One month it has been

Since Marglish received my love

Haiku for lost time

From over the sea

A visitor to fair Oz

Time to show it off

Down to Jervis Bay

Whitest sand in the whole world

Water clear but cold

I have a new job

Which combines my passions for

Design and nature

Fall is coming now

Goodbye to sun soaked beaches

I’ll see you next year

You can see more photos from Jervis Bay on flickr.

I have talked before about the Aussie tendency to self-deprecate, and the tall poppy syndrome that leads them to chop down anyone who achieves international celebrity status.  It also makes Aussies tear apart their own films before they are ever even released, occasionally while they are still only screenplays.  It leads to the countless questions I get as to why I, a hopeful filmmaker, would rather be here than in LA.  And it keeps Aussies from seeing the huge filmmaking advantages they have right at their fingertips.

One of those advantages is government support.  People might not agree with all the decisions the state and countrywide film commissions make.  They might see favoritism triumph over quality in the films they choose to support, but that is no different than what you will find in Hollywood funding.  Favors and mutual back scratching are rife in the film industry, regardless of country.  But to have the country itself support filmmakers, is a rare gift.  Unfortunately, the Australian film commissions suffer from the same itchy rash that all their filmmakers do.

I’ve heard enough now to be sure that almost every development grant, almost every program created to support up and coming Australian filmmakers, sees at least some, if not all of its money to go the film industry in LA.  Script assessors in LA are hired over Australian ones to consult on development.  American filmmakers are flown out to give short talks at a cost that would probably support several Australian filmmakers for week long seminars.  And high priced internships are set-up to send young filmmakers to LA to learn the “tricks of the trade.”  No one seems to realize the detrimental message this is sending to Aussie filmmakers countrywide.  The government itself is practically shouting at the top of its lungs; “We’re just not good enough!”

That message is so deeply ingrained into minds of the filmmakers who would be receiving those grants, that most of the conversations I had this week sounded something like this:

Me – “The Australian government is basically paying to support California’s dying economy.”

Aussie – “Maybe the idea is to come back with all the knowledge from working in LA and apply it to Australian film.”

Me – “$50,000 for six months in LA!  Who are they kidding?  You’re never coming back!”

Aussie – “Probably not.”

Or this gem:

Me – “The government shouldn’t be giving away loads of money to spend overseas.”

Aussie – “No, it would be better spent paying the experts to come here.”

Me – “What!  That’s still spending money somewhere else.  That’s still saying that LA has something that you can’t get here.”

Aussie – “The government would probably spend more money here, if Australian films weren’t so bloody bad.”

Me – “You don’t think a bad film has ever been made in LA?  GAH!”

(There may have been a few drinks involved with that conversation)

LA may be where the film industry started, but that is by no means where it ended.  Film is an international art, reaching audiences worldwide.  And in places like India, China, Korea, Europe and the UK, filmmakers function in entirely autonomous filmmaking communities.  Sure, some French filmmakers probably want an Oscar as much as everyone else does, but do you think the French would ever say “better learn how to make movies in the US, they’re better at it.”

The vision, the passion, the talent and the money to make the world’s best movies, all exist in Australia.  The only thing holding Australian filmmakers back, is themselves.  The best thing they can learn from Los Angelinos is the self-important attitude that makes reality TV stars think they’ve accomplished feats worthy of a Nobel peace prize.  If Australians do go to LA, it shouldn’t be to learn, but to teach Los Angelinos what humility actually means, and how to just generally tone it down.

I am watching Baz Luhrmann’s Australia as I write this.  I won’t argue that it’s filmmaking genius, and it’s certainly not to everyone’s taste, but no one would disagree that it’s a sumptuous film of epic proportions.  It’s undeniable evidence that Australian filmmakers can go so far beyond believing “we’re just not good enough” that they gain the ability to say “I can make any film I bloody well please.”  It’s about time Aussies start approaching film as they do sport, with voracious attitude and no fear of losing a few teeth.  I know they can do it, and if they don’t believe me, maybe they’ll believe Oprah.  Thanks for visiting Queen O.  Here’s hoping you inspired a few other people to aim to light up the harbor bridge one of these days.  I know I will, after all, I’m an egocentric American girl from LA.

Though I’m not one to glue myself to the news, I’ve watched enough coverage of the floods now to see a few differences between the Aussie and American responses to disaster.   For one thing, the Australians are just as bad at producing maps of disaster areas as they are at making weather maps.  To say Queensland is large is a bit of an understatement.  In my many attempts to find a map of the affected area I simply came up with map after map of the entire state, blocked out in one solid color, with a few useless dots here and there.  Had a flood of these epic proportions happened in California, news stations would have probably presented viewers with a constantly updating map, covered in an animated blue slime that crept along engulfing towns in real time.

