20 minute read
Fiona
Use-by Date
Top tip for aspiring commentators: the first rule of successful column writing is timeliness. Write what’s in the now. Seek the knife striking sparks from the steel of the zeitgeist. Be relevant! Capture those eyeballs! Pew pew!
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Or not. The news cycle spins so swiftly now that unless you get your hot take online within hours of, say, the PM travelling interstate to wash someone’s hair, it lands as stale as yesterday’s cronut. Not only is haste inelegant, but it also traps everyone in a stimulus/response loop requiring no more analysis than a rescue staffy hurtling after a tennis ball. Throw it again!
It’s hard to reflect when everyone is quarrelling forward. It tilts discourse towards shallow and hostile, a low-tide rock pool harbouring flesh-eating bacteria. Some topics – the complex, sensitive ones – require slow and ongoing consideration. Sometimes we need to sit back, listen and consider the bigger picture.
About now, perceptive readers are sensing a trap. Waitaminute. Is this a justification for something past its use-by date? Correct. But in my defence, although 26 January has receded in 2022’s rear-vision mirror, Australia Day remains a 24/7/52 sphincter-tightening topic.
Attention peaks in January, attended by discount shops deciding how much flag merch to clump enticingly in their windows. I don’t envy them. It must take seventh-dimensional maths to work out potential demand. Who still buys Aussie flag thongs, bikinis or giant sponge fingers? The tourists who aren’t here? Swathes of locals are well past embracing patriotism and/or amused irony. The flag is in demand for anti-vax rallies, so that’s good for the economy, but personally I’d no more wave an Aussie flag on 26 Jan than swim at Werribee sewage farm. I wish I felt otherwise.
Recent migrants must be sorely confused – required on entry to answer questions about “Australian values”, only to find that history is contested, and the interpretation of “official” values depends entirely on who you ask. Welcome to Australia, here’s your certificate, a wattle in a plastic tube, and good luck celebrating our purported national day. You’ll need it because there’s no right way to do it; how can there be? Whichever way you slice Australia Day, it contains traces of genocide.
Increasingly, I’m finding the idea of any “nationhood” celebration awkward. When Triple J moved their Hottest 100 in 2018, it was peak #ChangeTheDate energy, and it’s an attractively simple solution, right? January 26 has been the official Aboriginal Day of Mourning since 1938. It takes a special kind of tactlessness to insist on the arrival of the First Fleet as settler Australia’s fun times BBQ how good are we beach party. At the very least, 26 January should pivot to a national day of respect and reflection.
But even on another date, what is Australia Day celebrating? Taking a continent by force, attempting to erase a 60,000-plus-year-old culture, and mismanaging the environment. Ew. Frankly, there’s a lot of deep thinking, listening, humility and work to do before settler Australia deserves a holiday.
I’ve been thinking about the wildly popular Reddit thread AITA, or Am I the Arsehole? People give their POV on a personal event that’s blown up, and ask, AITA? Thousands of posters weigh in. Sometimes the poster IS the arsehole, sometimes they’re not. Lessons are learned. It’s usually clear where the entitled behaviour lies.
“Every year we have a national holiday to mark the anniversary of stealing our country. The people we stole it from don’t want to join in, and frankly are a real downer. We think they should just get over it, and be grateful. It was aaages ago. Like 250 years. Reddit, AITA?”
Um. Yes Australia. YTA.
Fiona is a writer and comedian who’s never out of date.
Mum’s the Word
Mike Mills’ new film takes a heartfelt look at motherhood, family and the delicate act of love.
by Ivana Brehas
@ivanabrehas
Ivana Brehas is a writer, actor and filmmaker based in Naarm/Melbourne.
All my films seem to be love letters to mums,” says writer-director Mike Mills.
In the case of his latest movie, the tender and contemplative C’mon C’mon, the mother in question is Viv (Gaby Hoffmann, Transparent). When she has to go away for a week, her brother Johnny (Joaquin Phoenix) is given the responsibility of caring for her precocious son Jesse (Woody Norman, Poldark). Though the film’s poster spotlights Norman and Phoenix, the true crux of the film seems to be Viv, who helps Johnny navigate the complex, delicate process of caring for another human being.
