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El rey de la montaña / King of the hill (Film Review)

2011-12-15T10:04:00Z

I am ostensibly a fan of found footage films – when they are done well ala ‘The Poughkeepsie Tapes’ or ‘Diary of the Dead’. With ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ rating as one of my all-time favourite films. Others are so bad I’ll disavow ever having seen them.

I was so surprised by the quality of Apollo 18 – regardless of the odd plothole – that I found myself online looking at their truth about the moonlandings website. My friend and I were left so curious about the quality of Apollo 18 that we ended up on IMDB – doing a bit of reseach on its director Gonzalo López-Gallego.

This led us to the page for a film called ‘El rey de la montaña’.(King of the Hill)

The description on IMDB was not clear and perhaps not translated very well – the gist of it was; Quim gets lost in a rural area, whilst trying to find his way he gets shot from a hill. Escaping, he meets Bea, a woman from before who is apparently lost as well. Suspicious of each other, they join forces to run away through the forest from those hunting them.

Finding out that back in 2007 that he’d made a Spanish Independent survival horror/thriller – was too tempting. At 2:30 AM we set off into the wilds of the Internet to track it down. It wasn’t easy and was often frustrating but after sometime, we finally managed to get a Spanish version for which we still had to track down subtitles for.

Survival Horror is a favourite genre of mine. Even when done badly they tend to fare well. But when done well – like the English ‘Wilderness’ (2006) or the Australian TV movie ‘Fortress’ (1985) or more – the stunning Norwegian ‘Rovdyr’ (2008). They become exercises in tension that are often more immersive more gripping and far more satisfying than other genres.

We were not disappointed. I’m not sure what I was expecting – even something approaching the quality of ‘Bosque De Sombras’ (Backwoods 2006) would have left us both happy with the effort. Satisfied with the directors’ skill. But no.

Damn it – this is a fine, fine film – one worthy of more attention. One not to be forgotten and definitely one that needs to take its place in the great and long pantheon of survival horror/thrillers.

It feels lovingly made – set in a particularly beautiful part of Northern Spain – with a stunning stark soundtrack – it kept us on the edge of our seats until the final reel. Jaded as I am – I was not expecting the twist thrown up. As the credits rolled – reminiscent of ‘Bosque De Sombras’ – there came a perfectly placed piece of singer-songwriter music called ‘Another Mind’ by Russian Red. It served like a whiskey espresso after a good meal. A digestive we sat and listened right through to the end – nearly clapping the screen when it finally went black.

Find this – Watch It.

I can’t find this film on iTunes – but it is apparently available here at Netflix

White McKenzie - Absence (E.P Review)

2011-12-11T04:33:00Z

The plethora of artistic talent in Ireland- be it in the realms of music, dance or the visual arts- remains an undamped factor in preserving the Irish spirit in the face of economic hardships.

The Dublin based alternative/indie rock band White McKenzie is one such promising musical force.

<center> Alternative Rock, Indie Rock ~ 26:33 mins</center> <center>Debut E.P 5, 99 €</center> <center>

Tempting the Irish Rockscape

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The plethora of artistic talent in Ireland – be it in the realms of music, dance or the visual arts- remains an undamped factor in preserving the Irish spirit in the face of economic hardships.

The Dublin based alternative/indie rock band White McKenzie is one such promising musical force. Consisting of six local musicians, Kieran O’Reilly, “Ziggy” Zdziarski, Ciaran Cusack, Éamonn Young, Neil O’ Brien and Ian Corr, White McKenzie was originally conceived merely as an exploratory musical collaboration between musicians of diverging musical backgrounds. Nonetheless, the project has since matured to potentially become one of Dublin’s hottest new rock acts.

Indeed, the release of White McKenzie’s debut E.P on 30 September 2011, demonstrates that the musical ventures of White’s skillful musicians have recently assumed a more concrete nature. Appearing under the title ‘Absence’, the album is now available on iTunes, Tower Records Dublin and Amazon to name but the main outlets.

‘Absence’ compiles six original White McKenzie songs that follow an introductory soundscape entitled ‘torment’. The intro, despite the title suggesting otherwise, provides a well-rounded instrumental build-up to ‘on your heels’, a guitar-heavy, fast paced piece. It aptly opens ears and hearts to the songs presented on the album.

‘4 a.m’ continues to grip my very core. Featuring as the third track on the record, the piano intro which then becomes interlaced with soft guitar sounds initially caught my attention. Then, the amazing lyrics of the piece really captivated me. They bear witness to lead singer Kieran O’Reilly’s emerging lyrical talent. The metaphor “neon-soldiers” who are described as “marching from the side of the room” particularly stood out to me, as it is powerfully evocative. This is a song about death, and acceptance at the same time.

A second slow paced favorite of mine is ‘the clock winds on’, which provides another opportunity for pianist Ian Corr to shine. Accompanied by soft guitars and interspersed with trumpets reminiscent of ‘Beirut’ – a band which, as a Tribal Fusion dancer, I highly respect. This song recalls memories of a loved one, and induces nostalgia. These two songs aptly capture White’s current lyrical objectives which are to relate internal processes, and channel life experiences that listeners can intimately relate to.

Songs like ‘crawling the walls’ and ‘the big man’ add to the album’s intrinsic musical maturity. The first features piano sounds coupled with dreamy vocals; the second evokes REM in certain parts. Both certainly contribute to creating an excellent debut E.P.

The only one song which is a bit of a downer, personally, is ‘forget’. While similar in nature to ‘on your heels’, I did not feel the vocals were delivered with consistency. Nonetheless, the quality of all the songs combined point to White McKenzie’s ability to excite the Irish and international (!) music scene in the future.

