Casa del Mar, Pantai Cenang, Langkawi, Malaysia.
I cant fault the service or the staff or the atmosphere or the location - we had a perfect little mid winter beach holiday. Tom Yum every lunch time and divinely fresh seafood every night.
The sun, the beach, the company and the break where marvellous.
I flew back into Sydney at 8.00am in the morning, that evening I went and saw Bell Shakespeare's production of Perciles & drumming - its comfort food isnt. Its a lukewarm year for Bell Shakespeare, but its better than 2008 which is not much of stretch thankyou Brendan Cowell and the worst Hamlet I've ever seen and there has been a few.
Two days later I was at The Metro with Dickie (that would be my dear brother-in-law Mattie as the fall back speaker sound guy). Gareth Liddiard and Dan from The Drones doing an acoustic set of harsh and raw loveliness in The Drone style - I'm watching with interest to see where Liddiards songwriting will take us, I'm always awed by the raw emotion of the man and his performances. Oh yep, Augie March played too, they were the headliner and we had some darling little old songs, but it looked and sounded like a finale. I've loved this band and the music they've made for over 10 years, the first time I ever saw them play was at this same venue in January 1999 on a stinking hot summers night supporting Grant Lee Buffalo, its strange to think that a keyboardist, some horns and ten years sees me seeing them again at the same place 10 years later, knowing its probably the last time Sydney will see them play - but they play and oh how do they play. It would be romantic to say it would be the last time I ever see them play too, 10 years later at the same venue I first ever saw them play at but thats a bit too perfect and my world isnt perfect. I'll be in Melbourne next month when they have another show so we're popping along to that too - seems fitting though, as Melbourne is where my relationship with them truly grew.
Two days later on Sunday, the newest member of the family had his little christening - my nephew was christened with my other nephew as his godfather, out in Camden, full on family affair, jumping castles and squabbles and family togetherness.
5 days at work and then its another weekend. This weekend is the first time in over 6 months I've decided to do nothing, see no one and go nowhere, nice but different. Friday night I went to the gym then home for some noodles and a couple of episodes of the Doctor, Doctor/Donna, Donna/Doctor. Today I pottered about and just watched Touch of Evil. Orson Welles, film noir, bubbles - heaven.
Orson Welles chews up the screen every time Quinlan and his bulk stormed through, Dennis Weaver, Marlene - oh Marlene ages with such grace, dignity and f*cking style - whorehouse madame and the pianola. Janet Leigh is outclassed, but Charlton Heston - as a MEXICAN, freak, why? Heston doesnt ring my bells, his acting is lame (I'd be more expressive but I've had a bottle and just couldnt be arsed), Judah Ben-Hur I can live with, Moses I've never seen, but in this his Vargas was so not Mexican, so not film noir detective and so not right I didnt like it, but Orson was there.
I could listen to Orson Welles speak for hours, he has one of those voices that wraps you up in the sounds of his being - we like this.
So thats my last 10 days in blurt and a spurt.
Listening - The Men They Couldnt Hang - Devil On The Wind.
Reading - Darkmans - Nicola Barker
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Its Winter
Its winter here in Sydney, so I've decided I need some sun so Sunday I fly out to here.
I will be staying here.
In a room like this.
Jealous?
Dont be.
See you when I get back.
xxoxox
I will be staying here.
In a room like this.
Jealous?
Dont be.
See you when I get back.
xxoxox
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Where the Title Came From
I spend alot of time watching people go about the business of living, people fascinate me, enthrall me and often make me proud, so I called this Watching from the Hill.
I stole the lines, I write as Ned; the lines are used out of context but they fitted.
Please go and visit the story to learn the context.
This song has always been pretty special to me, its beautiful and harsh and tells a story of a mans fight for freedom, Cromwell v the Catholics.
Freedom means everything.
This speech has always summed it up so beautifully.
No dictator, no invader, can hold an imprisoned population by the force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power governments, and tyrants, and armies can not stand. The Centauri learned this lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it take a thousand years, we will be free.
J. Michael Straczynski
I stole the lines, I write as Ned; the lines are used out of context but they fitted.
Please go and visit the story to learn the context.
This song has always been pretty special to me, its beautiful and harsh and tells a story of a mans fight for freedom, Cromwell v the Catholics.
Freedom means everything.
This speech has always summed it up so beautifully.