“I have a real unconscious need to go back to Mum,” Mills continues, “to talk about her, be around her, try to figure her out again, never figure her out – get in the muck of it with her all the time. I love being a dad, but mums have an extra load, obviously.”
For Hoffmann, this film is about “how hard it is to take care of people”. Her Viv is a caregiver to both
her child and her partner (Scoot McNairy, Argo). “It’s the difficult work of loving, which is an act. It’s everything; it’s the only reason for being – but it’s really hard,” she says. “We don’t get to see it with this sort of meditative, quiet lens as much, but it’s what most of us are doing most of the time, especially the women in the world.”
Time, like motherhood, is a recurring motif in Mills’ work. He’s previously made reflective, nostalgic films – like his last film, 20thCentury Women (2016), which was based on memories of his own childhood and his mother’s life. But C’mon C’mon is more concerned with the present and the future.
“Having a child often derails your adult project,” notes Mills, parent to a 10-year-old kid with wife and fellow filmmaker Miranda July. “It judo-flips the supposed order and importance of things. With a kid, time becomes much more like it is in my films. It’s emotional time – not linear time, not clock time.”
C’mon C’mon recognises the complex personhood of its young protagonist, rather than being patronising. Mills credits those around him for exemplifying this respectful approach to childhood. “My kid’s preschool teacher, Nancy, is profoundly good at treating young people as whole beings who aren’t cute or little, and who deserve respect,” he says. “It’s a completely radical thing if you take that seriously. And if you take the kid inside you seriously, that’s a very radical thing too.”
Phoenix and Hoffmann – who were both child actors – understand this sentiment well, and Hoffman praises her young co-star’s work ethic. “Woody is a real professional. There was no hand-holding needed. There was much more hand-holding needed between Joaquin and I,” she laughs. “We were kind of obnoxious siblings together a lot of the time.”
Some hand-holding is required on screen when Johnny attempts to “do a repair” with Jesse – a therapeutic process in which Jesse is far more comfortable than his uncle. “It’s the most important scene in the movie to me,” says Mills, who often mentions the importance of therapy in his own life. “I grew up in a time when none of that was available or discussed. The kid is much more fluent in that kind of thinking: social-justice-slash-emotional-intelligenceslash-therapy.”
For Mills, therapy is not only a part of his personal life, but his artistic process, too. “What you talk about in that room is my film school. Studying your own emotional history, how it plays out with those around
you, how you become and understand yourself in conjunction with others – that’s my Game of Thrones.”
Like 20thCentury Women, C’mon C’mon incorporates passages from other writers, such as Kirsten Johnson and Jacqueline Rose. “Diversity and heterogeneity makes your stuff more interesting,” Mills says of this multi-authored method. “I’m most excited when I’m inviting someone else in, or am lucky enough to have them along on the ride.”
The result is a collage of ideas and sources, calling to mind the poem ‘Peanut Butter’ by writer and performer Eileen Myles. I write because / I would like / to be used for / years after / my death. Not / only my body / will be compost / but the thoughts / I left during / my life.
“The word ‘compost’ is very meaningful to me,” Mills says. “All of our human lives, our narratives, the way we describe ourselves, are at best compost for someone else. The compost metaphor is how I give myself permission to write. We all have the great potential to be compost for each other.”
Hoffmann concurs with the metaphor. “It’s about becoming part of a living, ongoing thing that enriches the soil so that things can grow taller and stronger, in a healthier and more vibrant way. Whether it’s writing or crewing or acting, or how we treat our partners and friends – the work we do, whether it’s public or not, is all adding something to the soil.”
All my films seem to be love letters to mums.
DIRECTOR MIKE MILLS
After a challenging few years, Nicole Chamoun is back on our TV screens, in a crime drama series she says is unlike any other.
by Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen
Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen is a VietnameseAustralian writer based in Melbourne.