‘Absence’ suggests that White McKenzie’s current soundprint is a hybrid between Pearl Jam (largely) and Coldplay. While intermittently evoking R.E.M and the National, there is also a healthy splash of Aqualung, producing an Indie-rock flavored broth with commercial tendencies. I thoroughly enjoyed the accomplished musicianship and vocals of ‘Absence’ although the genre would generally not be my first choice.

The album offers strong ballads as lead singer Kieran O’Reilly’s voice nicely compliments the skillfully manipulated instruments and slow songs really seem the band’s forte at present. While I thoroughly enjoyed ‘Absence’, the fast vocals provide some room for improvement. However there are no doubts in my mind that White McKenzie will use the potential shining through in their debut album to reach even further heights in their next.

The synergy of White’s musical talents is not only striking in ‘Absence’ but also in White’s live shows. Their gig in Dublin’s Grand Social on 30 September 2011 engendered a large turnout of enthusiastic supporters cheering the band on. Not only are live performances a testimony to the bands’ joy of music but “Absence” strongly highlights the musical maturity of the six-some.

‘Absence’ is not to be missed for anyone eager to discover new rock acts and White McKenzie promise to sway the Irish music scene with their musical presence in this debut E.P .

Availabe to buy here at iTunes here

Sparky O’Hare Master Electrician by Mawil (Graphic Novel Review)

2011-12-09T20:02:00Z

Sparky O’Hare Master Electrician serves as my introduction to Mawil whom the Internet tells me is one of Germany’s best loved comic book artists. He has been the recipient of the ICOM award for best independent comic four times (2007 being the last.) I am immediately a fan.

Years ago – the only way I could stop my comics and graphic novel addiction from destroying my life was to stop going to comic shops altogether.

To save money for my habit – I had stopped eating all but cup of soup and could often be found twitching looking nervously around scratching my arms at the graphic novel section in Hodges Figgis.

Later when I landed up in the sort of higgledypiggledy dream second hand back issues store. I could be found behind the counter – face contorted – eyes squinting as I tried to fuzzy my peripherary and stare into a fixed point in space lest I snap and spend my pay on stock.

So when the person that leant me Sparky O’Hare Master Electrician comes calling for it back I will find it hard to part with and may well have lost it “in the books”. Just so I can hold onto it.

Sparky O’Hare Master Electrician serves as my introduction to Mawil whom the Internet tells me is one of Germany’s best loved comic book artists. He has been the recipient of the ICOM award for best independent comic four times (2007 being the last.) I am immediately a fan.

In small pocket format it is his second book published in English by Blank Slate and presented beautifully. From the cover to the pages everything about this book feels nice – demands that you hold it, keep it and show it proudly to guests.

Translated from German it originally went by the title Meister Lampe a name that apparently doesn’t translate well to English. Complete with a flip-book, puzzles and a maze it really is a treasure.

Sparky O’Hare backcover

About a master electrician rabbit whom electrical items may be adverse to. The central story is warm and engaging, silly and often funny. At first I left it on the table in my apartment so people would read it. After a time it moved to the bathoom – it says a lot that almost all guests could be found wandering from the bathroom with Sparky O’Hare in their hands to finish.

With the dread time of Santa coming close – this book would prove the perfect gift.

Buy it here – direct from the publisher

I Draw Slow – Downside (Album Review)

2011-08-20T14:51:00Z

I Draw Slow are an Irish five piece peddaling Irish-Americana folk roots old timey like a gimlet eyed carpetbagger will sell you an elixir for beauty, another for snake bites and in the saloon later – will swagger away with your maiden head.

Course Daddy won’t talk to ye now and it’s probably only ‘til the thaw ‘fore he throws you out and it’s the brothel for you – what with you not finishin’ your schoolin’ and that limp…’course what man would want you on accounts of yer droopy eye…

Their claw hammer banjo player tells me each album is like a storybook, each song telling its own story. Where not traditional arranged, the lyrics are often exquisite rolling and unfolding things of melody and thought.

It’s good daydreaming music – a nice soundtrack to writing or whatever else you’re doing. You may even suddenly find yourself swaying in an apron with cloth wrapped freshly baked bread wondering if that rabbit has hung long enough…

Little Switzerland – the album opener – reminds me of Heaven’s Gate or another similar western and sets the scene in my imagination. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be gritty, a feller or two may get shot and there may well be a squabble over land, whores perhaps even opium.

Lighthouse Daughter, follows with a slight ‘Thousands are sailing’ Planxty vague hint. A story in its own right, I’m off having the scene set for the other lead character. In a segue – a man has just been shot dead on a fancy mattress with a Derringer – the camera mingles the spread of his blood with images of the coast.

Bowling Green has the jaunt of a travelling montage perhaps to the town where she grew up – it meddles with the flashback of a teenage marriage to the man that might well become that gunfighter prospector preacher railroad feller. There’s sepia infidelities and bright happiness.

Halfway cuts away back from the city to the towns, maybe to the youngest or eldest sister. A mismatched bar fight and a wooing. A man gets beaten half to death and there’s a miscarriage.

Santiago stumble drunken through the saloon doors, frowning as it tries to focus on its pocket watch. He needs help getting his boots off – their laughter acts as a counterpoint.

Sisken song – The story in my head abruptly stops at the lyric “I heard a bird singing in a tree – his dead brown eyes a’followin’ me” I’m left in the horrors thinking about birds and their dead brown eyes. I have to walk through a leafy part of the city later and I’m going to have to take my long coat – the one I can pull the collar up on. Damn birds – damn birds and their cold dead brown eyes always looking at me.

Low High Low – the story has entered an exercise in speed editing – as the ladies argue sense and sensibility, the hooker with the heart of gold, the virgin bride and the practical knife hiding middle child who always wipes and washes short after by the porcelain bowl. He may mention how he always hates it how she gets up right after, but she may amble off on some oblique story about her daddy and cleanliness and the soul. It trails away with a blossom laden mountain wedding and an ominous darkening of the sky.

