An Apple A Day

As I said in my last post, which was, I admit, a bit miserable, I have enrolled in a taster course in Natural History and Scientific Illustration. Seeing what I think about it. It's online, so not as onerous as it could be or perhaps should be. But a lot is expected of us and it is really sorting out those who are seriously interested and those who thought it would be a fun way to "learn to draw" (god help them).

I missed one homework assignment due to home stuff, but fortunately it was one of the voluntary extras. I am working on finishing it, but the submission date is been and gone.

The first few weeks were: playing with pencils, how to keep a field journal and basic observational drawing. I should have done some gesture drawings this week. I'll get round to them. Thank the gods there are no marks associated with that bit. I will get round to them.

Anyway, I've decided to share a couple of things I have done and actually submitted, because I rather like them. They are a bit amateurish, but I'm getting there. Time to practice is essential, and a bit thin on the ground.

We were asked to do an observational drawing of several objects from nature. I chose the apple blossoms from my garden. I love my heritage apples, but I don't take anywhere near enough care of them. They didn't get pruned again this winter gone. And the time to net them was a couple of days ago. If I do them NOW I may be apple to avoid fruit fly. Maybe.

They were all in bloom when the assignment came up so I got out and cut off blossoms from the four of them. Okay, so Granny Smiths are not heritage apples, but the other three are. Being a bear of small brain, and a somewhat turbulent one at the moment, I didn't think to put them in water, so the drawings became a race against time. And looking at them now, I realise I got them mixed up. The Calville Blanche d'Hiver is actually the Tydeman's Early (my variety is a russet, with a lovely honey flavour). The Peasgood Nonsuch is actually the Calville Blanche d'Hiver. And the Tydeman's Early is really the Peasgood (the flowers died before I got to them). So I got them completely mixed up. But on the bright side, my drawings were good enough that I could work out exactly which was which.

Apple Blossoms, Megan Hitchens, graphite on white paper, 2016

As to the apples themselves, once found how could I NOT grow an apple called Peasgood Nonsuch? Plus, it's delicious. The Tydeman's is a cider apple that you can eat as is, and if you know anything about Caravaggio then you have seen a Calville Blanche d'Hiver. He painted them a few times. I'd been on the look out for it for some time, and then had the opportunity to buy a tree. Quite a bumpy apple, but lovely flavour.

This past week we had to start keeping a field journal. It's different drawing out in the "wild". The wind comes up, it rains, the sun comes out, or goes behind a cloud. Insects hover and buzz and love the white page. Where has my brush gone? A familiar refrain but now I am looking for it in unfamiliar places. We had to pick our best page and post it. I got it onto the site a day late, but I'm glad I waited for this last one to be finished, as it is my best one.

Japanese Black Pine, Megan Hitchens, graphite, water colour pencils and white ink on Bristol Board, 2016

We had to do sketches and then indicate colour, rather than colour the whole thing. And include field notes. No idea if I am on the right track. I do know that I have labelled the male strobili as anthers. I'll get there.

Anyway, that's what I have been up to, in amongst the chaos.

On The Futility of Always Going Last

I saw an interview with Margaret Olley about twenty years ago. She was talking about her life as an artist, and what she said struck me then and has stayed with me every since. "If you are a woman and you want to be an artist, don't marry and don't have children".

I have had several male artist friends tell me in scoffing tones that this is not true, "not now", that Olley was talking about her experiences from another time. But by hell, it is true. You can be a woman and an artist (or a farmer, or whatever) but it is a LOT harder if you have a spouse and/or kids.

Part of this is my fault. I fall for the conditioned feelings of guilt and martyrdom that are ingrained in most women. We must put everyone else first, to do otherwise is somehow selfish and wrong. And everyone else's desires and careers are somehow intrinsically more important. Anything goes wrong in the home or needs extra attention, I'm the one who has to deal with it. Which is fair enough, given I don't have a wage coming in and I work from home. Except I see female friends who are working for a wage still being the ones to deal with all the home-front stuff, having to take time off or juggle doctor's appointments and school issues and what have you. Never their male partners. And we don't push back, or at least not very hard, because that is somehow wrong, or ungrateful, or something. I fight against this, but the feelings are strong, the conditioning deep. There are times when I really hate this society.

