Leonard Cohen.

I've not entirely made my mind up about the internet. Is it good for us or bad? It has made communication so fast that, nowadays, there are new pressures with which previous generations would not have had to cope.

For instance, there is an internet generated demand for productivity in the workplace that is assumed to be (but is not always) facilitated by instant communication. (Yes, Mavis. That is a long sentence for a zimble).

Consider the great great grand father, farming his land at Allora, on the other side of the Great Dividing Range, over the Darling Downs, out beyond Warwick, past the big trees and up the long driveway. He might receive an important letter from his financier in Brisbane requesting information about his harvest. He would have all the time, the days or weeks, it took for the next bullock dray to arrive and collect his reply.

Today, a reply is expected that afternoon or the next day at the very latest, all because of the internet. Now, we must spend time making a request to spend time: 'Would it be alright if I get back to you next week?'

The internet also makes subtle demands on our leisure time. Here I am writing this blog when I could be outside tending my parsley as it goes to seed. Certainly, I'm writing because I want to but every so often, if I haven't posted something in a while, I think, well, I should try to get to that.

Then there are the 'flame wars' that erupt in forums, social networking sites and web based fandoms. How many internet friendships have crashed and burnt over a too hasty reply or a careless strike of the 'send' key?

In the 'good old days' one would have had at least all night and up to second period maths to salvage a fan dilemma over whether Parker Stevenson or Shaun Cassidy was the more handsome of the Hardy Boys. [Shaun Cassidy by a country mile].

One great and undeniable thing about the web is the learning and enrichment it affords us. I don't just mean Wikipedia. Surfing the net inevitably draws us into other cultures; national, ethnic, religious, scientific, sub and pop. I look up avocado tree and find there is a current trend towards extra hot chilli at Californian guacamole parties. Who knew? That's like gnarly man!

Here is another perfect example of one good thing leading to another: this is Paul Darby's poem, which he kindly shared with his email correspondents. It's a tribute to the Canadian songwriter, Leonard Cohen (1934-). I did know a couple of Cohen's songs but I didn't know all the ins and outs of his musical life and influence.

You may say, 'Well, where were you in the 70s?' The answer is I was a four-eyed knock-kneed ballet-o-mane dreaming of the New York City Ballet performing the Nutcracker at Christmas but I'm here now, listening to Cohen, getting it. Better late than never and all thanks to the internet and to Paul.

LATE NIGHTS WITH LEONARD.

{for Lennie, the semi-colon; with love from so many!}

Mystical music measures movements,

Raps our twisted-arthritic knuckles; we stay

Trapped on Boogie Street, listening to jazz

Here, at the rear of the year; amazed, dazed

We chat; sip tea, suck sweet oranges,

Your lyrics slide to hide within the cracked deep darkness.

A vast yawning dawn creeps up

To spoil our crazy cures and cravings.

Aging old men, bookends, no longer willing

To rage against a sickle moon; she leaves

No heroes stranded

No children in the seaweed.

Standing to leave, inside-out sleeve,

You button your famous blue raincoat,

Torn at the shoulder; worn out by words.

Clouding the casual-coldness with our icy breath,

We talk our way through yet another dripping-dense day, dancing

To the end of love.

Away from you, candles cry;

I feel so much older

Needing your ancient puzzled patterns, which comfort me,

Still crazy

After all these tears, that's no way to say goodbye.

My brain echoes; we walk on, smiling through the rain,

Homeward-bound, sounds bouncing,

Whistles and bells, meeting

Every train, invited again

To your place near the river, where

Staring, loping wolf-like dreams hunt

Stealing hungry scraps of conversation,

Outside;

A bird on the wire, who by fire, struts

Higher and higher, to bring us

Another restless, lazy-late night.

My master sings the sacred chord

Drowning out the dryness, refreshing applause,

Teasing the celestial music of the turning-spinning spheres.

It splinters through this crumbling tower of song;

Our two aching voices long to blend, to send

Perfect energies through another

HALLELUJAH!

As we hug farewell,

We say a loud AMEN;

And, once again

The bells are ringing out for Christmas Day!

It's time to climb the real mountain...............

Ca va? Shalom!