Oh Sally brings me roaring back to Heaven’s Gate. A rousing track of love and jealousy, of drunkenness and lies. We cut from lush scenes of community, colour and love to moments of abrupt jarring violence. She just caved that man’s skull in with a horseshoe, the knife slips accidentally deep and he just blew that man into the creek. In between we are always cutting back to the train coming through the snowy mountains.

Little Satchel – a wonderful instrumental breaks up the run to the last two tracks – the new comer smokes aromatic tobacco, you can tell in the silence, the reactions, the faces.

That Boy’s Not Fair – starts with a fight, she gets a good few slaps in before he has her wrists – he goes down with a shocked look, head trying to crane down to the hole in his chest. And we’re back to the brothel, he looks hurt and she’s running her mouth – his hand raises but not faster than the Derringer she has in her garter. After the house is ransacked, we pan sideways to the reflection in the window as they drag her towards the railroad tracks.

Dead In The Morning – back once again to the brothel, the three of them have met as the remaining sisters share a drink and a cry. The other other middle one seems intent on leaving with her youngins and man saying something about P’aw and Mexico. We finally hear the man with the aromatic tobacco speak and we’re still unsure whether he’s the past teenage husband – a brother or adopted. It doesn’t matter, he’ll most likely be dead in the morning. It’s snowing outside and we can clearly see this in the reflected light as the saloon doors are opened…

This has nothing much to do with the lyrics and the stories they tell.

This is just where the album takes me.

That is has enough power to take me away to somewhere as detailed, perhaps as beautiful – is enough of a testament to the power of this band.

I Draw Slow Website

While I’m here – they have this video – for this song that wasn’t on the album I just bamboozled. It’s on the next one. It was filmed live, in a forest – it’s utterly splendid – have a look, a listen.

<u>Note</u>
I Draw Slow are a small independent outfit. If you like this music – buy it – to steal it online is counterproductive to getting anymore music from them.

Tonight, from Inside The Writer's Studio: The Worm Spittoon

2011-08-19T18:48:00Z

I guess it was mid-june when I felt I was missing the literary limb.

Before that it had been slipping by degrees, but around then concretely I felt my number was up and sent the shudder all the way to Messages From The Big Rock Candy Mountain in the form of half-comic, half-deranged alcho stuff.

Bad writing followed worse writing. Unprintable guff.

There was nothing left to say and I was backed into a banal corner of my own making. I had made clumsy inroads and the fevered, good draining of the salts seemed close to a finish.

Bought some Henry Miller, ate that and tried again, binning the results as I went.

Nothing but the open trash and the wondering. Washed up, a year after first tapping a keyboard to lay down the dirty facts of the past and the worse blights of the present.
Write about what you know right?

I never wanted to do anything as badly as this. I have have never drank so hard as this or missed anything as badly as this. Given a chance via friends to put something however vague into words and I have been shitting over it.

Tonight, laying in bed after a few medicinals I threw the whole thing around and realised that anything even vaguely resembling Art or Honesty should be flung out without edits, trying to be clever or any of the things I despise.

One long piece of vomit.

The Foggy Dew (Dublin Pub Review)

2011-08-19T18:48:00Z

A rustic rock bar filled with memorabilia paid for by you.

Music played so it can be heard over the people shouting to hear each over the loud music.

A rustic rock bar filled with memorabilia paid for by you.

Music played so it can be heard over the people shouting to hear each over the loud music.

Televisions constantly running and cunningly placed in every corner so that conversation is the element of those in possession of only the most iron concentration.

Poor Guinness – if you must order it, make sure it’s from the front bar – which has the appropriate pub superstition of having the better pint.

It suffers from a good location so it will get a constant stream of people.

The bar is rumoured to be fairly famous amongst the visiting Spanish, Italian and Basque crowds so expect a great of variety in clientele.

Also a favourite haunt of the Tattoo and Body modification crowd in Dublin should you be one of those people with a need to go where they go.

Quiet mid-week in these the days of the recession, attend the wallet emptying on Friday and Saturday to experience the Foggy Crush of yore.

Like most trendy hipster pubs in Dublin – The Foggy Dew has Reggae most Sundays. Which is rather like watching the tide – as it will fill up, then empty out as soon as the Reggae is finished.

Quite expensive – as in when you mention it to other Dubliners as a change of scenery they may well spit on the ground and say “That place is a bleedin’ rip off” they may then contend to you that it is perhaps filled with people you may relate to as imbeciles.

Seats are at a premium also, attaining a gold dust status that even getting one is cause for phoning your friends so you can relate the story around the fire.

Another fine feature of this bar is the toilets filled with all the appropriate security features…

Since the smoking ban, on a good day, their odours will climb the stairs to linger around the pub. And walking down the stairs through that stench is rather like trying to swim through curtains. Attending the mens toilet is a bit like tripping and falling face first into the crotch of a tramp.

The Foggy Dew hosts a glut of middle aged scene rockers and punks who still barfly their old dingy pub even though it has been renovated into a modern memorabilia filled rock bar. They swing about each other in small concentric circles and it has been said that the place can be slightly off putting to new comers not familiar with the often stand off-ish cliques.

This however will not apply to you if you have tits and are between the ages of 16-50.

You can do better and frankly, you and your liver deserve it.

Hanley's Cornish Pasties (Dublin Restaurant Review)

2011-08-19T14:51:00Z

Cornish Pastie?

Cornish Amazing.

32A Dawson Street, Dublin, Ireland and 2 Merchants Arch Dublin.

Cornish Pastie?

Cornish Amazing.

Small – perfect for the flying lunch visit – I had the chicken and vegetable pastie with a can of coke for five euros.

Hot, delicious awesome.

Server was friendly, going so far as to advise me to get the chicken over the steak and gravy.

Not too filling either like some lunch portions, it was just perfect, leaving me still a bit hungry.

