages into shape and, as he did thirty years prior, goes the distance with the reigning heavyweight champion. Similarities here between Sly and Rocky are strong. Just as Balboa spent years outside the ring, Stallone was likewise relegated to the outer tier of his profession. And just as the chance to get back in the ring invigorates Balboa, the chance to write, direct, and star in Rocky Balboa presented a similar opportunity for Stallone. ‘The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it...’ Rocky declares. ‘But it ain’t how hard you’re hit; it’s about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward’. It’s not hard to see here the parallels between Rocky’s struggles and Stallone’s: his uphill battles against derision and doubters to make the film, and

grit and determination to remain a contender. Elsewhere in the film, when Rocky implores a board of commissioners to let him box again, it’s Stallone urging Hollywood and audiences to give him another chance. Rocky the underdog becomes Stallone the underdog (although granted the latter’s issues are self-made and he’s hardly struggling in the same way Rocky does) and the off-screen comeback Stallone’s banking on is literalised onscreen. While neither Hollywoodland nor Rocky Balboa were commercial juggernauts or awards-season sensations, both offered opportunities for comebacks – professional and personal. Their modest critical and commercial successes granted Affleck and Stallone their second winds. The former went on to direct three solid, sturdy adult dramas: Gone Baby Gone, The Town, and Oscarwinner Argo, and act in superior fare like Gone Girl. Now he’s in the Justice League! Stallone’s post-Balboa output has been mixed but he’s still punching. Rambo is wonderfully ugly and violent, The Expendables films promising but lightweight, and the likes of Escape Plan a bit rote. His Oscar nominated bout as a yet older and wiser Rocky in Creed is a terrific, melancholic work.

It’s not for nothing that Stallone thanked his ‘imaginary friend Rocky Balboa’ in his Golden Globes speech. With Rocky Balboa, his pal provided a timely canvas for self-portraiture and a platform for career renewal, as Hollywoodland’s George Reeves did for Affleck. Part performance art, part introspection, and part actor’s showcase, that grey area between character and actor, fiction and autobiography, can offer a rich and fascinating opportunity for redemption.

FOLK AND TALE: THE HOUNDS OF THE MORRIGAN WORDS: EMMET O'CUANA PICTURES: ELE JENKINS

Pat O’Shea’s The Hounds of the Morrigan is a book I continue to return to. I read it as a child in the 80s, then as a tourist riding the train from Sydney to Melbourne in 2007. I remember marvelling at a landscape of red dirt outside the carriage window while O’Shea described lush green meadows and frosty brooks. When it came time to write this article, I reread the book for a third time. On each occasion I have found new facets of this beautifully written story to recommend to friends. I first encountered The Hounds of the Morrigan on the Late Late Toy Show, hosted by Gay Byrne. For those not familiar with this Irish institution – for one night every year, a late night talk show on RTE was handed over to kids. It was a special occasion growing up, with chatter about toys invading the adult postwatershed broadcast hours. In reality, the Toy Show was a televised advertisement in the run-up to Christmas shopping, but that was not how I saw it at the

time. It felt special. And then the host Gay Byrne had two children step out awkwardly on to the set to review a book called The Hounds of the Morrigan. The cover was captivating, with artist Stephen Lavis fashioning an art nouveau meets Celtic art piece for the Puffin Books edition. It featured two children, a boy and a girl, prominently in the foreground. Above them is the pagan war goddess the Morrigan herself between her other aspects, the maiden and the crone, Macha and Bodhb. I was familiar with the character of the Morrigan from the legend of Cú Chulainn. That this was clearly a children’s novel that dealt with Irish mythology made it essential reading. I begged my dad to get me a copy after the segment on the Toy Show was over. Pat O’Shea left Ireland as a young woman, spending most of her life in England. She wrote and rewrote The Hounds of the Morrigan over the course of 10 years. The

resulting prose is evocative of a countryside remembered and also exacting in its lyrical detail. Take the opening of the book – Rising up into the air, they took to the sky and flew. From west and beyond west, into the wind and through it, they came past countless moons and suns. One laughed and briefly wore a scarf of raindrops in her hair, and then with wicked feet she kicked a cloud and caused rain to swamp a beast. There is a cleverness to the writing that underlines just how subtle writing for children can be. The writer must engage with a young mind, but not condescend to the reader. O’Shea fills the story with inventive sequences that riff on the supernatural setting of an Ireland that exists just out of the corner of the eye, where mythological figures roam the countryside in disguise and animals can speak. The plot involves a young boy named Pidge and his sister Brigit being charged with preventing an evil ancient god returning to her full power. They have to find a pebble stained with the blood of the Morrigan that lies somewhere in the west of Ireland, the proverbial needle in a haystack.