There has been a lot of crap going on here, just day to day, I have children crap. I also started doing some courses to see if I could keep everything going and consider going back to finish the PhD. I have somehow (and sporadically) kept drawing and painting throughout, although the blogging has pretty much gone (something had to, and it's the least vital). Recently I enrolled in an online taster course in Natural History and Scientific Illustration, just as everything here went into light-speed overdrive and became absolutely crazy. At a time when I have also started questioning a whole lot of things (not least of which is "just what am I doing?"). Everyone has needed me, all the time. And everyone's needs have been genuine. But it's been all at once. A bit like buses. You wait ages with nothing and then three turn up at once. Well, that's how it has worked out, only I wish it was just three.

By the time I get through my day, and get everyone else through their days, and hold the fort and do all the normal house duties crap that never bloody stops, and finally get a little time for myself, I am too wasted, emotionally and physically, to even think about the drawings I need to do for my course. The requirements aren't onerous, but at the moment they are too much. I'm getting my homework in, but today it was a day late. And it's because everything else comes first.

It's not just me. I am, by no means saying it is. And a lot of women have it a whole LOT harder than I do. I'm just really sick of it at the moment. No, I'm sick of it for good. I am really, really tired of it. And not just for me, for all us.

I have a friend who is a goat farmer. She is a strong, independent woman who knows her own mind and pursues her own goals. She's also a teacher and a mentor to others. I admire her greatly. Lives on her own. Why? Because when she tries living with a man, his wants come before her needs. She ended up throwing the last guy out because he really thought his wants were more important. It wasn't stated or asserted or anything, it was just demonstrated on a daily basis with the way he lived and with the way he expected her to live. She was to be there for him. Not the other way round, not even as a two-way street (apparently he talked a good two-way street). Her life was to be built around him. On her own farm. Which she owned. So she threw him out.

I'm not advocating we all start throwing out our partners. But I think I really need to start saying "this is what I need", "this is what I am doing". It's done often enough the other way, with no assertions or demands for a fair go, just as the way life works. Men do what they want, women fit in. Because there seems little concept in the world of taking turns when it comes to married women, and particularly married women with children.

And here's the really stupid thing. I am in two minds about letting this post stand. I feel like I am being unfair, having a moan, being stupid. But I'm not. My art is important. It may not pay at the moment, but if it always comes second, or even third (which is more usual), then it will NEVER pay. And I will go my grave thinking, "Shit, how did I let this happen?" And it is not the fault of my kids. They need me right now, both of them, and I can't desert them. And good parents do put their kids first and sacrifice to get them through and keep them going. But not all the time. Not everything. And it's not selfish when you say "what I am doing is important too". Or to say, "I'm sorry, but you need to step up this time". To not always put what you want or need last after everyone else. Or to spend so much energy keeping everyone else afloat that you don't notice you are the one sinking.

Every time you don't say "No" or "me" or "my time", it makes it harder to say it the next time, and the next. If you have young women in your life, be they daughters, granddaughters, nieces, friends, whatever, tell them their wishes for their life, their desires for career, their pursuits, are just as important as their brothers' or fathers' or cousins' or friends' or partner's desires and wishes. They have just as much right as the men in the world and don't have to step back or follow quietly because "he already has a job" or "he wants to study" or whatever it is that is being put forward. Just as much right and her pursuits are just as important. Make sure they know and support them in their decisions and desires.

But Margaret Olley was right. If you want to be an artist, and you are a woman, don't get married and don't have kids.

Show Yourself Out, Goat...

You sucked.*

I'll try to not make this post a bit of a whinge. Although I won't succeed, because it is, by nature, a bit of a whinge. But what it is meant to be is a bit of self-berating to get myself back on track.

2015, the Year of the Goat, sucked. It didn't suck as badly for me as it did for others, but it wasn't good.

Two exhibitions, neither of which sold a thing (admittedly one was very small, but still...). Lots of family stuff that needed my full attention, and seemed to never end. Lots of other stuff that you don't need to hear (I'm burdening you enough already). Ill. My god, ill. Every little thing going and quite a few big things too. Pneumonia is not fun, may I add.

