Last night at the pub I met a guy who’s a sniper in the army. I say met, but it was more like he invited himself to sit down with us as the group of people he had previously been punishing had just fled. In an attempt to avoid another 5 minute awkward silence which he would again break with something inappropriate, I asked him if he has been deployed yet, and he said,”Twice. Afghanistan and Timor”. I nodded, hoping the obvious coldness I was sending through every fibre in my being would send him on his way.
Oblivious, or at least undeterred by my lack of interest, he says, “I’ve actually got a funny story about combat in Afghanistan. Well it kinda depends who you tell whether they find it funny or not.”
“OK well chances are, I won’t find it funny”, I say, not being able to imagine anything that may be slightly amusing in this instance.
“So I threw a hand grenade at this guy and it hit him on the full and he kinda just disappeared.”
Wow. Just. Wow.
I went ten-pin bowling on Sunday, put my finger in a bowling ball and pulled out a snot.
Tonight I went to all-you-can-eat and across from me at the next table was n old lady, she was at least 120, who had one eye and one empty eye socket. I had to look at it through my entire dinner. Well I didn’t have to look at it, but I couldn’t not look at it. You know?
Because I have become addicted to this TV series, The Killing. It’s a US version of a Danish version of a book. Its set in Seattle and it just rains all the time. I mean ALL THE TIME. And it has that woman out of Kalifornication and Star Trek and True Blood in it and although I can relate to her character a whole lot, she is still a pain in my ass. So I have been spending a lot of time in the past week watching a third hand version of a story that makes me really cold every time I watch it on account of the rain, which contains a woman who shits me. But it’s awesome, I swear.
Incident at Raven’s Gate started the Aussie horror movie fad. A tasty bit of rough trade gets out of jail and goes to live with his brother, who has no chin and enjoys growing orchids and his (No-Chin’s) smokin hot much younger wife, who spends a lot of time in the shower, or in small dresses, presumably due to the oppressive heat, in the middle of the Australian bush. Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, right?
Well you didn’t even account for THE ALIENS yet. As usual, they are excessively thirsty, and steal all the farm’s water, not to mention dehydrating loads of sheep, stopping car engines and making No-Chin’s dog go mental. The local cop goes alien crazy and kills the local barmaid, propping her up in his passenger seat for a lovely drive to see a show. The aliens move in next door to the orchid farm and No-Chin doesn’t believe Rough-Trade when he claims there is now a portal in the neighbour’s living room because he is cut that Rough-Trade made out with Smokin-Hot-Wife. In the shower. So he cannot leave well enough alone and has to go into the house and look into the portal….
Made by Rolf De Heer, of Bad Boy Bubby and The Tracker fame, the name was changed to Encounter at Raven’s Gate for American release just in case you missed the fact it was about aliens. The soundscapes are awesome and cinematography breathtaking, or is that just the landscape? No John Jarratt that I could see, though he may well have been in disguise.
Worst movie in the Aussie horror festival at our house so far would have to be 2010’s Savages Crossing. John Jarratt (SURPRISE!) plays a psycho fresh outta jail looking for revenge, who comes to the flooded town of Savages Crossing to do in his ex-wife. Craig McLachlan is the macho and mysterious cowboy (HAHAHAHAHAHA) who has to take matters into his own hands after Jarratt does away with everyone from Chris Haywood to that chick with the buck teeth from Heartbreak High. Terrible.
Then there was Next of Kin. This one was made in 1982, and is lauded as possibly the best Aussie horror film ever made, compared to The Shining by people who didn’t even make it. Even Tarantino has rated it as one of the best, but he’s probably said that about every film at some point, it must be difficult to think up 8,757,664 words to say everyday. Some amazing sequences and unforgettable images sometimes feel too long in coming, but I feel that is a more to do with the shortening of my attention span due to my recent intake of 50 plot, 120 explosion Hollywood films than any fault in this movie itself.
The plot of this one sees a young woman returning to the family mansion, now a conveniently decrepit and creepy retirement home, upon her mother’s death. She has many flashbacks to a childhood incident involving a red ball and a bathtub whilst becoming increasingly freaked out by noises and happenings that defy logic, fearing she would go insane like her mother, but all the time happily rooting John Jarratt.
Why is John Jarratt in every Australian horror movie ever? Is there some kind of rule about casting him that us non-showbiz plebs are unaware of?
For the past week I have been having an Aussie horror movie marathon. Tonight I watched Dead-End Drive In. Dear lord. I loved the futuristic Sydney imagined by the film makers in 1986, was inspired by the fantastic punk/sci-fi costumes, was confused by the overt anti-Asian subplot and will be perpetually wondering why anyone thought to choose the WORST ACTOR EVER to play the main character. No really, he MUST have been making out with the director.
The premise is that the world has fallen into chaos (partly due to Sydney’s bicentennial celebrations that turned into a riot hahahahaha) so the police have invoked emergency powers. All the undesirable or unemployed people are trapped at the drive-in by the police who steal their car parts while they are humping. The fence is electrified and gate locked so shanty houses and gang warfare result. Everyone seems quite happy to hang out in the toots doing their hair, or play futuristic punk cricket except our WORST EVER ACTOR HERO who becomes obsessed with leaving, much to the disdain of the dowdy but insidious drive-in proprietor. Bring in a bus load of Asians, some cops selling ‘pure Byron Bay heads’, a dubious romance and Wilbur Wilde being a dick, and shenanigans ensue. Good times.