The ‘hounds’ of the title are shapeshifters. Sometimes they

resemble unnaturally thin men who stare at the children from across town squares, always nearby, watching. The children are warned that they are in no danger, unless they run when within view of the hounds. Running will make them prey. Helped by members of the animal kingdom – a quick-witted fox, a boisterous family of spiders – and a pair of Travellers named Patsy and Boodie who know more than they let on, O’Shea conjures through her writing a beguilingly frivolous children’s adventure. Pidge and Brigit are charmed and entertained by the strange folk they meet on the road. Only occasionally do the children feel threatened and even then, there is a sense that good will win. The Morrigan herself, with her accompanying aspects renamed Melodie Moonlight and Breda Fairfoul, mostly just busies herself with torturing a local policeman to comic effect. Where O’Shea’s balancing act becomes more impressive is the growing awareness of the epic backdrop these adventures are playing out on. There are walk-on parts for the tragic Queen Maeve of Connaught; Cathbad the druid (occupying the same role in Irish myth as Merlin); and Cú Chulainn himself.

In preparing for this piece I put out a call on Twitter for reminiscences from others on O’Shea’s novel. Writer Celine Kiernan (Resonance) put me in touch with Maria Duff, who wrote a thesis in 2013 titled The Irish Mythological Fantasies of Pat O’Shea, Cormac MacRaois and Kate Thompson. As MacRaois’ Giltspur series was yet another touchstone of my childhood, so I knew this was the right person to talk to. Duff has been at the coalface of children’s literature, having worked at Waterstones for a good six years, and reports that while the size of the novel initially put off parents ‘those who did bring the book home would always call back to the shop to tell me that their child could be heard laughing hysterically, having disappeared, sometimes for hours on end, to read The Hounds of the Morrigan.’ On my third reading of the book what struck me most was O’Shea’s overt mourning of the loss of pagan culture in the face of Ireland’s conversion to Christianity. The original versions of our stories are lost to us, as the written record was maintained by monks with a stake in ensuring the Irish abandon paganism for Christ. I asked Duff about the book’s treatment of Christianity, particularly with regard to the

mythical characters Pidge and Birgit encounter, who feel left behind by the country they once lived in: ‘This was central to my research on this book and this can be seen at several points in the story, but most vividly for me is with the introduction of two characters, Boodie and Patsy, who, while in disguise, are clearly from the offset, not of the same world as Pidge and Brigit, and do seem to possess a kind otherworldly knowing. ‘Their first encounter with the children is one of the most transparent examples of what I consider to be O’Shea’s commentary of the loss of our connection to our mythological knowledge. Patsy is thrilled at Brigit’s name, and asks her does she know of the goddess Brigid. When she replies that she has only heard of the Christian Saint Brigid, he reacts with sadness. ‘All of the mythological characters in the book harken from a glorious past, one which the reader is presumably expected to have some prior knowledge of, though this is not necessary in order to enjoy the book. However, in every case, each of these characters is experiencing some level of degeneration or loss of magical power.

‘Sometimes, they have aged beyond recognition, despite being immortal, and like Patsy and Boodie, are ‘dressed in what looked like the sweepings of a Jumble Sale’. Even more striking is the children’s encounter with Queen Maeve. A far cry from the warrior queen of established mythology, they meet a pitiable figure, emaciated, dressed in rags and constantly rained upon (yes literally) by her own personal raincloud.’ Indeed repeated casual allusions made by characters to a sense of loss at modern Ireland’s movement away from this mythical and cultural heritage. ‘It seems a pessimistic message at first”, says Duff “that with the establishment of Christianity in Ireland and the encroachment of modernity upon the rural (and mythic) landscape, O’Shea is alluding to the decline of our investment and relationship with mythology and oral tradition by showing the figures that belong to this tradition as falling into physical decline. ‘On the other hand, when they interact with the children, all of the characters (with the exception of the Morrigan) are restored to some level of divinity again. It seems that O’Shea is emphasising the importance of passing our mythology, and its pre-Christian