The newscasters themselves also presented a decidedly calm face to the events they were reporting.  They were appropriately urgent with the warnings, appropriately somber with the statistics, but overall they were always quite calm.  On most news stations in the States, I believe we would have been presented with a much more manic reporting style, supported by a constant ticker of updates, shouted phone-ins from reporters on the verge of being swept away, and then lively debates about the flood’s impact on our economics.  And it wasn’t just the news reporters but also the flooded out residents who were restrained in their response.  There were tears and frustrations, mourning and fear, but all surrounded with an air of “It’s nature.  We can’t do anything about it.”  Relief centers were generally so well prepared that the beds were all made before anyone arrived, volunteer numbers were well suited to those of the displaced, and entertainers came to sing to the children.

The floods were also another chance for Aussies to show the world their strong spirit of resilience, wrapped in wet blankets of humility.  Queensland premier Anna Bligh was right when she said Australians (not just Queenslanders) are the people they “breed tough.”  They are also the people that take things in stride, and won’t accept too much praise for their strengths.  All last week, people helped each other build sandbag barriers into the night, rescued animals by boat and did it all without extra flair for the news cameras.  Some quick thinking tugboat drivers even saved major infrastructure from damage, by guiding an estate sized piece of rubble away from a bridge.  But to the tugboat driver it was just his job and “couldn’t have been done any better.”  I wonder if good ol’ “Sully” Sullenberger said the same thing when he safely landed his plane in the Hudson river.

That’s Australians for you, calm, collected, accepting and understated, even when underwater.  Perhaps part of the attitude came from the fact that this disaster occurred in a warm country at the beginning of summer.  With the calming effect of the season in full swing, everyone might have been thinking, “I may up to me waist in water, but no worries, I had thongs and swimmers on anyway.”  Here’s hoping they can maintain that attitude during the lengthy rebuilding process.  In the meantime, keep your fingers crossed for blue skies and sunshine in Queensland.  And don’t forget to make your donations to the relief fund.    Much appreciated, Mate!

For 2011, among the many resolutions I have made (including the year after year resolution to floss) I have also resolved to give some much needed TLC to Marglish.  In addition to posting more regularly, I also plan to vary posts between my usual musings about the life of a starving artist ex-pat in Oz, photographic explorations and adventures, and a new addition for this baby year.  Since I am a creative writer, I figured I might wax poetic from time to time.  I’m not sure if I’ll post sections of screenplays, random brain dumps or write the next Dickensian novel (though I was never a fan of Dickens) but I will let inspiration be my guide.  So stay tuned as the plot thickens.  For now, I leave you with the first beautiful sunset of the new year.

Of course, maybe I only think my accent is so clear because it has been ringing in my own ears since I could speak.  It is certainly true that before I went to Oz, my knowledge of Australian accents didn’t go too far past G’day and crikey.  Now I can not only instantly tell the difference between a Kiwi and an Aussie (bloody big accent gap there) but I can also hear the subtle differences between certain regional accents. In fact, any accent quirks, slang or expressions are so common to me now, that I have completely forgotten to report them in my “How To Speak Australian” posts.  Though I still can’t mimic a Queenslander the way I could mimic someone from Queens.

So perhaps when people tell me that I have a “soft accent” it’s because I don’t sound like the mass media produced idea of “Amurkins”.  I am back in the states right now, and was just recently in Texas.  Now there is an accent thick with recognition.  I doubt the average Texan would be mistaken for a Canadian.  But the friendly “y’alls” are hardly representative of the entire country, just as not all Aussies go to the “dunny” (well they do, but they don’t all call it that).  Though while the Australians seem to prefer the “soft accent”, passing along that observation as if it’s a compliment, most Americans I know, love any accent that isn’t their own.  So, an occasional use of the word dunny would probably be seen as quite adorable.

Though there are still those Aussies who choose to make fun of my accent by repeating exactly what I said back to me in the worst mock of a yank they can muster.  It’s hard on the ears and brings out my NY attitude, not something I would recommend.   Personally, my ear for accents has been readjusted so many times now, that it takes a conscious effort to pick out the ones that seem out of place, unless they represent the extreme end of the accent scale.  But I won’t be mimicking, picking out or complimenting people on their “soft accents”, not only because I won’t even notice them, but also because I know that rather than being soft, that are simply average.  And I hope that in the years to come, wherever else in the world they may take me, I develop an even “softer” accent, spiced by the people and places I come in contact with.  In the meantime, I’ll get back to my reports on the quirks of Aussie language, in the hopes of sharing a little language flavor with those who cannot taste test in person.  But since I’m stateside for the moment.  I’ll end with a little . . .