Go raibh maith agat.

May the Rat and the Ox bless the Dog,

That's the plan....I'm your man!

Enough tissues.

Carol Burns as Amanda Wingfield.

First, a word of warning. Zimbles who have not had enough sleep the night before and have forgotten to have lunch that day and find themselves at a certain time of the month, should not proceed on their own to a Saturday matinee performance of “The Glass Menagerie”.

Well, they can but they should remember to take enough tissues to last the whole of the last act and the whole of the drive home. (The usher and parking station attendant can be told there is a lot of hay fever about).

The Queensland Theatre Company’s performance of this play was an experience I won’t forget in a hurry. I took myself to the theatre on the spur of the moment (gotta love internet ticket purchasing) and came away very moved. ‘Moved’ isn’t quite the right word though. ‘Moved’ is when Gretel shows the finger that got caught in Friedrich’s teeth to the nuns or when Darth wheezes, "Luke, I am your father".

Rather, it was more a case of feeling emotionally bashed up. However melodramatic that sounds, that is how it was at first, and as I said, all the way home. I suppose TW would roll in his grave at this but I was reminded of the moment in the film, "A Chorus Line" when a character says, "different is nice but it sure isn't pretty - pretty is what it's about". With hindsight of a few days, however, the average zimble can expect to find something cathartic about the experience and a new sense of perspective on what it is like to be different.

Everyone knows the power of TW’s writing. I don’t want to try to re-hash any of its interpretation. Rather and truly, it was the the cast that threw this staging of “The Glass Menagerie” into gear and made it fly. From beginning to end I marvelled at the sincerity of the players. Each gut wrenching, soul cringing moment was given its full weight and depth.

I once heard an American actress say that it is a mistake to stage TW plays in a large theatre because the plays are generally about characters with problems and lives too large for the situations in which they are trapped. QTC got it right in this respect too with a tiny stage in the intimate Cremorne theatre. In this setting, the play had the tension of a bottle of ginger beer shaken and then set to warm in the midday sun.

The only drawback and this seems to be a common theme with me lately, was the audience. How to describe them? Greying, slow, persnickety, noisy, unresponsive and unappreciative would be a good start. In the first few minutes, Tom lights a cigarette as he begins his story. Yes, the light herbal smoke reached the audience but the coughing and shifting in seats that it caused was affected and silly.

At intermission there was nearly a full-on barney in the foyer because the barista was slow to heat his espresso machine. Back in the theatre there was nearly a full-on barney over a few spare seats being coveted for the second half because of a perceived improvement in view. (Every seat in the Cremorne has a ‘good view’).

The worst behaviour, however, was yet to come. At the end of the play, the audience was very slow to clap and when they did, it was an embarrassingly half-hearted thanks for what had been an absolutely superb performance. The cast responded with one bow and then were off in the blink of an eye. It was such a shame.

Did my older compatriots in the stalls of the Cremorne that afternoon not see the same play I had? Perhaps their lives are so ordered and happy and perfect that TW has no resonance with them. Perhaps they’re not Zimbles and don’t need tissues.

Dame Edna, eat your heart out.

Dame Edna Everage

Piers Lane

You couldn't find two performers more different than Barry Humphries and Piers Lane. Seeing both on the same weekend made for a stark contrast. On Saturday night, Humphries in "Dame Edna - Back With Vengeance" played at the Lyric Theatre. The following afternoon, Brisbane born but London based concert pianist Piers Lane performed next door at the Conservatorium Theatre.

Dame Edna's vengeance was exacting. No one was safe from Humphries' rapier sharp wit. To an overweight audience member returning to her seat, Edna called out, "Don't worry Colleen, let gravity do its work!". Even before the show had opened, Humphries told a local newspaper the best thing about Paris Hilton was that she gave hope to girls who aren't pretty!

On the night, the humour was both black and blue, tending to the burlesque side of vaudeville. The satiric one liners came thick and fast, the next one set up as soon as its predecessor had fallen. There was dancing and music, monologues and mayhem.