The Butcher Grill (Dublin Restaurant Review)

2011-08-18T12:45:00Z

Situated in an converted butchers in Ranelagh, The Butcher Grill is the newest venture by the people behind Dillingers. The decor is plain wood and the original shop tiles. Seating is at the bar or a selection of high tables with stools and benches.

92 Ranelagh, Dublin 6, Ireland.

Arrived for our reservation on a Sunday evening at 8:15pm to no waiting, which is always a bonus, but not always a given in Dublin.

The staff are full of smiles, very friendly and don’t make it an overly formal experience. From making drinks that were not on their menu to their general attentiveness, they helped make the experience extremely pleasant.

For drinks we had a Martini and a Gimlet. The Gimlet was not on the menu, but the tender did an excellent job with it.

To start we had the baby back ribs and four oysters on the half shell. My companion assures me the oysters were wonderful. The baby back ribs were delicious, the sauce was great, so much so, I found myself mopping it up with the entree bread we were given upon sitting down.

Main course was the strip-loin surf and turf medium rare for both. The steak was served on a wooden board with the prawns, in shell, on top with just the right amount of sauce.

The prawns were lovely, the sauce neither too busy nor too heavy. For someone who isn’t normally so fond of the strip-loin cut, the steak was great and brought no complaints.

Desert was an amaretto fogatto – homemade icecream in a martini glass with espresso and amaretto poured over it. A first for me and a wonderful combination.

Having arrived relatively late in the evening for a restaurant whose kitchen closes at 9:30 – we were left hassle free to drink and relax in our own time with no pressure to leave from the staff who were always up for a little bit of banter.

It is worth noting that while the restaurant says children are welcome until 6pm, with the high stools and tables I can’t really see how this would be comfortable. It is also, perhaps, a little on the pricey side for some. You can do it for between €20 – €40 per person, but for a full meal with drinks and wine, you could be spending quite a bit in comparison with some of the other places around the city.

The Butcher Grill is a superb addition to both the Ranelagh night life and the greater Dublin. I will be going back when I can. Try and go here.

Check here for The Butcher Grill website for photos and menus

“Laowei Hai Ping” (Messages From China)

2011-08-15T15:54:00Z

Oh my.

At the time of writing, i.e. August 2011, I’ve been in China four months now. According to Lindsay Clandfield and Duncan Ford, in their short treatise ‘The Language Teacher’s Survival Handbook’ (ITS, 2008), there are four stages of culture shock. I’m not sure if I’m at any particular stage. I’m certainly beyond stage one, the so called ‘Honeymoon/Tourist stage’ which passed by pretty quickly. I was all bowing to deities at Daoist temples, and trying to learn new words in Chinese. I did a year and a half in a Southern Chinese Kung Fu form back home, and was hoping I’d find a regular class here in China. Eventually, high carb food and hangovers have seen my attempts at the fitness regimes I had at home being maintained here in China flounder.

Believe it or not though, what the aforementioned writers refer to as stage two preceded my honeymoon phase. According to the writers, stage two is referred to as “shock”, whereby “all the little problems and frustrations take on bigger proportions”. Given that, upon my arrival, my so called boss, who despite being head of the international office at the college I work at still needs a fucking translator, roared laughing at me when I first met him. I’d just come off an eight hour flight, and thereafter endured another three hour car journey. This dicks understanding of jet lag was “Mwah haw, he looks like he is drunk!” Yep, he needed a translator to tell me that.

Chengde, the town I’m based in, has few foreigners. When I arrived, I didn’t know any, besides the other Irish guy who came over with me. My coordinator, who, like my boss, is also a dick, and a gormless boring one at that, coordinates fuck all. His catchphrase seems to be ‘I harve no ideeer’. When I expressed my need to meet other foreigners, given the potential for loneliness and thereafter possible madness, he did not offer to contact any of the other colleges in Chengde. He simply said “I will arsk Henry”, (Henry being my colleague and friend’s coordinator). “I think he hars a girlfriend in the Medical College. He can arsk her”. Needless to say, I heard nought back from the little shit. Of course, this is the same little prick who took six weeks to actually give me the roll call list for the students I’m supposed to teach. I actually had to chase him down for that, and he didn’t like it. Fuck him anyway. The good news is that I did meet more foreigners, by simple accident of design.

And of course, I was once paid two weeks late because my boss was too lazy to file the correct paperwork on time. During those two weeks myself and my colleague were given a different answer everyday. When I finally got a tad tense and rang my boss for the fifth time, he was so lazy, he hung up and got my gormless coordinothing to phone me back. “You must stop phoning Mr.Mu. He is very impatient with you phoning.”

“I want to get paid when he says I’m getting paid,” I responded, “not return to the ATM machine and still find nothing there despite his assurances to the contrary”.

Of course, even after that, I’d yet another needless wrangle with pay I was to be owed for the summer, which again involved my boss and my coordinothing translating. My boss had lots of Butthead like laughing and pointing out non-existent clauses in the contract. However, they knew they were wrong and I got settled with that too. I’ll spare you, the reader, the details of the whys and whens. I must, however, share an observation from a Turkish American acquaintance. He believes the Chinese to be very clever, but not smart. Clever in terms of making the quick buck, passing the buck, and denying the buck, partly as a result of laziness. Their cleverness will shoot themselves in the foot long term, which ain’t all that smart.

An Italian woman I met recently had a worse tale than I. She’d gone to Nanjing to teach at an Italian language school. What happened to her was another example of “cleverness”. She ended up being owed three months wages, with her dick of a boss constantly stalling her and fobbing her off. She escaped to Beijing, and got immense help from her embassy. The cops there though ended up passing the buck by telling her she should file a complaint with the cops in Nanjing. Lifting the phone was too much effort on their part it seems. This woman spoke fluent Mandarin, so imagine the shit that can happen to other teachers.