No dictator, no invader, can hold an imprisoned population by the force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power governments, and tyrants, and armies can not stand. The Centauri learned this lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it take a thousand years, we will be free.
J. Michael Straczynski
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Colds and Films and Things
Sunday was the last day of the Sydney Film Festival and I finished with About Elly. I have been unashamedly disappointed with the content of this year’s festival, I was hard-pressed to fill my 10 ticket flexiplass, and still ended up with more duds then I was hoping for.
John Hurt introducing 44 Inch Chest on Saturday was a pleasant surprise, though he didn’t do a Q&A afterwards which was a shame. Rowan Woods did stick around after his film Winged Creatures, and I really don’t know what was more boring, watching this sadly underwhelming film or listening to one of the dullest men in Australian film speak ?
Whilst I was lining up for 44 Inch Chest, there was a middle aged couple behind me in the queue, I had Summerteeth blaring though the headphones as I’m not good in queues or crowds, but even with Jeff Tweedy drowning my ears with sound, I could hear this really strange loud sucking lip smack noise, I turned around and saw it was this couple – in their 40s, going at it with the loudest sucky slurping noises in a crowded queue (you can kiss someone without making that noise, I tested it when I got home, really you can). I mean it was so crowded in the queue that if I stuck out my tongue I would of licked the back of her bottle blonde hair. I turned up the music louder and stood there staring at them making fools of themselves ???? Saturday night movie crowds are not the classiest - middle aged couple PDAs are inappropriate where there is space to run away from them, when you are all jammed together middle aged PDAs are just plain DISGUSTING, mind, any aged PDAs in confined spaces are disgusting – have some class people, please . She even kissed him on the nose, I was staring with my mouth open, he was slurping her face, but watching me over her shoulder – creepy guy, sad desperate woman, I felt ashamed for them, pity for them and very embarrassed (the boy thinks they were probably just wakers, end of - he has a way with words). Once my shock had lightened, I got my phone out to take a photo of them so I could post it here, but they stopped, then the doors opened, I was disappointed. A photo of a couple of 40somethings dressed liked 20somthings standing in a queue just wouldn’t of had the same impact.
I slept threw a collection of shorts earlier that day too.
Here are the other films I’ve seen, and a few notes.
Treeless Mountain – see earlier post about this delightful little treat.
Altiplano – yawnfest in the Peruvian Andes that was too arty farty for its own good. Great female leads though but with that material it was hard work.
Cleo at 5 and 7 – a delightful re-print of an Agnès Varda 1960s classic with just the right amount of darkness.
Wanda – another vintage one, the print was really grainy and I struggled with it a little
Native Dancer – a real pleasant surprise, Russian gangs v a real life shaman in the steppes of Kazakhstan.
The Missing Person – modern day Film Noir, not quite reaching where it wanted to go, but not a bad effort.
DOQ was my pick of the venues too.
I hope there is a new festival director next year.
Anyways, I have a cold.
Not the flu, not the swine flu, nope, just a plain ordinary cold – running nose, stuffed head, a little sore throat and just generally feeling blah from my neck up.
We have a global pandemic, with my country having the second largest number of confirmed cases outside of Mexico, and all I get is a common cold.
I spent the day at home yesterday on the lounge rugged up in front of the heater watching Doctor Who episodes with the 9th Doctor, and probably my favourite. More tonight I think, after my pedicure, as Captain Jack has just joined the fray and there’s always a jolly old romp when Captain Jack is in town – and I’m feeling too miserable to do anything else.
It rained all day Sunday, I did my grocery shopping early Sunday afternoon and as I’m sensible and prepared, I had my umbrella with me - someone stole my umbrella from my trolley when I was in the fruit & vege section of Woollies – some people are just mean.
So there you have it – I saw some films, I got a cold and I had something pinched.
John Hurt introducing 44 Inch Chest on Saturday was a pleasant surprise, though he didn’t do a Q&A afterwards which was a shame. Rowan Woods did stick around after his film Winged Creatures, and I really don’t know what was more boring, watching this sadly underwhelming film or listening to one of the dullest men in Australian film speak ?