Happy Holidays Y’all!

Substantially harder to explain is why I choose to do what I do.  Life would certainly be easier if I had a paycheck handed to me every once in a while (which is one of my aims).  And it would be substantially easier if I simply chose to do less.  I don’t have to volunteer to design yet another short film that only the festival geeks will ever see.  I don’t have to set a deadline for my next screenplay since I’m worlds away from having an agent breathing down my neck for it.  So why do I?

All people are driven to step beyond their obligations to simply exist and procreate by different reasons.  It can be to stave off boredom, to release a subconscious desire, to answer the call of the muse, or the desperate need to be able to look back on their lives and say “yeah, I did that.”  For me it is both all of those reasons and none of them the same time.  It’s a voice that tells me that I will accomplish something great.  It’s the visions of me attending my own premiere, being interviewed by an iconic figure and yes, being handed awards.  Above all that, it’s the idea that I will watch a compelling story that I helped to create, play out before my eyes and still get from it that same sense of amazement and wonder one only seems to touch in the early years of childhood.  It is want.  It is desire.  It is drive.  It is need.

I can only relate this intangible concept to one tangible object: Michelangelo’s Rondanini Pietà.  Never heard of it?  I’m not surprised.  It was the last piece Michelangelo was working on up until a few days before his death, and it was never finished.  What remains of this marble block is only the sinewy ghosts of Mary and Jesus, and one nearly finished arm, polished to a shine but completely dismembered from any body.  This hacked apart marble block could never have become a completed work worthy of the master’s reputation.  Nonetheless, seeing it nearly brought me to tears.  Michelangelo worked on this sculpture up until a few days before his death at the unheard of age of 89.  Driven by whatever his need was, to touch the divine, to step beyond the mortal plane and out of his pain-ridden mortal body, or to perhaps leave a piece of his soul here on earth, he just had to keep working.  In that dismembered arm, the shadowy faces in the stone, the jittery marks of an unstable chisel, I could feel that need, that driving force to create that was so strong it became destruction.

So I keep chiseling.  I answer my muse.  I let my subconscious take the driver’s seat.  I am far from bored, and someday I will look back and say “Wow, I did that!”  I just hope I know when to stop chiseling.  Even if I don’t, someone may look at what I created and see beautiful destruction.  I leave you with the words of the master himself.

Only with fire can the smith shape iron
from his conception into fine, dear work;
neither, without fire, can any artist
refine and bring gold to its highest state,
nor can the unique phoenix be revived
unless first burned. And so, if I die burning,
I hope to rise again brighter among those
whom death augments and time no longer hurts.
I’m fortunate that the fire of which I speak
still finds a place within me, to renew me,
since already I’m almost numbered among the dead;
or, since by its nature it ascends to heaven,
to its own element, if I should be transformed
into fire, how could it not bear me up with it?
- Michelangelo Buonarroti 1532

A few observations from the flip side:

American money IS really boring.  I had heard that before but could never really relate.  It also feels substantially less robust than Aussie money.  Perhaps currency reflects culture in more ways than intended.  But you certainly spend a lot less of it.  My idea of a reasonable price is so far from what it used to be.  Shopping at certain outlets and chain stores felt almost like getting away with theft.  I guess there is something to be said for a mass consumerist culture.  Although, taxes and tipping sucks a bit.  Go easy on the foreigners who might shortchange you.  They probably just come from a culture with a more straightforward billing system.

Driving on the other side of the road only seemed a little strange when I was on a new road.  It created a particularly strange sensation while on a road lined with eucalyptus trees though.  Coincidence?  I think not.

Changing seasons on the way there was not particularly hard, but coming back to winter is quite a depressing experience.  If the cold doesn’t get to you, then the lack of light does.  We came back to Sydney on the shortest day of the year after having been in a city where it was still light at 8pm.  Luckily the days can only get longer from here.