Teachers in China are in great demand, but not because their actual skills are desired; this all has to do with face and presentation, more of which I’ll explain further on. Basically, foreign teachers or, ‘Wai Jiao’, are the prerequisite for any college brochure that seeks to wrangle those precious Yuans out of parents that want the best for their kids. A white face on the teaching staff really sexes up a college’s prospectus. Caucasoids are so in vogue; it is common for Chinese tourists from the backwoods to walk up to a (white) foreigner in Beijing tourist spots with a “hala hala hala (ok, ok, ok)” and grab a photo opportunity, whether said foreigner wants to or not. Educated Chinese speakers will give themselves English names, sometimes bordering on the ridiculous. Aside from the usual retinue of ‘Amys’ and ‘Jasons’, a friend of mine has met not only Tom Cruise and Michael Jackson, but also, believe it or not, ‘Shrek’! I kid you not. Shrek was, yet again, a middle aged bozo running a language school and driving a saloon car.

Once a teacher has been hired, the school will endeavour to do as they please with said employee. This could range from anything like basically not caring if you show up to squeezing the life blood out of you. Fortunately, I have generally been pushed into the former bracket, as evidenced by my coordinothing’s inability to provide me with the basic paperwork needed to teach a class. A friend, on the other hand, was told late one evening that he had to be up at six AM because a fucking television crew were coming into his apartment to film him. He was told he had to think up of a two hour lesson to teach outdoors, again in front of said TV crew.

According to the 2011 Global Index on Economic Freedom;

“Investors face regulatory non-transparency, complex and inconsistently enforced laws and regulations, weak protection of intellectual property rights, corruption, industrial policies protecting local firms, and a legal system that cannot guarantee the sanctity of contracts.”

Note the last part; the sanctity of contracts. I recently had my agent who got me the job here back in Dublin tell me over the phone “the contract in China is more of a guideline.” Great love, if I’d known that before I came here…but of course, you and your husband weren’t going to highlight that little anomaly, were ye?

On more mundane level, one needs to watch for greed anywhere one goes in China. Crime is generally low, but robbing foreigners takes places over commercial transactions, not at the end of a knife. One must point to the taxi meter, otherwise some dickhead will be (Butthead laugh) clever, and charge you the equivalent of ten euro for a two minute cab ride. Given that the equivalent of €2 will get you fifteen minutes in a cab on the meter should be proof enough that you’re being ripped off. I once had an aul’bitch who resembled an extravagant brothel madam charge me €15 for a pot of tea, two beers, a plate of dumpling and some other yoke. As all this would’ve come to €5 anywhere else in China, I was pissed off. She too had a big laugh, though a bit more like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Another time, in Beijing, I thought the lady behind the counter had asked for 4 yuan(0.40c) for a lighter. What she’d said was 1 yuan 4 jiao. However, when I gave her 4 yuan, she held onto the money and started roaring laughing. No attempt to give it back. Now, plenty of other Chinese shopkeepers have pointed out I’ve overpaid them when I’ve had occasion to make such a mistake, but it’s worth noting that quite a few little Miss Piggies like the 4 yuan woman exist here.

The Chinese even have a saying for ripping off foreigners “Lao Wei Hai Ping (It’s easy to fool a foreigner).” Obviously, wealthy tourists come to China, don’t know anything about haggling, and pay €16 for a fan that will only cost €1, no wonder the locals are beside themselves with such cleverness. Given that I’m working here for €400 a month, I’m not going to be happy when yet another local fuckwit thinks he’s more clever than me, and tries again to pull some other infantile stunt. The global economy will be fucked if they still have this mentality in twenty years time.

What’s the solution? There are plenty of decent Chinese people who despise the cliché of fooling foreigners itself, and thus will be more than happy to help someone if they do fall foul of a greedy rascal masquerading as a competent middle aged adult. Despite my Italian friend’s experience with the Beijing lazy PC Plods, generally the cops have a reputation of hauling in schools and employers who can’t see beyond their own nose when it comes to greed. Presentation and what not is very important here. That’s why condemned prisoners aren’t only televised in chains here; they’re forced to have their heads bowed by the guard watching over them. That’s why the Beijing Olympics are still celebrated in Beijing for having been there. That’s why they had a fake singing girl during the opening ceremony, who mimed while another less cute girl did the actual voice over.

It’s all to do with face.

In China, and East Asia in general, saving face is intrinsically central to the culture. Tempers must not be lost. Facade borders on the ceremonial, be it the simple matter of taking a swig of beer at a meal or building lavish receptions in hotels whilst maintaining a steady mediocrity in the rest of the building. With regards to the former, you cannot sip your beer without either waiting to toast an individual or the rest of the table, or vice versa. It’s all very pompous. As to the latter, highly expensive and quite large jade sculptures will be in abundance in a hotel lobby built, it seems, entirely out of marble. Actual fun amenities such as swimming pools will be noticeable by their absence. You might get a ‘souvenir shop’ with all the charm of a second hand clothes store in the backwoods of County Cavan.

Please note that I’m referring to Chinese hotels outside of Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong. International hotels in those cities have the utilities one would expect. A visiting family member recently got a decent deal at the Swiss hotel in Beijing. In Chengde, though, she was forced to pay an extortionate amount for a room in a place with all the trappings of the lobbies I’ve described, but still – a room with an unhoovered carpet, damp ceilings and broken light fixtures.

Drivers drive like crazy and almost kill each other and passing pedestrians, but you’ll never see their expressions change when hooting the horn like mad. This is probably the reason people like my boss laugh like Butthead when faced with a grievance on my part. “Nothing wrong here, it’s all good.” I once witnessed a bus driver punch a passenger he had suddenly started arguing with twice in the face whilst the vehicle he was driving was waiting in a toll booth queue. A number of other passengers started yelling, then suddenly everyone sat down, and it was like nothing had happened. Face was thus saved for all parties concerned.