The bloody Black Dog made his presence more than felt. I have a deep desire to chain him on the porch, but the damned thing keeps slipping his lead, getting inside and howling like the hellhound that he is. Or just sitting there, in the dark, a demon from the depths. And the wretched creature whispers. All the time.

I made a terrible mistake that hurts someone else, and it runs round and round my head. All the scenarios, all the opportunities at which point I could have chosen to do some small thing differently and avoided catastrophe. But didn't. In the end I became immobilised. Unable to do my family history, unable to paint or draw, or blog, feeling unworthy of anything that brings joy or peace or satisfaction. I have to accept that mistakes get made and constantly beating myself for every single one, and shredding myself for this one, won't change a thing. Won't help anyone. So, hard as it is, I have to let it go and make what paltry amends I can and just get on with things. Even if I don't deserve it. Because everyone else doesn't deserve to live with me like this.

And the children had a rough year. I fought for them, as any mother does, and things have improved a lot for my son, but my daughter continues to struggle. We'll sort something out, find a solution, keep it all going. Can I say I hate the one-size-fits-some education system? Her school is very supportive, but the curriculum is crap, and BOSTES needs... I don't know what it needs, but it needs it. Deliberately disadvantaging kids with reading difficulties because the head "doesn't believe" in the solution is beyond words. Well into the range of tearing fury. What would happen if she didn't believe in reading glasses? Or hearing aids? Or braille?

And the spouse has had a hard time at work this year. Lots of pressure, long hours. He hasn't been home much, and when he is, he's still caught up in it all. So, from a selfish point of view, I have had to manage the kids pretty much on my own. Which is mean to say, but hey, that's the way it has had to be. I probably haven't supported him as much as I should, but he's gotten whatever I have had left.

So maybe I should be proud that I got two exhibitions in last year (even if one was small). Because guess what I jettisoned first, in all the crap that was the Year of the Goat. It seems ever thus.

Margaret Olley said if you are female and want to be an artist, don't get married and don't have children. There are many days, and a lot of them fell in 2015, when I know she was right.

I had a long talk to my daughter yesterday afternoon, about her and what she is going through, about her future and what she wants. She is so incredibly gifted, in so many areas, but just lately her artistic streak has come roaring to the fore. She is astounding. If we can sort out Years 11 and 12, or TAFE, or something, get her through this, she is going to do some astonishing things.

It is a great comfort to me to say to her what I was never told. That if she loves something and goes for it, she will find a way to make a living from it, and be much happier in the long run. There will be no sense of disappointment from her parents if she isn't "earning" (since when is money the mark of a person's worth or ability?), or "achieving" (which always has such a narrow definition, anyway). We are there for her no matter what. And whatever she wants to do, we will help her work out how to do it, should she want that help. There are always ways.

At the end of a very long discussion, do you know what my beautiful girl did? She turned and said, "What about you, Mum? What do you want?"

I have to admit, I was a bit low because of all the school stuff yesterday (calls from support workers, while trying to help find solutions, can turn one's day on its head. Still, better to know), so my answers, while stating what I wanted, were filled with reasons why not. And my girl told me what I needed to do, gave me a plan of action, just as I had been devising action plans for her. And told me how much she believes in me and reminded me that I always say to the kids "It's never too late" ("unless," she clarified, "you've just been given six weeks to live or something. Then you'd have to say it's too late." She's quite direct). And she gave me a list of things to not focus on.

And at about three this morning, for the first time in a long time, I woke with an idea, instead of waking with worries. I've spent time this morning thinking about it, doing some preliminary sketches. Actually feeling like I can create something. Of course, after such a hiatus I am rusty, so the next few days will largely be warm up exercises, and doing other stuff like grounds and things, just to make sure I am back in the game and not drifting off again.

This year is the Year of the Monkey. More than that, it's the Year of the Fire Monkey. So maybe it will be ragingly better. That or it will burn everything to the ground. Fingers crossed for the former.

For the record, I always thought I was a Monkey (Earth Monkey to be precise). I now find out I am actually at the tail end of the Sheep (or Goat, either way a fibre animal. Go figure), and a Fire Sheep to boot. So maybe this is the year that this dag end of a Sheep finally gets back on track.