My Many Homes:

Going back to LA felt the same way it always has.  I guess I’m used to coming home again, even if the trips happen less frequently than they used to.  But this was the first time I have ever gone back to New York and not been returning to my own humble abode.  I can only describe the sensation of going back like that of reading a book or seeing a movie that you loved as a child but haven’t been exposed to for many years.  You remember the major plot points, the characters and how it ends (usually with a slice of pizza at 2am on a Sunday) but you’ve forgotten little details here and there.  I’d see certain street corners, overhear conversations on the subway, get trapped in the stampede of a deli lunch rush and find myself thinking, oh yeah, I remember that.

It was also louder, more congested and just generally more insane than I remember.  I guess after living there for enough time you develop the ability to shut out everything but what you need and want to hear, see and even smell, then lose it after spending some time away.  But I muscled through overstimulation with the iron will (and stomach) of a true New Yorker.  Yeah, I’ve still got it.

The bagels are amazing, the cocktails are generous, the pizza is rich and delicious and the coffee sucks.  But it tastes like no other coffee in the world.  That slight hint of burnt metal and taste of grounds that have spent weeks at the bottom of the machine is a flavor I fondly associate with the Big Apple, ode de health violations.  I also thought I walked plenty in Sydney, but I realize now that no creature on earth walks as much as a New Yorker.  It took wearing holes in one pair of shoes and my only pair of feet before I got my city legs back.  Aussies will be able to swim around the planet when the polar ice caps melt but until then they’ll never beat a New Yorker in an endurance walk.

But perhaps the most surprising thing about going back home was the fact that it made me really feel how much time has passed since I’ve been back.  When you move to a new country, how you feel and what you experience tends to change every few weeks.  Excitement becomes culture shock, because excitement again.  New experiences become everyday life.  Odd becomes normal and eventually your new environment becomes your new home and before you know it an entire year has passed.  But for the people you left behind, the people whose lives now have one less person in them, they seem to have felt every day pass.  You can tell by how tightly they hug you when they finally see you again.  You can see it in the tears they can’t hold back when you have to say goodbye for another year.  It suddenly becomes much harder to leave than you thought it would be.

But because of all those people, both East coast and West, I now have more than one place to call home.  As hard as it is to be separated by time zones and hemispheres, I know I can not only always come back but that I will also always be welcomed.  I’ve felt so much at home in two vastly different cities now, that  when people here ask me where I’m from I have trouble deciding what to say.  And I wouldn’t feel that way without the people I have so much trouble prying myself away from.  So I consider myself lucky, exceptionally lucky.  And if I continue to be as lucky as I am now, maybe I’ll have a third city to call my home.

Now, I’m going back to two different places that I’ve called home for most of my life and I wonder if all the commonplace everyday things that I once took for granted are going to stick out like the peaks of the Opera House.  Will the LA traffic finally seem as ridiculous as I know it really is?  (although Sydney has its fair share of congested arteries as well.)  Will NY actually seem like the densely, jam-packed pickle of an island I had once been so accustomed to?  Will I experience a sense of relief at finally no longer being the one with the accent?  At least no one will think I’m Canadian.

I’ll report my findings upon my return to the land of Oz.  Until then, I’ll be enjoying a literal change of season. Cheers!

I did participate in Earth Hour, but was away from my own apartment so I couldn’t watch as the city center went dark.  I was actually looking forward to seeing how the birthplace of the tradition would celebrate it, especially since Time Square gave such a pathetic showing last year.  I guess it will take another blackout of the entire eastern seaboard to put out all the blinking lights on 42nd Street.

This past weekend I just barely missed the homecoming of Jessica Watson the youngest person to (unofficially) sail solo around the world.  Of course, I wouldn’t have missed that had she shown up on time.  Dang teenagers.  At first I felt a sense of guilt at missing these odd, unique and occasionally historic events occurring right outside my window, then I thought about all the things I probably missed seeing every day of my life until now.

I never once saw the New Years Eve ball drop in Time Square.  I’m of the school of thought that real New Yorkers know it’s too crowded, too cold and too touristy.  We’d all rather be drinking indoors.  I never went ice skating at Rockafeller Center.  You want how much for 45 minutes?  My gracefulness belongs on cheaper ice.  And even though we made a yearly tradition of watching the parade balloons getting inflated the night before, there was no way in hell I was getting up at the crack of dawn to actually watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

But my life is not lacking.  Something interesting probably happens in every city in the world every single day.  I won’t let the drive to experience the goings on in this lovely city die, but I won’t drive myself crazy trying to catch every event that might just happen to cruise by my window.  For every event I miss a spontaneous fireworks show occurs.  There was a lovely one just a few hours ago.  Someone must have been really happy it was Monday.