Face is something one can utilise to one’s advantage.

Here’s how;
when engaged in a discussion with an employer, have your contract ready. As I mentioned earlier, my child of a boss was citing all kinds of nonexistent clauses to prevent me being given the money I was owed, the contract of course being a guideline. My tactic was to stay firm, point out the discrepancies, ignore his so called ‘compromises’, but most importantly, not lose my temper. Doing so gives them, like anywhere else really, an excuse to walk away.

Once it’s clear they’re going to possibly look stupid and incompetent in front of someone else besides you, they will relent. This could be the police, other foreigners, subordinates witnessing this latest brush with idiocy or, most importantly, their reputation via the grapevine. My friend I mentioned earlier, the one who was supposed to have a TV crew invading his privacy at six in the morning, basically told his boss to get stuffed. That, as well as pointing out the infantile lack of notice and his offence at being expected to ask ‘how high’ when being told to jump. A few days later, his supervisor was ‘so sorry’, but also told him he did not have to worry about what the main boss thought. He responded that he didn’t and never will worry about what any boss thinks with regards to situations like the one bestowed on him.

Basically, the business practice here is seeing how much mileage they can get out of a “laowei” (foreigner). Stand up to them, and they’ll usually back off. China still has a bit of a way to go with its new found openness to the rest of the world.

On a positive note, the Chinese penchant for acting the bollocks has resulted in some nice spin-offs for the visiting consumer, namely in the form of counterfeit goods. One can purchase fake designer clothing, watches, and what not for next to nothing, as well as cameras, iphones and other commodities. The rest of the world is actively walking on egg shells with China for now, and so patent and copyright laws don’t mean shit. So, if you’re in China and are getting mightily upset with yet another sleazy middle aged yoke with a comb over fucking you about, console yourself with a nice pair of Adidas which you’ll only pay the equivalent of €15 for.

Bargain hard always, and you’ll get the pleasure to proverbially kick another eejit who believes in the “laowei hai ping” mantra square in the nuts.

Good luck.

Mixed Bill II Re-Presenting Ireland (Dublin Dance Festival 2011 Review)

2011-08-15T14:35:00Z

Performed at the Dublin Dance House on 28 May 2011.

After being enthralled by the performances presented in Mixed Bills I for Re-Presenting Ireland, I also watched the contributions for Mixed Bills II. Overall, I was newly inspired as regards my own dance practise. Also, after seeing the works presented for Mixed Bills II I am now eagerly conducting more research into modern contemporary dance in Ireland. The Chrysalis Dance Company opened Mixed Bill II by presenting ‘Connect For’, a very intense work (to say the least) pushing the formerly clear boundaries of classical ballet and depicting a thrilling modern interpretation thereof. Bridget Madden then staged her ‘An Rinceóir/ The Dancer’, a work exploring the connective points between Irish and modern dance. The event was then concluded by ‘Ten: white/grey studies in movement’ which was presented by Liv O’Donoghue in collaboration with Maria Nilsson Waller.

Connect For

Performed by The Chrysalis Dance Compay. Choreography: Judith Sibley. Music: Jesse Ronneau.

Connect For left me breathless throughout. With music by Jesse Ronneau, whose work is known for the experimental manipulation of instruments, the work is highly dramatic, intense, intimidating, if not shocking at times. At the same time, it is utterly pleasurable all along. As a contemporary ballet, the five performers (two male, and three female dancers) who presented this piece demonstrated very advanced technique. Their intense facial expressions and imposing stage presence will accompany me for a while, as a source of inspiration and respect. Their silvery-bluish costumes mixed with black hair dresses and generous make up, reiterated the slightly menacing, eerie tunes of Ronneau. Most importantly, this work created by Judith Sibley, the director of the Galway based Chrysalis Dance Company, clearly pushes the boundaries of classical ballet. The company has stated as its primary mission to revolutionize the traditional movement vocabulary of the classical ballet dancer by introducing some off-balance coordination work, perhaps more typical to contemporary modern dance.

Photo by Stephen Macken

Connect For thus demonstrates to the audience the strength and beauty of contemporary ballet whilst exploring the complex layers of human interactions. The complexity of human relations is illustrated by the constant interchange between solos, duets, and group numbers. Partnering sequences with beautiful lifts are followed by exquisite solos on point shoes. I particularly enjoyed the male solos, as both were really strong, expressive dancers boasting great technique. One specific section left a real imprint in my mind. A loud (musical) bang interrupts the first male solo, and the three (contemporary) ballerinas join the male dancer on stage. Contortions on the floor follow as the music becomes more menacing. My heart actually started beating faster during the sequence.

Generally, the entire piece is characterized by the continuous comings and goings of dancers and it is only at the end that they all join the stage in union to perform the finale. What I particularly loved about this piece was the constant interruptions (surprises), and the changes of protagonists, who, much like in real life, were struggling to be the centre of attention. The means of entry were particularly impressive. For instance, one of the male solos was initiated by the male dancer interrupting a female duet by staggering onto the stage as if balancing on a thin line, playing with balance and suspense.

Last but not least, the ever so intricate details of this performance are worthy of mention. For example, towards the end, the three female dancers crouch on the floor, one arm supporting the bent leg under the knee, the fingers of the other delicately wandering across the floor. Those details provide a sheer viewing pleasure to the audience and suggest the intelligent and innovative work the Chrysalis Dance Company is capable of producing. Based on this performance, and others which are available online, I would recommend their work anytime as an intrinsic manifesto for the richness of contemporary modern dance in the Republic.