The audience were a motley crew: fans of Humphries and interested others it seemed. There weren't many very young people (most were of retirement village age with seat cushions and thermos flasks in hand) and I didn't spot any of the usual blue-rinsed, hoity-toity crowd who frequent the Queensland Performing Arts complex (QPAC) with their subscription tickets and beaded purses. Hard-boiled lolly wrapper crinkling lady wasn't there and neither was the bow tied whisker-scratching fat man. Perhaps the humour was too vulgar for them.

I found the show (especially Les Patterson) at times, unnecessarily distasteful and knew it would be. Still, nothing much shocks a zimble these days and I had wanted to see the show because Humphries' writing is very clever (especially in the Sandy Stone monologue). Humphries is also an icon of the Australian entertainment industry and I got the sense that this might have been his last run in Brisbane.

Piers Lane also gave a show to be remembered. I've heard him a few times before and often listen to his Cd's. He gave an all Chopin recital with two encores and roused a standing ovation.

If someone asked me how I would recognise Piers' playing, I would say from the absolutely clear pronunciation of Chopin's beautiful melody lines and from the depth of understanding of the music's layers and colours. He spoke to the audience before each work and then left for a deeply personal world of his own, beckoning, with absolute sincerity, us to follow.

Both men are top artists with everything completely sorted. Who is better? Although Humphries is the more celebrated, for a Brisbane audience, I'd have to say it is Piers Lane who is better. Whilst Barry Humphries played to us, Piers Lane played for us and I think there is a difference.

Pirates of the Caribbean - At World's End.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't looking for much in this hyped up block-buster. It was largely because of all the hype that I had avoided the first two movies of the series. All I really expected was a couple of hours of mildly entertaining distraction and it was nice to go to the cinema. The ticket price was only $A 7.90, thanks to the terrific people running Cineplex who, along with Centro at New Farm, regularly stick it up the Megaplex Corporations - go you good things!

But, I was surprised to find myself thoroughly engaged by this movie. The cast is terrific: Johnny Depp never fails to impress; Geoffrey Rush looks like he is having fun and Keira Knightly works hard. I always enjoy Tom Hollander's performances ('Cambridge Spies' and 'Pride and Prejudice' especially).

A drawback though was Orlando Bloom. He certainly has the looks to make the teenage girls swoon and his imbd resume seems to be that of a nice solid jobbing British actor. Still, his performance was lack-luster and the chemistry with Knightly not very believable. (I think she did the right thing to send him off to the locker).

To give him credit though, it was probably a hard task to play the straight man and romantic hero beside Depp and Rush who were clearly in their element.

The other thing was the CGI. It certainly holds the movie together but at 168 minutes, there's simply too much of it with unnecessarily long battle scenes. (I'd also ditch the monkey and the macaw but I suppose they're needed to draw in young families).

Despite these minor gripes, I found 'Pirates' much more than 'mildly entertaining'. In fact, it was rollicking good fun. In the end, I was believing in pirates. I knew which side I wanted to be on. Heck, yeah! I was going to fight for freedom!

Three Women (3.5.06)

Victoria Foyt and Stephen Dillane in "Truth".

Recently, I've been pondering the thematic similarities of three works which, on the face of it, should have nothing to do with each other. The first is "Deja vu", the Henry Jaglom movie, recently released on DVD. The second is "Casablanca", now also on DVD and the third, a novel titled "The Constant Image" is by the late New York author and historian Marcia Davenport.

"Deja Vu" caught my attention because of the delightful performances by Glynis Barber and Michael Brandon. In this story, Sean (Stephen Dillane) and Dana (Victoria Foyt) meet coincidentally at various times and places and see these coincidences as signs that they were meant to be together. Ultimately, they leave their respective partners, Claire (Glynis) and Alex (Michael) causing much pain. There are some other characters who waffle their way through the film but they are entirely inconsequential distractions.

In Casablanca, as everyone knows, Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) leaves Richard (Humphry Bogart) standing on a rainy Paris railway station platform with the German army knocking at the door and the last train about to leave. He reluctantly departs while she returns to her husband, the brave underground leader, Victor. Ilsa and Richard meet again, presumably by chance, in a bar in Casablanca and have to try and work it all out.