Whilst I was lining up for 44 Inch Chest, there was a middle aged couple behind me in the queue, I had Summerteeth blaring though the headphones as I’m not good in queues or crowds, but even with Jeff Tweedy drowning my ears with sound, I could hear this really strange loud sucking lip smack noise, I turned around and saw it was this couple – in their 40s, going at it with the loudest sucky slurping noises in a crowded queue (you can kiss someone without making that noise, I tested it when I got home, really you can). I mean it was so crowded in the queue that if I stuck out my tongue I would of licked the back of her bottle blonde hair. I turned up the music louder and stood there staring at them making fools of themselves ???? Saturday night movie crowds are not the classiest - middle aged couple PDAs are inappropriate where there is space to run away from them, when you are all jammed together middle aged PDAs are just plain DISGUSTING, mind, any aged PDAs in confined spaces are disgusting – have some class people, please . She even kissed him on the nose, I was staring with my mouth open, he was slurping her face, but watching me over her shoulder – creepy guy, sad desperate woman, I felt ashamed for them, pity for them and very embarrassed (the boy thinks they were probably just wakers, end of - he has a way with words). Once my shock had lightened, I got my phone out to take a photo of them so I could post it here, but they stopped, then the doors opened, I was disappointed. A photo of a couple of 40somethings dressed liked 20somthings standing in a queue just wouldn’t of had the same impact.
I slept threw a collection of shorts earlier that day too.
Here are the other films I’ve seen, and a few notes.
Treeless Mountain – see earlier post about this delightful little treat.
Altiplano – yawnfest in the Peruvian Andes that was too arty farty for its own good. Great female leads though but with that material it was hard work.
Cleo at 5 and 7 – a delightful re-print of an Agnès Varda 1960s classic with just the right amount of darkness.
Wanda – another vintage one, the print was really grainy and I struggled with it a little
Native Dancer – a real pleasant surprise, Russian gangs v a real life shaman in the steppes of Kazakhstan.
The Missing Person – modern day Film Noir, not quite reaching where it wanted to go, but not a bad effort.
DOQ was my pick of the venues too.
I hope there is a new festival director next year.
Anyways, I have a cold.
Not the flu, not the swine flu, nope, just a plain ordinary cold – running nose, stuffed head, a little sore throat and just generally feeling blah from my neck up.
We have a global pandemic, with my country having the second largest number of confirmed cases outside of Mexico, and all I get is a common cold.
I spent the day at home yesterday on the lounge rugged up in front of the heater watching Doctor Who episodes with the 9th Doctor, and probably my favourite. More tonight I think, after my pedicure, as Captain Jack has just joined the fray and there’s always a jolly old romp when Captain Jack is in town – and I’m feeling too miserable to do anything else.
It rained all day Sunday, I did my grocery shopping early Sunday afternoon and as I’m sensible and prepared, I had my umbrella with me - someone stole my umbrella from my trolley when I was in the fruit & vege section of Woollies – some people are just mean.
So there you have it – I saw some films, I got a cold and I had something pinched.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Adventures of Sid James
There are some strange little things that I’ve noticed in my last two weeks on the buses.
I used to catch a bus into town, I now catch a bus across the ‘burbs to a University. I’ve never worked it the ‘burbs before and not caught a bus across the ‘burbs since the school days ended.
So I’m now out in the crowds, on the buses: watching, noticing, recording. The kids are more free with their behaviour then the suited and booted, cleaned and groomed, city bound folk
My nose has noticed a change in the bus - is it the bathing practices of the student, the clothes changing practices of the student, the hair care practices of the student ??
I wonder when the change happens, what sparks the epiphany moment? Is there a point when the student wakes one morn and throws down the shackles of dirt and grime and instead of stepping into yesterdays clothes, they step into a shower?
I don’t know, but I think we can debate that at another time, lets instead watch the creature of the student in its public transport bus bound glory.
Three times in the last week I’ve had girls with long hair sit in the seat in front of me. Boys have long hair too, but I scare them with my sleepy growls and immaculate grooming, so they huddle next to the factory workers, with whom we share the bus. The girls are braver, they take the seats in front of Ned. Now, the seats on the bus are pretty close together so when someone sits in front of you with long hair, the hair that tumbles down the back of the seat is usually only 30cm from your face. I’m not keen on such an intimate relationship with a stranger but this is the bus and I do the dance of the Sydney public transport juggernaut and shit happens.
I am not precious and can be comfortable with hair that close if the hair is clean, but these three ladies had long, messy, wild hair that hasn’t been close to a bottle of shampoo or a feisty brush, for well over a week. Did I tell you when I was talking to my grandmother about my niece recently, I described her as a feisty three year old, my grandmother didn’t know what feisty meant and I had to explain it to her, English is all she known in her 84 years.