integrity, on to future generations in order to preserve it.’ Duff’s thesis further explores how introducing Irish mythological concepts and heroes into a contemporary setting exposes the intended child readership to aspects of Ireland’s cultural heritage that was almost entirely swept away. In addition to the wistful sadness that occasionally drifts into this book, The Hounds of the Morrigan is also playful and imaginative. Pidge encounters a road sign that is turned the wrong way round, and has caused the country roads of Galway to be reshaped. While attempting to hide their movements from the titular hounds, the two children are passed secret messages by friends written on sweets. In perhaps one of the most ambitious sequences, O’Shea has her characters walk through centuries of conflict and upheaval in their home town, an almost unremarked upon time travel sequence. Inventive and carefree, lyrical in its descriptive evocation of an Ireland already passing out of memory at the time of publication, O’Shea’s The Hounds of the Morrigan is a wonderful children’s fantasy novel, brilliantly blending national folklore and mythology.

EXHUMING OZ: F O R G O T T E N F L I C KS WORDS: BEN KOOYMAN

Many of us have picnicked at Hanging Rock, broken Morant, journeyed beyond Thunderdome, and adventured into the desert with Priscilla. But for every critical darling or commercial success, there are many Australian movies that fall through the cracks. Some have disappeared entirely, but some are still floating around on streaming services or DVD, if you can find them.

Here are five Australian films I caught for the first time recently. All are examples of good films bypassing audiences and falling into neglect, and all are readily available. Mad Dog Morgan is on YouTube courtesy of Troma, Idiot Box and Erskineville Kings can be streamed via SBS on Demand, and Sample People and Mr. Accident are available on DVD.

MAD DOG MORGAN DIR. PHILIPPE MORA 1976

Australia has a long tradition of importing British and American actors for local productions, such as recently Joseph Fiennes for Strangerland and Kate Winslet for The Dressmaker. In Phillippe Mora’s Mad Dog Morgan, former Easy Rider Dennis Hopper plays bushranger Daniel Morgan. The dissolute star, sporting an Irish accent and Abe Lincoln beard, was in the thick of his substance addictions during production but manages to cut a charismatic anti-hero. Mad Dog Morgan chronicles the titular character’s nineteenth century exploits, including his opium squalor, imprisonment, bushranging exploits with Indigenous sidekick Billy, and eventual slaying by the authorities.

The plot is episodic, told in vignettes and scenes that halfplay out before abruptly cutting or meandering elsewhere. Largely shorn of establishing shots and beats, it leaves us somewhat disoriented, paralleling Morgan’s own disorientation onscreen. Whatever its narrative lumps, though, there’s a lot to like here. Shot at locations visited by the real Morgan, the film looks terrific, accompanied by a score that’s spookily reminiscent of The Shining’s (predating that film by four years). On top of Hopper’s addled energy, the cast is a parade of 70s Ozploitation and New Wave talent, including David Gulpilil, Jack Thompson, Bill Hunter, John Hargreaves, Graeme Blundell, and Hugh Keays-Byrne.

IDIOT BOX D I R . D AV I D C A E S A R 1996

Today Ben Mendelsohn is working with top filmmakers like Christopher Nolan and Ridley Scott, and appearing in a galaxy far, far away. But for over thirty years he was a rock solid staple of Australian film and television, delivering consistently good work. David Caesar’s Idiot Box contains one of his best performances. Mendelsohn and Jeremy Sims play Kev and Mick, a pair of welfare recipients wasting their time with television, bickering and delinquency. Bereft of other diversions or opportunities, they resolve to rob a bank. Idiot Box is funny, dark and disturbing. There are steady laughs underpinned by a thread of

fatalism. These kids are doomed and desensitised to violence – in A Clockwork Orange’s London, they’d make exemplary Droogs. Mendelsohn deserves particular kudos for making his outwardly repellent character sympathetic and compelling. Caesar’s direction is showy, his camera constantly gliding, craning, and like the lead characters shifty and restless, backed by bombastic and intrusive musical cues. This parallels the constant intrusion of television noise - the idiot box blaring in the background of kitchens, lounge-rooms, and public places, gnawing away at and dulling the lead characters’ cognition.