I was looking for an image for this blog, and I wasn't satisfied with my own drawings of monkeys or goats. They just didn't fit the bill for one reason or another. And the Black Dog gets enough of a look-in, so no drawings of that, thank you. In the end I googled Durer, because I like his monkey and goat drawings (actually, let's just change that to "I love Albrecht Durer"). I found this and it made me laugh. Perfect. Every drawing of the Virgin and Child should have a monkey in it. Go, Albrecht.+

The Virgin and Child with Monkey, Albrecht Durer, 1498, engraving, National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA

*The title and first sentence is courtesy of Robert Brown. He pretty much summed up 2015.

+Mark Calderwood, what's the symbolism of monkeys in this context?

Back In Black

And even longer between buses.

Finally I am back in the saddle again. Each winter I say "Wow, I have never been so sick" and each winter I seem to top the winter before.

And every time I have a hiatus with my art production I end up gripped by an irrational fear - that I have lost the ability to create. Which isn't true. Sure, skills get rusty if you don't use them. It takes a little bit to get back in the swing of things. But the ability is still there. It just needs a push. And pushing something that's rusty needs a bit more effort than if it is running smoothly.

So I tell my brain that the fear is irrational and I push myself.

This time the push came in the form of drawing on black.

Back in May I started a drawing of my favourite guitarist, Josh Goering. But then the coughing and the shakes and the headaches and the wildly swinging temperatures started. Which makes it a little difficult to draw.

As you may have realised by now, I am rather entranced by the trois crayons technique - three colours of chalk on paper, namely white, black and sanguine. You can get a staggering array of colours with just those three, depending on the colour of the paper you use. A ground closest to a vellum tone gives the best range, but changing what you're working on produces interesting effects. And then there are temperature shifts. Working on blue or cool grey, as opposed to reds, yellows and warm greys. There seems to be endless choices to explore.

And what better way to explore than on black? I was excited when I started back in May, which is just as well, because having something exciting to plunge back in with made overcoming irrational fears a little easier. It took surprisingly little to get it finished. It's not perfect. The likeness isn't as close as I would like. It's more like Pirate Jesus or Blackbeard playing the guitar than Josh, but the technique stands up well on the dark paper. Although photographing it has been a nightmare. I ended up in three different lights, with a tripod, and lots of deletions and muttering. And then there is the endless fiddling in the photo software to try to get the photo to look like the original drawing.

At any rate, here's what I ended up with. Two versions, because of different lighting. I like each but for different reasons.

Josh Goering 2, Megan Hitchens, 2015, trois crayons on black paper

Josh Goering, Megan Hitchens, 2015 trois crayons on black paper

The lower light one hasn't as much clarity and the colours are more subdued, but I do like it. The colours in the lighter one are more accurate, but the paper looks grey rather than black. C'est la vie.

Not to stop there. I like Zentangle, and I love the official supplies. The paper is particularly beautiful - Italian, 100% cotton, luscious. They have black paper too, which is exactly the same, but died black. The dye has a curious effect. It makes the paper velvety to the touch. A little more challenging to use, but so lovely. I do use it for Zentangle, but I also use it for basic drawing.

Being ill meant I missed a few birthdays for people. Often I just send a Boynton card (who doesn't love Sally Boynton? The woman is a genius), but I also like to do a drawing when I can. Which really didn't happen at all. So I have decided that at the beginning of each year I will draw a couple of images, scan them and then send them for all the birthdays that year. Well, that's the plan, but as I have said before, the best laid plans of mice and Megans. We'll see what happens.

That said, I drew a birthday image, or three actually, which I can use for the remainder of this year. For those I have missed, sorry, you'll get a copy of this in the next few days, hopefully. For those with it coming up, sorry, I've spoilt the surprise.

These are drawn on the black Zentangle paper, in white pencil, white gel pen and soap stone. So a rather different technique to the drawings above.