I sat on the bus one evening, wired for sound (Cliff Cliff be still my mother’s beating heart), I am mesmerized by a girl in her early twenties in the seat in front of me. She kept on playing with her long knotty smelly hair: she was caressing it, and fondling it and moving it around like it was clean and shiny and full of sexy fresh smelling goodness (instead I get the aroma of slept in sweaty socks in the shape of Dali's most creative birds nest).
She was silently pushing it all to one side with grand sweeping gestures with a badly manicured hand, then patting it down again with a delightful grin. Then after preening in the buses window reflection, she swept it all to the back for a just stepped out of the salon flick of the foul mess. Then up came both hands and trowel trowel trowel through the hair scrapped the claws till she was pleased with what she caught, she then mounted it on top with patty cake slaps for grand dame / go-go dancer appeal. More twists and turn preening in the window and down it tumbled again with the echoed stench of those foul socks. She repeated this dance of the dying follicles a number of times before her stop arrived and she climbed off the bus.
I sat slightly dazed for the rest of my trip, Jeff Tweedy serenading me as he has done 24*7 since Jay died. Wicked wench, how could I be enticed by such a slovenly attitude to cleanliness, by such a foul stench....though there is something a little disturbing and perversely attractive in the sexual play of a slob.
Who was her target?
Was it the left over imprint of a recent playful encountered or was it some sort of fascinating solo foreplay?
I have never seen her again.
Disclaimer: Ned has long, shiny, clean, brushed, straight black & red hair.
I used to catch a bus into town, I now catch a bus across the ‘burbs to a University. I’ve never worked it the ‘burbs before and not caught a bus across the ‘burbs since the school days ended.
So I’m now out in the crowds, on the buses: watching, noticing, recording. The kids are more free with their behaviour then the suited and booted, cleaned and groomed, city bound folk
My nose has noticed a change in the bus - is it the bathing practices of the student, the clothes changing practices of the student, the hair care practices of the student ??
I wonder when the change happens, what sparks the epiphany moment? Is there a point when the student wakes one morn and throws down the shackles of dirt and grime and instead of stepping into yesterdays clothes, they step into a shower?
I don’t know, but I think we can debate that at another time, lets instead watch the creature of the student in its public transport bus bound glory.
Three times in the last week I’ve had girls with long hair sit in the seat in front of me. Boys have long hair too, but I scare them with my sleepy growls and immaculate grooming, so they huddle next to the factory workers, with whom we share the bus. The girls are braver, they take the seats in front of Ned. Now, the seats on the bus are pretty close together so when someone sits in front of you with long hair, the hair that tumbles down the back of the seat is usually only 30cm from your face. I’m not keen on such an intimate relationship with a stranger but this is the bus and I do the dance of the Sydney public transport juggernaut and shit happens.
I am not precious and can be comfortable with hair that close if the hair is clean, but these three ladies had long, messy, wild hair that hasn’t been close to a bottle of shampoo or a feisty brush, for well over a week. Did I tell you when I was talking to my grandmother about my niece recently, I described her as a feisty three year old, my grandmother didn’t know what feisty meant and I had to explain it to her, English is all she known in her 84 years.
I sat on the bus one evening, wired for sound (Cliff Cliff be still my mother’s beating heart), I am mesmerized by a girl in her early twenties in the seat in front of me. She kept on playing with her long knotty smelly hair: she was caressing it, and fondling it and moving it around like it was clean and shiny and full of sexy fresh smelling goodness (instead I get the aroma of slept in sweaty socks in the shape of Dali's most creative birds nest).
She was silently pushing it all to one side with grand sweeping gestures with a badly manicured hand, then patting it down again with a delightful grin. Then after preening in the buses window reflection, she swept it all to the back for a just stepped out of the salon flick of the foul mess. Then up came both hands and trowel trowel trowel through the hair scrapped the claws till she was pleased with what she caught, she then mounted it on top with patty cake slaps for grand dame / go-go dancer appeal. More twists and turn preening in the window and down it tumbled again with the echoed stench of those foul socks. She repeated this dance of the dying follicles a number of times before her stop arrived and she climbed off the bus.