Australian actor Nicole Chamoun’s first lead role in four years is a special one that has healed and transformed her after a period of great hardship.
“It’s been a weird time for the world and for me,” the actor shares on a phone call from Byron Bay. Over the past few years, COVID shutdowns and her personal struggles took her out of the industry completely. “When I decided to come back in, this was one of the first auditions that came my way… I knew instinctively that she was in me and that I had to play her.”
The two-time Logie nominee, known for the SBS miniseries On the Ropes (2018) and Safe Harbour (2018), is talking about her latest character, Amanda Pharrell, who she plays on ABC’s new eight-part crime drama Troppo. A private investigator with a chequered past, Amanda was accused of murder as a teenager; as a result, she’s a lone wolf, mysterious and often misunderstood.
“Amanda is unlike myself in many ways, but characters come to you at a very specific and right time in your life, and I think I needed her when she arrived,” says Chamoun, who publicly shared her battle with cancer this month. “It was just really, really therapeutic for me to pour all the trauma from the past 24 months into this character. I’ve never played a role quite like her before.”
Directed by Jocelyn Moorhouse (The Dressmaker) and based on Candice Fox’s bestselling novel Crimson Lake, Troppo is a slow-burning and gritty series that builds intrigue with gradual reveals in each episode. When Amanda gets wind of news of a missing tech pioneer, she recruits American ex-cop Ted Conkaffey (Thomas Jane, also serving as the show’s executive producer), who was also accused of a horrific crime. The odd couple join forces to uncover the man’s whereabouts, but soon discover a string of bizarre deaths, leading them further down the rabbit hole. Through their investigations, the characters begin to reveal their own complicated histories, and forge an unlikely bond in the scorching Far North Queensland landscape.
Chamoun and Jane are the show’s magnetic, central driving forces. Amanda and Ted are both social outcasts but come from very different walks of life. Both are world-weary for different reasons – Ted, reeling from the dissolution of his marriage, has lost himself to drink. Yet it’s this mismatch that makes them all the more compelling to watch, especially as they discover unexpected commonalities and develop an allegiance – maybe even a friendship.
“If casting is done well, then half the job is done for you as an actor. [Jane] and I have a naturally odd chemistry that just makes sense and works for these two characters,” Chamoun says. “I just allowed the writing and the space to dictate the energy for us.”
Filming took place over five months, and Chamoun describes it as “a big job, physically and emotionally”. Though it was a challenge, she doesn’t see that as a negative thing: “I want my work to challenge me,” she says. “It was such a whirlwind, and we were enthralled in it all. We were working very, very hard every day, and that pushed me. I feel like I grew as an actor and as a performer in ways that you don’t get to if you’re not thrown in the deep end – it’s totally a challenge that I relish.”
Chamoun’s last two major roles, in On the Ropes and Safe Harbour, were both characters who shared a similar cultural background to her own. Troppo includes characters and actors from a range of backgrounds, including the Korean family whose patriarch is missing, without making their racial identities the focal point. Indeed, Amanda’s ethnicity is not explicitly mentioned, because it’s just one aspect of a character who is far more complex.
It’s something Chamoun appreciates as both an actor and viewer, and sees as progress in a still white-dominated industry. Australian media has often struggled with embodying representation and diversity in a meaningful, rather than tokenistic, way – and Troppo is a step in the right direction.
“I think when something is truly diverse, and when you have a very rich tapestry of people and cultures included in a project, it should just fit in the background naturally like it does in life, rather than shining the light specifically on the fact that you have chosen them for ethnicity,” she says.
“That’s what’s great about this – this character wasn’t written necessarily for someone who looked like me, but I love the fact that they decided to go in this direction and to allow me to be who she is.”
Chamoun is looking forward to introducing audiences to Amanda and the wild world of Troppo. “The show is unlike anything I’ve really seen on Australian television, certainly in the last few years,” she says. “People will be intrigued and excited and surprised, and I hope they come along for the ride.”