Balloon Flowers, Megan Hitchens, 2015, white pencil, white gel pen, soap stone on black 100% cotton paper

I love balloon flowers. They are traditionally blue. Watching them open never gets dull. My aunt gave me a plant years ago (it has since died, as has she, I'm sorry to say, although she was in her mid 90s when she went. Amazing woman. I'll have to tell you about her some time). I drew these listening to Abney Park's cover of "O Holy Night" (I firmly believe in Christmas in July), and for some reason got an image of glowing balloon flowers blooming in dark alleys of Victorian London. Don't ask why. I have no idea. They peel open, the light intensifies and then softens to a gentle glow. Given the dark mire of the modern world, how many of us are trying to bloom in the dark?

It is meant as encouragement.

Anyway, that's me and probably the product of all the high temperatures. I'm sure my brain has been a bit more cooked than usual.

Out Standing in his Field

Still not about art (there may be something later today. Depends how the flu makes me feel. Yes, my cold has become flu. Lovely). Instead, the pressing issue of pseudonyms.

We are all warned about the dangers of the internet and particularly about the dangers of the internet with regard to our children. The problem as a parent is that parents LOVE to talk about their kids, and love to show them off, because we LOVE our kids and they are a big part of our lives. Plus, my children inform my art production, not just in terms of time and access (I think that's hamper rather than inform) but also sometimes what I produce and how, ideas, inspiration, blunt blunt criticism (brutal may be a better word, but gosh it is so useful). And then there are the things they get up to, and say, and introduce me to.

My daughter loves Deviant Art and uses it to interact with her friends (it's a web forum for the arts, don't panic), and sends me links to really interesting things I probably wouldn't see otherwise (I send her links to Colossal articles in return, so it is a two-way street).

So they pop up from time to time, here and on Facebook and wherever.

I don't post photos of them (or if I do they are heavily restricted). I thought about should I post drawings of them and decided that yes, I'm okay with that. I don't reveal their names. You can call me paranoid if you want, but these are my choices regarding my children, so suck it up.

So I use pseudonyms for my children (and for my spouse, but that's just continuity). My daughter was easy. The Steamgoth fits her perfectly, it is apt and precise, and she rather likes it (which is a miracle). My son was much more difficult. He has been The Son for some time because I couldn't think of anything else. The Pokemonster? What if he finally grows out of that obsession? (I live in hope, vain though that feels) The Early Riser went out the window when he started to sleep in (ie, still asleep at 6.45 when I wake him for school).

But we have hit upon it. Actually, the Spouse hit upon it.

The White Sheep.

I have always encouraged my children to be themselves, to not worry about other people's opinions on how they dress, what they like, what they do (within reason. Manners are important, as are being polite and respectful). We are a family of strongly opinionated people, with well-formed ideas and notions. Three of us dress in black. The Spouse is and always will be a goth, with coffin rings and pentagrams and Mick Mercer's radio show constantly playing on his ipad. The Steamgoth is a steampunk goth, or a goth steampunk. I'm not sure which. I was a goth, but I want to go full-on steampunk. I'll get there.

In the midst is my boy, who fits us with a lot of things, like music and reading and film and tv tastes (Pokemon aside). We love science fiction and fantasy and science and art (we are all nerdy, go us), but he has his own dress sense. Not for him black or brown or gears or crosses (to use blatant stereotypes). Track pants, camouflage gear, pop culture t-shirts. He wants to be comfortable above all else and he likes colours, bless him. And he does it. Which is a bit mainstream. And makes me very proud. He stands against us all and is his own self.

So, given that we are a family of eccentric black sheep (I don't know what my siblings think of us) and he likes "normal" clothes, the White Sheep seems an obvious choice.

I explained what Black Sheep meant and how I am using White Sheep, and he is actually quite pleased with it. After all, this is the boy who chose the Abney Park dog tag "Expendable Crew" because he thought it would be a hoot. I was pretty sure I was on firm ground with this.

Although I have put down one restriction on his clothing choices. He may not EVER wear sandals with track pants. There has to be a limit, if only for the sake of sartorial decency. Some rules are there for a good reason. Look mainstream casual by all means, but look good while doing it.

Children and Animals: Mad Max 3 Beyond Thunderdome

So here we are at the third, and easily the best, Mad Max film. It's cheesy and odd, and a triumph of modern cinema compared to its two predecessors. It has an extensive story line with well thought out themes, a fun cast, big stunts (although none of them quite come up to the tanker chase of Mad Max 2), reasonable music score and a satisfying end.