Check out the company’s work in more depth

An Rinceóir/ The Dancer

Choreography: Bridget Madden

The second contribution to Mixed Bills II came from Bridget Madden. Entitled An Rinceóir/ the Dancer the gist is in the title. In her solo piece, Bridget aptly explores the relationship between Irish and contemporary dance and the fusion between the two. The piece starts out with the dancer lying on the floor, arms tied at the back. Her breath is audible, as she rolls around the floor to find the right positioning in order to rehearse Irish dance steps whilst on the ground. In this noteworthy introduction, Bridget evidently dissects the rhythmic patterns and complex footwork of Irish dance. Eventually, she manages to liberate herself from the straps, now sitting on the floor, counting and executing Irish dance steps with her hands, her fingers nimbly hopping across the floor, simulating an Irish dancer’s feet. At this instance, the audience observes the intricate process of learning Irish dance steps which gets more frenetic, and desperate, as the dancer intermittently loses the pattern and then resumes it.

The first part of the solo distinctly explores the characteristic elements of Irish dance, as well as lower body strength (when Bridget finally gets up to execute technically supreme Irish dance jumps), use of floor space and high-energy rhythmic patterns. This is juxtaposed in the second part by an investigation of the movement repertoire and stylistic characteristics of contemporary dance. When Bridget finally explores modern contemporary moves her face becomes more liberated. Contrary to the Irish dance section of her piece, her face looks less tortured now and the liberating capacity of contemporary dance obviously impacts on her in a positive way. Altogether, this is an entirely wholesome work of dance, which is very well thought through and meticulously structured. It is almost comparable to an (artsy) first class honours thesis, which aptly opposes two very different case studies, and eventually identifies the connectors between the two.

In brief, An Rinceóir/ the Dancer is intellectually and artistically easily accessible, even to the lay man. Bridget Madden’s work is therefore exemplary for the objectives of DDF, illustrating the vitality of dance in Ireland and the marriage between tradition and innovation.

Bridget Madden is an ensemble member of the Echo Echo Dance Company in Derry.

TEN: white/grey studies in movement (working title)

Choreography: Liv O’Donoghue. Sound: Tom Lane.

Photo by Luca Trufferelli

The final contribution to Mixed Bills II- Re-presenting Ireland came from Liv O’Donoghue. Her ‘TEN: white/grey studies in movement (working title)’ ensued from a year of personal movement research facilitated by an Irish Arts Council bursary. Presented as a duet by Liv O’Donoghue and Maria Nilssen Waller, the piece is pure and simply stunning. The soundscape accompanying the piece was provided by Tom Lane, and evokes sounds of nature, bird song, touch and conversation. The two dancers enter the stage together although Liv breaks away almost immediately to deliver a superbly executed solo. Her movement is delicate, and her steps ever so light, yet quietly confident.

Personally, I felt like watching a fairy play on a bed of sun flowers. While the (solo) introduction speaks for itself and unfolds without musical accompaniment at all, Liv’s movement occasionally produces a slight shower of white sand (fairy dust in my mind). Seemingly tortured, in search of the unspecified, she paces across the stage with light jumps, exhibiting fluid arms and tantalising movement sequences. Suddenly the faint whispering of Tom Lane’s soundscape joins her dance. Like voices in my ears it reminds me of nostalgic, distant memories of the past. Now the second dancer, Maria, an exquisitely light footed dancer who performed her solo in Mixed Bill I joins Liv on stage. The two dancers share an intensely, purposeful facial expression all throughout, an expression which (personally) inspires a sensation of longing contemplation and internal reflection. The two protagonists both wear skin toned costumes (Liv wears a figure hugging dress while Maria opted for pants and a top), adding to the illusion of purity and fragility.

The constant motion of brushing specks of (exist dust as well the audible slapping of body parts and the occasional pushing against the ground as if to examine its sturdiness are recurrent visuals. One section which I particularly adored was a duet (floor) sequence which summoned emotions of vulnerability and the need for protection and comfort. The two dancers conclude the choreography on the floor with circular motions of the hands, inspiring an exquisite meditative atmosphere. All in all, this work boasts sophisticated technique and intricate dance vocabulary where the connection between the two dancers is sometimes lost, but then found again.

The landscape of fairy-inspired sounds of nature and bird song really help to enhance the feelings of purity and underline the beauty of simplicity (nature) with the audience. I would recommend this piece anytime, as exemplary for the richness of Ireland’s contemporary modern dance talent.

For more information on Liv O’Donoghue’s work please visit her website

The 2011 Dublin Dance Festival ran until the 28th of May. If you did not get to go, do check out their website.

Read Jasbelly’s introductory window onto the Dublin Dance Festival

Messages From The Big Rock Candy Mountain would like to thank the 2011 Dublin Dance Festival and Stephanie of Kate Bowe PR for everything

Kitchen (Dublin Restaurant Review)

2011-08-15T13:08:00Z

Heard tell a chef from the now defunct Mermaid had taken over as head chef in this cosy little venue so we dropped in to give it a spin.

3 South Anne Street, Dublin 2, Ireland.

Heard tell a chef from the now defunct Mermaid had taken over as head chef in this cosy little venue so we dropped in to give it a spin.

We sat outside under a heater and only needed the heavy blankets provided towards the end of the night. I took a moment to nose around inside and found the place to be nicely decorated. It would be easy to return here with a larger party for an inside meal.

The staff were friendly and helpful.

Between the specials and the menu it was genuinely hard to decide what starter to go for. In the end, sharing we decided to go for the chicken wings and the bruschetta. The waiter advised us to for the large portion of chicken wings.

The large portion of chicken wings turned out to be a small mountain of wings. The wings have this moreish quality that forces you to keep eating them even when you’ve hit the wall. I much prefer these wings to the vinegar overload of the ones from Elephant and Castle (Temple Bar restaurant in Dublin famous for its chicken wings – Editor) .

The bruschetta was refreshing as it had a real rustic quality to it. They didn’t skimp on the ham, the mozzarella was sliced thick, the bread was also thick slice and as we found out home made to the restaurant. My companion was quite taken with the bruschetta and in particular the bread. Though thick bread was light and reminded her of home made bread from her childhood which is a great thing to be able to say about anywhere.