ERSKINEVILLE KING

DIR. ALAN WHITE 1999

Alan White’s Erskineville Kings stars another Australian performer gone big time, Hugh Jackman – the all-singing, all-acting star of Les Miserables and X-Men. Marty Dennis (who also scripted under the pseudonym Anik Chooney) plays Barky, a young drifter returning home after his father’s death. Reunited with his brother Wace (Jackman), the pair’s dirty laundry gets aired: Barky’s resentment of Wace for turning a blind eye to their father’s abusive ways, and Wace’s resentment of Barky for leaving him as sole carer for their dying dad.

White takes a hands-off approach to directing with Erskineville Kings, with dialogue and performance foregrounded. As a result, the film feels like an adaptation of a stage play. While this makes it outwardly unassuming, its plot trajectory is a bit obvious, Erskineville Kings is solid human drama with strong performances by Dennis and the cast. Jackman does that thing he does – not quite over-acting but doing more acting than everyone else in the room, seething and simmering and pulling the gravity of the scene around him. And thus a star was born.

MR ACCIDENT D I R . YA H O O S E R I O U S 2000

First things first: I love Yahoo Serious. LOVE him. He’s a fascinating character, a self-made success and multi-hyphenate with a likeable screen presence (think John Hargreaves meets Danny Kaye with Carrot Top’s hair) who sprang up, seemingly fully-formed, as writer-director-star of 1988’s hit Young Einstein. His third film, Mr. Accident (2000), is a slapstick comedy about the romance that blossoms between Roger (Serious), an accidentprone repairman at an egg factory occupying Sydney’s Opera House, and UFO enthusiast Sunday (Helen Dallimore).

While Mr. Accident doesn’t have that same iconoclastic, gently subversive charge of Serious’ previous efforts Young Einstein and Reckless Kelly, it conforms to their narrative shape by following the underdog idiot savant as he defeats a nefarious villain and wins the girl. And for ‘a Serious film’, as its credits proclaim, it brings the funnies with sight gags, word play, some amusing visual invention, and slapstick abundant. Not all the comedy lands, but enough does, and there are three EPIC slapstick sequences that escalate perfectly and wouldn’t look out of place alongside the slapstick work of Buster Keaton or Woody Allen.

S A M P L E

DIR. CLINTON SMITH 2000

Clinton Smith’s Sample People is another film about twentysomethings in Sydney (though shot mostly on Adelaide’s Hindley Street) and features alumni of both Idiot Box (Mendelsohn) and Erskineville Kings (Joel Edgerton). A black comedy-thriller with a large ensemble of interconnected characters, it follows Len (Nathan Page), who works for kebab storeowner Phil (Gandhi MacIntyre) and is crushing on disc jockey/fashion designer DJ Lush Puppy (Nathalie Roy). DJ’s friend Cleo (Paula Arundell) and her boyfriend Sem (Edgerton) are leaving town when they encounter the flamboyant John (Mendelsohn), who’s been beaten by Gus (Matthew Wilkinson) and Joey (Justin Rosniak) on their own rampage of trouble. Then there’s the love triangle between crime kingpin TT (David Field), his partner Jess (songstress Kylie Minogue in her second local film that year following slasher horror Cut), and her lover Andy (Simon Lyndon). Their stories intersect and overlap in what

P E O P L E the movie’s tagline describes as ‘48 hours of clubs, chaos and kebabs’. Smith’s film rides the waves of two 90s movie trends – the faux-cool, crime-centric, ensemble-driven rip-offs that followed Pulp Fiction, and the Cool Britannia films focused on different scenes and subcultures post-Trainspotting. Hence it feels a bit familiar even on first viewing. Despite this, Sample People creates a heightened reality of its own: tone and performances are arch and theatrical. Décor, colour, and camera angles help to accentuate this artificiality while also grounding the film in palpable, stinking hot environments. Had I seen this film on release aged 18, I probably would have lapped it up. Watching it in my mid-30s, it’s exhausting. The constant music, some Tromaesque MEGA-ACTING, and aggressive theatricality make it feel like Sample People’s doing doughnuts on my front lawn while I cower inside crying. Again, that’s no slam. Props where due.