It also has, to its detriment, more ridiculous costumes and a saxophonist.

The film doesn't start with a car chase. Petrol is gone. There has actually been an apocalypse of a nuclear nature over the fuel shortage, so alternative means of propulsion have to be sought. For Max that now means camels. A chase involving a plane, some camels and a man on foot doesn't have quite the same possibilities as cars and motor bikes, even in the middle of nowhere.

And this film is shot in the real middle of nowhere. The mid north area of South Australia, around Cooper Pedy. It is arid, without even the scrubby vegetation of Broken Hill (the Tribe;s gorge is in the Blue Mountains, but needs must). It's hot and dry and far from anywhere. People really do die out there. Max needs his camels.

Which, along with his pet monkey, have been stolen by the Gyrocaptain, Bruce Spence reviving his role, albeit much reduced. He now has a plane (for later story purposes), an actual name (Jedediah) and a child, although his girlfriend/wife seems to have disappeared - no doubt the result of a terrible accident involving her hair and a naked flame (she came from the big haired oil refiners).

In pursuing his camels Max comes across Barter Town, an armpit of a place where trading is the name of the game. Frank Thring presides over registration in the way that only Frank Thring can. He was an insitution in Australian acting circles and for good reason. Granted he only ever played the one part (there is little difference between The Collector and Pontius Pilate) but he did it so well. He understood how to make menace work and how to properly play understatement, and when to go over the top. Him sitting in the dirt, quietly despairing, when it all goes wrong, is perfect.

Barter Town is the climax of Miller's vision of apocalypse futures. It is dirty and gritty and decrepit. There is nothing shiny or clean. Everything is make-do and cobbled together. There is nothing new, nothing untarnished. No one wears white, at least nothing that has remained white. Greys and browns are the order of the day, along with lots and lots of black leather. And studs. If Barter Town has a uniform it definitely has leather and studs involved. Dust covers everything.

As has been pointed out in an article in the Guardian, this is in marked contrast to other post-Apocalypse visions. I was thinking about Logan's Run (both the film and TV series), where the "civilised" lived in a shiny dome and wore white clothes and everything was ordered and those who lived beyond in the wastes were supposed to be decayed but there was never a spec of dust on their garments and their vehicles gleamed. Makeup and hair always immaculate. Even if the idea was grunge the execution was not. Real dirt and obvious decay have always been part of the Mad Max world, right from the beginning (unless you were an oil refiner. Given most standard cleaning products are made from petrochemicals maybe that's justified).

There are two layers to Barter Town, the top part ruled by Aunty and her thugs, the bottom part, Underworld, dominated by Master and Blaster, a dwarf and his own behemoth thug. Underworld is a giant piggery (probably where the actors in the previous two films trained), kept for methane production to power the entire complex, above and below. Not a bad idea. They even refine the methane for motor fuel. Naturally enough, there is a power struggle between Aunty and Master, and naturally enough Max is dragged into it. Max is not as disaffected as he was in Road Warrior, but he's still not fully engaged. I'm not a Mel Gibson fan, but I really liked his performance in Beyond Thunderdome. Balanced, nuanced. Not stellar but solid. I could believe the way he was manipulated and his reactions to the various fates that befell him. Nice.

As to the various thugs, the standout for me was George Spartels as Blackfinger. He drew the short straw in the costume stakes, with a studded leather posing pouch and shiny colander helmet, but it didn't phase him. Play School was always going to be the natural progression from there.

The part of Aunty was played by Tina Turner. I hope she had fun She looks like she had fun. Great casting choice. And her outfit (chain mail with HUGE shoulder pads and high heels) was stunning. Not shiny, but somehow right. Oh, and of course big hair. I remember going to see this film when it first came out (the only one of the three I saw at the cinema. No sex and look-away violence meant a friendlier rating and more general release) and being sceptical of Turner's inclusion (her music is not my thing). And I remember being pleasantly surprised. There are plenty of musicians who have a go at acting, with mixed results. Some you think "please, do not give up the day job. Don't do this again". Tina Turner did a good job. She played it for what it was worth and turned in a believable performance.