Marcia Davenport writes of a wealthy American socialite divorcee, Harriet Piers. (Well, they always say write about what you know.) Harriet is invited by a friend to spend a winter in Milan. Once ensconced, she embarks on an affair with a young married Milanese businessman. At first she is confident that she won't get "in too deep" and will be able to leave Milan in the Spring without major consequence. (Yeh, right). The two fall deeply in love and the separation proves excruciatingly painful. That is until the businessman decides to leave his wife and two young children to follow Harriet to America.

Each of these three women protest that they were doing what their heart told them, that they were swept along by fate. Dana emotes that she does not know what to do with this feeling of de jevu (or more accurately, the feeling that she should be with her new lover rather than her fiance). This may make "Deja vu" one of the most self indulgent movies ever filmed. Ilsa argues that she still loves Rick with all her heart but did not have the courage to leave her husband in Paris or to tell Rick the truth. That conveniently changes when she and Victor are desparate to leave Casablanca and need Rick's assistance. Meanwhile, Harriet knows well what it is like to be the wife of an unfaithful husband (her ex having been a real cad) but does not see this as a valid reason to leave well enough alone.

Are these three women entitled to behave as they did? Does their perception of "true love" excuse what are essentially three base acts of betrayal? I don't think so. We all put up with circumstances that may not be ideal and should do so to protect others from pain. Whether they have insight or not, these women are self absorbed and cruel. Moreover, they have no patience and so the consequence of their infidelity is immediate, searing and unforgiveable.

"Truth" (7.4.06)

Thea Gill as "Laura".

I was looking forward to this television movie. It had been some five years or so since Stephanie Zimbalist’s last tellymovie outing in “Malpractice”. However, there was a problem. After watching “Truth”, I wasn’t so much disappointed as puzzled. Why did anyone actually bother to make this half-baked murder mystery?

In essence, the plot sounds ok. Thea Gill plays Laura. (It’s a good thing TV heroines always have nice sounding names. It would be too bad if she were christened something bland such as Mavis or Hilda or Zimble like the rest of us.) Laura intended to become a journalist but instead has become a lightweight TV entertainment reporter.

Laura decides to put on the old 'professional journalist' hat to investigate the murder of her best college buddy Amelia Moore. Amelia was killed whilst investigating real estate fraud in regional Southern California.

It turns out that Meredith Beckerman (Zimbalist), the girls’ old college professor, was running Amelia and tries to do the same with Laura in order to take revenge on the rich evil family that destroyed her own career in journalism and that is now perpetrating the fraud.

Meredith continually pans Laura for not pursuing a "proper" career in journalism but in the end, Meredith sells her soul by trying to blackmail the baddies and is arrested in a sting arranged by none other than the supposedly hopeless Laura. (Come on now, we couldn’t have an American telly movie without a “the good hearted will always triumph” lesson could we?)

So far so good. The movie starts promisingly with very contemporary shots of LA but then things get weird. Throughout the film, the lighting gives a strange goldy-beige colour. It’s looks glary but no one is fussed with sunglasses.

Meredith, Laura and Christie (one of Meredith’s current college students) are playing at being “serious” journalists but parade around in summer skirts and low cut blouses as though they are going to meet for drinks afterwards at their local Mexican resto. (Thank goodness Zimbalist had the good sense to put on a cardigan.)

I could handle these minor production anomalies but it was the very strange characterisation that really had me beat. Take the Laura character for instance. Her motive seems to change as quickly as the weather. First she’s mourning the death of her friend who she felt was "like a sister" but hadn’t bothered to visit in years. Then she pals up with Meredith and we’re off on a road movie when we’re not cozying up with red wine and classical music. Then we’re on a pizza date with the investigating police officer and then, just when it couldn’t possibly get any weirder, we’re walking away from Amelia’s grave, hip to hip with the grieving widower.

Zimbalist’s performance also had me scratching my head, at least for a while. Normally Zimbalist plays her characters with a great deal of sympathy but not here. Meredith is consistently anxious, a bit loud and mostly unfriendly. What is going on, I thought. Then it became clear. Meredith’s line “I’ve been in a downwards spiral for a decade” explains the performance. Zimbalist salvages an otherwise mediocre and very odd movie.