I sat slightly dazed for the rest of my trip, Jeff Tweedy serenading me as he has done 24*7 since Jay died. Wicked wench, how could I be enticed by such a slovenly attitude to cleanliness, by such a foul stench....though there is something a little disturbing and perversely attractive in the sexual play of a slob.
Who was her target?
Was it the left over imprint of a recent playful encountered or was it some sort of fascinating solo foreplay?
I have never seen her again.
Disclaimer: Ned has long, shiny, clean, brushed, straight black & red hair.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Why Am I On The Buses
I’ve hit a wall at work, I’m no longer that interested in being here at the moment, and as this contract is just biding a little time whilst I’m leading up to one or two more events that are more important to me, I really should stick around here for a few more months longer. The job is fine, the people I work with are dull but fine, I am treated with respect and appreciated so I shouldn’t complain, but I am BORED !!!!
So, the sensible side of me decided how can we jazz it up a bit by making it a little less boring so I stay here for a little longer (the easier/convenient option) or find something else (completely do-able but more complicated option) – how’s about we……. catch the bus.
I’ve been driving to work, I’ve never driven to work before and it was making me grumpy – idiot drivers, traffic, idiot drivers, no time for day-dreaming, idiot drivers etc. I’ve always taken a bus or a tram, and find public transport annoying at times when the bus/tram doesn’t turn up, but in the most part it’s a pretty civilized and pleasant way to travel. Driving used to be convenient, especially when you could duck out to places at lunch, but this year since the university students came back, the car park situation has gone crazy, and unless you are here before 9, you are stuck on the 7th floor of the car park and there is no elevator – I’m used to stairs, I usually park on the 4th floor but I’m not dying of heart attack climbing 7 flights of stairs (in a suit and heels) just to get my car (???)
Ducking out at lunch time to go to the gym or shopping is now out of the question as well, because if you leave, it’s unlikely you can get a spot at all let alone one on the heart-attack floors – there is no on street parking.
The things I liked about driving – getting here at 9.30 and missing the peak hour traffic, going to the gym during the day, ducking out to meet friends at the beach for lunch – have gone. So I thought I’d try catching the bus.
So far it’s been fine, there is the usual timetabled phantom buses, late buses, crowded buses, but its seem to have lifted my mood a little. You see it’s the getting out of bed in the morning and going to work thingy that I’ve had trouble with, it’s a little easier now. Yes I know it’s only a temporary solution but it might just get me over the hump till the nice things I’m working toward happen in a few more months.
My daydreaming quota has gone up, I like this, I listen to more music, I like this even more. There is something warm and embracing about having something new blaring through your headphones, being able to hear the little tiny intakes of breath that you miss out on listening through speaker, the little words and phrases you don’t pick up when you are distracted with driving. It makes me smile in a contented and cherished way.
Reading: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Listening: Audio of Ashes of American Flags
Watching: Cleo from 5 to 7
So, the sensible side of me decided how can we jazz it up a bit by making it a little less boring so I stay here for a little longer (the easier/convenient option) or find something else (completely do-able but more complicated option) – how’s about we……. catch the bus.
I’ve been driving to work, I’ve never driven to work before and it was making me grumpy – idiot drivers, traffic, idiot drivers, no time for day-dreaming, idiot drivers etc. I’ve always taken a bus or a tram, and find public transport annoying at times when the bus/tram doesn’t turn up, but in the most part it’s a pretty civilized and pleasant way to travel. Driving used to be convenient, especially when you could duck out to places at lunch, but this year since the university students came back, the car park situation has gone crazy, and unless you are here before 9, you are stuck on the 7th floor of the car park and there is no elevator – I’m used to stairs, I usually park on the 4th floor but I’m not dying of heart attack climbing 7 flights of stairs (in a suit and heels) just to get my car (???)
Ducking out at lunch time to go to the gym or shopping is now out of the question as well, because if you leave, it’s unlikely you can get a spot at all let alone one on the heart-attack floors – there is no on street parking.
The things I liked about driving – getting here at 9.30 and missing the peak hour traffic, going to the gym during the day, ducking out to meet friends at the beach for lunch – have gone. So I thought I’d try catching the bus.
So far it’s been fine, there is the usual timetabled phantom buses, late buses, crowded buses, but its seem to have lifted my mood a little. You see it’s the getting out of bed in the morning and going to work thingy that I’ve had trouble with, it’s a little easier now. Yes I know it’s only a temporary solution but it might just get me over the hump till the nice things I’m working toward happen in a few more months.