And her character has a level of interest, altering her behaviour to suit her needs, and ruling Barter Town with a combination of muscled standover tactics and three-word slogans, getting everyone to chant along with her. Which sounds like the political tactics of the Liberal Party. I suppose Tony Abbott had to get his strategy from somewhere. Pity he has neither Aunty's intellect nor her appeal.

There is another group in this story, the Tribe. This is a group of kids living in a verdant gorge in the middle of the desert (well, in the middle of the Blue Mountains, but anyway...). They annoyed the crap out of me when I saw this as a teenager. I just wanted to ditch the lot of them. Coming to it now, three decades later, I think they are a great inclusion, a really interesting idea that for once is explored. Costume wise, they are clearly friends with the Feral Kid of Road Warrior, or at least shop at the same kangaroo skin outlet.

Grammar aside, the writing for the Tribe is quite something, with the representation of an oral culture that is turning record keeping into mythology. And there is a good but not laboured contrast between the hope and health of the children compared to the adult misery of Barter Town.

Max ends up being stumbled upon by these children. His presence as an adult brings on a crisis that splits the formerly cohesive unit into two, with half staying in the little paradise continuing to wait and the other half striking out across the desert in search of "Tomorrowmorrowland". While initially appearing to be a foolish move, this proves an important turning point in the story and gives Max a chance to become a person again rather than an aimless wanderer. Through their action he will find his way out of his own private wasteland.

The film's big stunt sequence is the train chase. It's impressive, but not as good as the tanker chase of Road Warrior, probably because a lot of it feels the same. It also has more comic elements, such as Scrooloose driving the truck while upside down, and Angry Andersen avoiding obstacles while hanging from a pipe on the train. There are no brutal deaths so we are spared the bulging-eyed corpses. And Max gets his moment, when he chooses to sacrifice himself in order to let the others fly to safety. He becomes the hero by choice, not by default or out of a sense of anger or revenge, as he did in The Road Warrior.

The last part of the film is strangely moving, at least for me. Entering a giant dust cloud (wave goodbye to more topsoil, Australia), they fly to the ruins of Sydney, the remains of the Harbour Bridge reaching over a dried seabed. It was gratifying to see the Opera House still standing (go, Jorn Utzon), and weird to recognise other buildings - Australia Square, the AMP Building, Chifley Square and so on. We are so used to seeing other parts of the world on the screen that it is always a little odd to be presented with places we know, even if they are crumbling ruins.

This grim reality of a world destroyed is lifted by the reactions of the children, with another fine bit of writing (grammar aside. Why the bad grammar?). And once more Max wanders off, although this time there feels like there is a purpose to it.

Mad Max 3: Beyond Thunderdome is a cheesey film, it does have quite a bit of silliness, and if I am going to watch something in this type of setting I'll go for Salute of the Jugger first, thanks (don't tell me this too is cheesey. I know. But it has Rutger Hauer, and dog skulls). But I do acknowledge that Salute of the Jugger probably would not have been possible without the Max films. They have been quite the influence on many film-makers. And Thunderdome has some depths, and interesting explorations of the notions of home and heroes and family.

I really did enjoy Beyond Thunderdome, although that could be because I had sat through the other two and this came as something of a relief. Would I like it as much if I caught it on its own? I don't know, but I am actually looking forward to watching this one with the Steamgoth and her father. I'll see what they think.

And sorry, no, I couldn't resist putting this clip here. Suck it up.

The Only Way Is Up: Mad Max 2 The Road Warrior

It was with no trepidation at all that I put the next disc in the player, There was just no way that Mad Max 2 could be as bad as Mad Max. And I was right. I LOVED this film - for the simple reason that the narration totally negates ANY need to watch Mad Max. In the first two minutes you get all the salient points (there weren't many) and then more story than number 1 could have dreamt of. No one need ever watch Mad Max ever again. Ever. Again.

And then it's business as usual with a car chase, crashes and mayhem. So it goes.