Destination: Beach House
Sixteen years and eight albums since they first set their eyes on the stars, Beach House dive deeper into their own universe.
by Keva York
Keva York is a writer and critic based in Melbourne/Naarm. She regularly reviews films for ABC Arts.
Baltimore-based duo Beach House glided onto the scene in 2006 with their debut LP, a self-titled collection of woozy, coruscating dream-pop tracks haunted by the reverberant spirit of Cocteau Twins and Mazzy Star. While those bands worked to generate an expansive sound, Beach House was almost sparse in its instrumentation, anchored by Victoria Legrand’s heady, drawn-out vocals and lilting organ. It was a small affair, recorded on a four-track over just two days in the basement of guitarist and back-up vocalist Alex Scally.
The aughts bore witness to an indie music explosion across the US, and Beach House’s own Baltimore was a hub for a number of artists who would help define the feel of the era (think Animal Collective and Dan Deacon). “It definitely felt like there was electricity,” recalls Legrand, speaking with Scally from the city they still call home. “There were shows every night and everyone was in a band, and there were bands coming from out of town and people staying at people’s houses. We were excited by everything.”
Sixteen years on from their debut, Beach House – built on a bedrock of deep friendship and musical simpatico – have held their ground, while many bands have come and gone. The release of each subsequent album has felt like a return to the eponymous vacation haven, where time slows and late afternoon naps are troubled by sunlight pouring in through the windows. Once Twice Melody, Legrand and Scally’s eighth and latest full-length offering, feels like just such a getaway, yet here the band sounds bigger, more cinematic, than ever before.
For the first time, they’ve brought in live strings, used as a complement to the synthesisers they’ve long employed, to emulate the sound of a string orchestra. At 18 tracks, this lovesick new album is also their most sprawling, reflecting its three-year gestation period. The record is divided into four chapters, each taking up one side of the double LP, each “its own little story within a larger arc,” says Scally.
“I think having more time than ever and more songs than ever just took us down a path of complete openness and indulgence,” reflects Legrand.
Despite the grander scale of Once Twice Melody, Scally describes the process of making the album as “pretty insular”. While the pair have previously worked with go-to
VICTORIA LEGRAND
indie producer Chris Coady, this time around they decided to take on production duties themselves. Although both have always been hands-on at every stage of the recording process, “there would normally be at least one or two other people around,” says Legrand. “This time there was no-one else around – so it was very intense.”
“There was this weird kind of desert-island sensibility that developed,” adds Scally. “That felt like it was connected to our first record, even though it doesn’t sound much like the first record.” Once Twice Melody gets cosmic where Beach House stayed earthbound; it’s an album that finds Legrand looking up towards the sky rather than out at the sea: “The painted stars, they fill our eyes,” she sings on the eulogistic ‘Pink Funeral’.
In a 2016 interview, Legrand spoke of being in “a different universe” every time she and Scally sat down to make a record. When I ask about the universe that begat Once Twice Melody, with its cyclical tales of new loves and swiftly broken hearts, Legrand hesitates. “This place is really hard to describe simply,” she ventures. “Maybe it’s part of getting older – I think life gets more psychedelic. It gets deeper and more emotional and more painful as you get older. The only word I can use is intense – intense feelings, an intense ride. That’s how it’s felt, and I don’t see how it can become less intense.”
“You think it only gets more intense?” queries Scally, sounding surprised. The soft-spoken guitarist tends to let his bandmate speak first, chiming in mostly to affirm or elaborate on a point she’s made; here is a rare note of a possible dissension. Legrand doubles down: “I think it only gets more intense.”
Making music, at least, functions as a reprieve: “The world can be incredibly distracting and overwhelming,” says Legrand, “but when you’re making art, the best part about it is that you feel like you’re free – you’re able to express yourself how you want to express yourself. You’re trying to get out of a self-conscious state of being.”
There’s escape to be had in listening too. “There’s so many things you can act out and pretend through music,” she says. “There’s a lot of theatre in it.” Beach House will always be a beloved holiday destination for the starry-eyed romantics among us.