My daydreaming quota has gone up, I like this, I listen to more music, I like this even more. There is something warm and embracing about having something new blaring through your headphones, being able to hear the little tiny intakes of breath that you miss out on listening through speaker, the little words and phrases you don’t pick up when you are distracted with driving. It makes me smile in a contented and cherished way.
Reading: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Listening: Audio of Ashes of American Flags
Watching: Cleo from 5 to 7
Friday, June 5, 2009
Treeless Mountains, Shorts and Little Girls
I’m in the middle of the Sydney Film Festival, I don’t know how much of that I will share.
I saw this movie last night, its was delightful in its cutesiness and the young actors were superb, especially in their portrayal of emotion - loss, pain, bewilderment and determination. Disappointly though, it lost momentum slightly at around the 3/4 mark but picked it up again when the girls got to the farm - its 90 min film; its not slick and needs some editing and it just sort of stopped rather than ended, though its still a lovely film and those girls are amazing. There was no applause (or is that just a Melbourne Film Festival thingy, clapping at the end of film – I dont know, this is only my second Sydney one and as I missed most of it last year because of pilgrim flu).
TREELESS MOUNTAIN: Movie Trailer
The film was preceded by a short that I found most interesting – a young Chinese woman is selling cheap knock-off DVDs in London, she is sharing a room with 4 other Chinese men. She has one DVD she treasures but we dont know whats on it, you see a little of her life in London and it doesn’t look great but she is earning so she can send money home to her family, but she seems miserable, living in horrible conditions, doing a job that it looks like she could be arrested and deported over – I think she is an illegal (this isn’t gone into but implied).
She gets taken to the place where the DVDs are copied (wall of disk drives and pc in a backroom somewhere), she is left in this room whilst the copying of a movie is going on, she stops the copying and puts in her DVD, it’s a recording of her daughter who is back in China and she misses her terribly, she watches the footage with tears silently streaming down her face, she is interrupted viewing this and is taken away to sell more DVDs, but she doesn’t get to take her DVD out, so instead of making 10 copies of the movie, it makes 10 copies of her DVD and nobody knows this.
They are distributed to the street sellers and sold on, the film then switches to a family watching what they think is a cheap knockoff of a popular new release but it turns out to be the footage of the Chinese girls daughter – bugger that, heres the link, watch the thing yourself, it goes for 15 minutes.
THE END.
I saw this movie last night, its was delightful in its cutesiness and the young actors were superb, especially in their portrayal of emotion - loss, pain, bewilderment and determination. Disappointly though, it lost momentum slightly at around the 3/4 mark but picked it up again when the girls got to the farm - its 90 min film; its not slick and needs some editing and it just sort of stopped rather than ended, though its still a lovely film and those girls are amazing. There was no applause (or is that just a Melbourne Film Festival thingy, clapping at the end of film – I dont know, this is only my second Sydney one and as I missed most of it last year because of pilgrim flu).
TREELESS MOUNTAIN: Movie Trailer
The film was preceded by a short that I found most interesting – a young Chinese woman is selling cheap knock-off DVDs in London, she is sharing a room with 4 other Chinese men. She has one DVD she treasures but we dont know whats on it, you see a little of her life in London and it doesn’t look great but she is earning so she can send money home to her family, but she seems miserable, living in horrible conditions, doing a job that it looks like she could be arrested and deported over – I think she is an illegal (this isn’t gone into but implied).
She gets taken to the place where the DVDs are copied (wall of disk drives and pc in a backroom somewhere), she is left in this room whilst the copying of a movie is going on, she stops the copying and puts in her DVD, it’s a recording of her daughter who is back in China and she misses her terribly, she watches the footage with tears silently streaming down her face, she is interrupted viewing this and is taken away to sell more DVDs, but she doesn’t get to take her DVD out, so instead of making 10 copies of the movie, it makes 10 copies of her DVD and nobody knows this.
They are distributed to the street sellers and sold on, the film then switches to a family watching what they think is a cheap knockoff of a popular new release but it turns out to be the footage of the Chinese girls daughter – bugger that, heres the link, watch the thing yourself, it goes for 15 minutes.
Five Pound Hollywood from Westminster Arts on Vimeo.
THE END.
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