Don't get attached to the puppy

There was clearly more money spent on this film (the budget was $4 million, rather than $350 000). They hired more real actors for starters, and had actual sets and costumes, and hair dressers. Lots and lots of hair dressers. They also spent more time on the story, as in there are probably three lines of plot, rather than a mere loose description. And stunt men. How much of that $4 million was spent on stunt men, stunt choreographers and vehicles?

As was pointed out in my review of Mad Max 1 (you can read it here) this was all before CGI. All the stunts were real. They had to actually be done by real people and real vehicles. This includes the rolling of Max's V8 Interceptor, the chase and rolling of the tanker and, of course, the motorcycle rider hitting the buggy and hurtling 20 metres through the air. Why are we at all impressed by action films these days? They can't compare.

Road Warrior has some of the problems of the first film. The bad guys still seem to come from the piggery school of acting, or an amateur dramatic society led by a mad declaimer. And the writing, though much improved, is still clunky, But the musical score is better and everyone seems to be making a genuine effort. And the stunts are spectacular.

Miller has learnt about pacing. The film is 96 minutes long but unlike the first it feels shorter than its time. The action drives the story (one could say it is a lot of the story) and the violence, while still graphic, is not constant. There is a building to the climax of the tanker chase (the actual sequence is well enough planned that it doesn't feel 13 minutes long) and then the film comes to a suitable end. As in it really finishes. Same ending, Max disappearing, but this time it feels complete.

There's also better direction of the actors. Instead of being expressionless and vacant, Mel Gibson is now allowed to act broken and distant. Not a lot of difference, but enough. There is at least the sense that he is doing something, that there are undercurrents even if we can't see them.

Bruce Spence gives Steve Bisley a run for his money as stand out character actor. He imbues the Gyrocaptain with great verve, brings him to life. What the captain lacks in depth he makes up for in dogged persistence and cheerfulness. Here is a man who makes the most of what life throws at him, even though the sheer awfulness of it all sometimes gives him pause. From the captain to the Mouth of Sauron Spence's delight in his craft remains unchanged. He always gives it his best.

The setting has become more conventionally post-apocalyptic, which is understandable, but kind of a shame. Still, entropy and all that. Society has collapsed and those left fight viciously amongst themselves, mainly for remaining oil supplies. The only law is that which you can enforce yourself. The strong survive, the weak die. In "the Wasteland" where the film takes place this is especially true, and Miller makes sure we know it. More bulging-eyed corpses. He can't be accused of subtlety.

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior was shot out around Broken Hill and Silverton, in outback New South Wales. I have been to these places. There is a weird beauty about them, but I couldn't stand to live there. I'd be terminally depressed within days. The heat and dust alone are enough to do me in. But the sky is huge, the landscape vast and the sunrises and sunsets spectacular. If you want somewhere that looks like the world has ended and makes humans insignificant, it's a great location.

The action in the Wasteland centres around a seige of an oil processing compound by a group of crazed leatherclad mohawked loons lead by a masked man known as The Humungous. He wears a studded leather posing pouch and some leather straps and not much else. As the Steamgoth said, "they're in the desert. How does he not have some kind of skin cancer?" The other side, those in the compound, are equally bizarrely dressed. All in creams and beige (refining oil is such a clean job), with big 80s shoulder pads and big 80s hair. Some wear cricket pads and gloves (well, it is Australia). Then there is the Feral Kid, in kangaroo skins with a metal boomerang.

Of course we work in an oil refinery. Can't you tell?

It was interesting watching the desert shift in colour from red to green. It was nice that they had a rain sequence in there to explain it. Everything blooms very quickly when the rain comes, and vanishes almost as fast. But I am glad that they shot the last sequence with the green still there. There is something reassuring about it. No matter how stupid people become, the earth continues to do its thing, completely ignoring us and our petty squabbles. Everyone's actions are meaningless.

Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior is not a great film. But it is not terrible. And it is not boring. The narration at beginning and end works really well, and is some genuinely lovely writing, the art of storytelling beautifully delivered. Max's reluctance to be a help, let alone a hero, is a nice antidote to the typical action character. However, I can't help feeling there is an uncomfortable homophobic undertone to parts of the film, although I could be reading too much into it. It's difficult to say. But on the whole, it is much  much better than Mad Max.

Mind you, that's not difficult.

If you can stand it, Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome is reviewed here.