Animal Instinct
Lisa Taddeo, the bestselling author of Three Women and Animal, talks rage, desire and what women deserve.
by Astrid Edwards
@_astridedwards_
Astrid Edwards is the host of The Garret, a podcast for those who love Australian writers.
Lisa Taddeo is a contradiction. When we speak via Zoom she is in Connecticut, USA. It is an unexpected Snow Day, meaning her young daughter is not at school. Her daughter wants to join the interview, and her partner is present too, helping with tech issues. Taddeo presents as the definition of professional domesticity – a stark contrast to her protagonists and the visceral books she is known for.
Three Women – an exploration of the desires and sex lives of three American women over almost a decade – made international headlines when published in 2019 (in the days post MeToo and pre-pandemic). Taddeo followed this up with her first novel, Animal, in late 2021. Moving from non-fiction to fiction, Animal follows the highly unlikable protagonist Joan. Joan is a loner, and in the opening pages she reveals she sleeps with married men, is tracking down a mysterious woman, and has killed someone. Although wildly different, both books centre women’s wants, women’s trauma, and expectations about what
women deserve. Even so, Taddeo admits her choice to move from her breakthrough non-fiction debut to long-form fiction was “not something that makes an abundant amount of sense”.
“I enjoy having range; it makes me feel good about myself as a creator. So that makes me happy and being excited about what I’m writing is ultimately what I want in life.” She pauses, and adds, “It is not what my publisher expected, or perhaps wanted.” We both laugh – publishers the world over are renowned for wanting a second book just like the first.
She becomes animated when considering how the pandemic affected her creativity. Three Women took more than eight years to write. It was an intense experience, with Taddeo often moving town to town to be close to her subjects. Animal was mostly written during that time as well. “I’m such a naturally anxious person that the pandemic was kind of my normal, so it didn’t affect my writing so much.” Given her decreased travel commitments (Taddeo spent a lot of time on the road for Three Women), “it actually made it easier to do work, in some ways”.
The world has rapidly changed since Three Women’s publication. In Australia, conversations and protests around sexual assault, child abuse and domestic violence have taken centre stage, thanks to advocacy work by the likes of Rosie Batty, Veronica Gorrie, Grace Tame and Brittany Higgins. These conversations are occurring as the hidden abuse in the home during the pandemic comes to light. Taddeo is intrigued by this, and reflects that domestic abuse and violence are not part of the national conversation to the same degree in the United States. Given that her works are raw and go where few other writers venture, would she ever consider writing about a woman’s experience of lockdown?
“I’m interested in it, and the mental abuse that happens to women. Something I’m looking at for a future project is when women are called ‘crazy’ and their children are taken away... I want to shine more of a light on the gaslighting that happens.” She goes further. “One of the things that is so difficult about domestic abuse is the way other women judge. Think of a woman going back to a man. She may not be able to talk about it, and that is something we women do to each other. It is terrible and keeps us quiet and silent.”
Taddeo laughs when considering how her work will be placed in the canon of contemporary MeToo literature. “I don’t know. I would imagine that things considered too spicy, too hard-hitting – that will go away and people will realise these things do happen. For me it is about hoping that these works open up what people find themselves believing.” And as for setting a future work explicitly in this time of pandemic? Taddeo sees it happening. “The real thirst is on the writer’s side, the writer finding the ideal way to express what this time feels like. There will be more work exploring that feeling. I’m looking forward to seeing what my contemporaries are going to do with it.”
Taddeo has a busy year ahead. She is currently adapting Three Women for Showtime, where she is both writer and executive producer (Shailene Woodley, star of Big Little Lies and Divergent, will play Taddeo, the narrator). “I’m constantly learning,” she says. “It’s difficult to have a lot of people involved and wanting to put their opinions in, and that is not something that I’ve had to deal with when writing a book.”
TADDEO WILL APPEAR AT ADELAIDE WRITERS WEEK IN MARCH. GHOST LOVER, HER COLLECTION OF NINE SHORT STORIES (TWO OF WHICH HAVE BEEN AWARDED THE PUSHCART PRIZE), WILL BE RELEASED IN JUNE.