For mains, we had the steak fajita and the chicken and wild mushroom risotto.

The steak fajita was gorgeous – the again made in the restaurant tortillas were awesome. It was nearly impossible to stop loading them with some truly fantastic guacamole.

The Chicken and wild mushroom risotto was declared as amazing and my stuffed companion had to take what she couldn’t finish home. Declaring it, reheated in work, the best lunch ever.

For desert we shared the chocolate brownie.

As we sat drinking and relaxing afterward there was no pressure for us to hurry up even though the restaurant was clearly beginning to shut down. This is something I cannot stress enough as being important, at least to me. A relaxed attitude to finished digesting diners is pivotal to me. Though I do understand in a busy restaurant during a busy time, this is hard.

We found ourselves talking to the head chef who had decided to take his dinner outside and we were told about just some of the things he had planned, the in-house ice-creams he described sounded amazing.

I will definitely be back.

Cinammon Cafe (Dublin Restaurant Review)

2011-08-15T11:47:00Z

Looking out onto Smithfield this is a gem of a cafe, with a truly impressive spread of choices.

Looking out onto Smithfield this is a gem of a cafe, with a truly impressive spread of choices.

The breakfasts and pancakes are particular favourites.

There is always a good range of pastries to have with your coffee – but they win on the range of smoothies and juices available.

The staff can be a bit cranky though.

This is by far the best cafe in both the Smithfield and greater Liberties area.

It is worth a mention that the menu beyond breakfast – into full lunches, soups, sandwiches and everything else is vast and that everything is delicious. Regardless of what you are looking for, from health food, to vegan to guilty pleasures, up until or around dinner time, this is the place to stop in the above area – it is also worth travelling to.

Harrys on the Green (Dublin Bar Review)

2011-07-13T13:53:00Z

Right so, four stars because even though I have nothing to complain about, like the sea, I’m a harsh, unforgiving mistress.

This place is quite possibly one of the best bars in Dublin.

It does food, but we weren’t there for that. Having turned up to a Yelp sponsored free cocktail event at Venu which we appeared to have missed or didn’t happen – even though we were oh about eight minutes late. There was a serious hunger for cocktails.

Cheap cocktails.

Not badly made cheap cocktails like you may find in the Mercantile or elsewhere.

I had heard tell from a wizened old hag at a crossroads under a harvest moon (the bartender at Coppinger Row) that this place was doing a 2 for 1 deal on cocktails. I’m not sure if it is specific to Tuesday, it could be.

Upon arriving there was no signage to offer any sort of veracity to the hags words. So we milled in and out of the smoking area until a young dairymaid took pity on us and answered my question.

Yes, yes there was a 2 for 1 on cocktails.

Finding this out had the social equivalence on our small and desperate group of three of the partially monstrous gimp from a 70s movie, clippity-clopping down a pier, his shrivelled arm flopping at his side as he comes to a lurching halt over the still waters whereupon he retrieves a conch from his rags and blows into it.

Heeerrp!

(Which is generally how I imagine a conch should sound)

Over the stirring, bubbling waters – he will then bellow

“RELEASE THE KRAKEN”

And the water will churn and boil…

This was the general feeling of having been invited to two hours of free cocktails earlier, which had fled upon finding a closed Venu. And Harry’s allowed us to feel it again, and not just feel it, but revel in it.

This place is built how bars should be.

This has bar staff the way real bars should, the sort of bars 1920s artists and 1940s philandering fighting movie stars drank in. The real ones. Not the glitz boring pandering places Frank Sinatra hung out in because of some mob envy. That is to say, learned in their trade, a touch cranky, ready for a fight, but overall jovial.

Bogart and Burton would drink here, and if you brought the wrong person, they’d probably punch you out.

The waiting staff are polite and smile.

The drinks menu is a thing of beauty. I hear they do food, but look at the other reviews on Yelp for that. This one is about a booze hole for boozehounds. I’m not here to pander to your obvious need to know if this is a good place to eat.

Don’t tell your friends about this place, they may come here and wreck its ambiance. Keep this place a secret. Whatever you do, don’t write a review about it on some website. The world must never know how wonderful their cocktails are.

We sat outside at first, but were beset upon by the common spotted Dublin smoking area asshole. Who shuffled over like a friendless thing from a time before light and Gods – demanding that we agree to his company. The dairymaid even helped him bring his drinks over which I thought was a nice touch of service. Upon arriving to our table, he began to shout obscenities and make intellectual comments like “I bet you were a contestant from Irelands got no talent” before as he would with everything apologise and move on to his next insult. Which was quite odd, as he had quite pleaded to join us, whilst joining us.

Still recovering from our loss of two free hours of cocktails and before we had even seen the menu. I ordered six Gimlets. The Gimlets are suitably old fashioned and you have to ask if you want them made with fresh lime.

Upon discovery of this and the fact that the bar has both, and I stress, both types of Old Raj gin (quite possibly the greatest gin known to man. I heard tell from an Old gypsy in one of the camps that it is actually the bottled tears of some lost and forgotten God.)

The bar was filled with a strange sort of trilling sound. It took me a moment to realize that this was in fact, my liver, Patsy, singing like the dog creature from The Dark Crystal, at all the joy and splendour that was Harrys on the Green.

Each ensuing cocktail was more beautiful than the next. We drank until our money ran out – then, having rolled a tramp for his pennies, we drank until his money ran out.

The head barman is old school. And all the staff behind that blessed bar are quite awesome. They have the an effect on a drunk like kittens do to a young girl. You just want to bustle them up under your coat and take them with you, for a night of drunken whoring.

If you take your drinking, even mildly seriously. If you like cocktails, proper barmen from a time that may have only existed in novels, poems and my head.

Go to Harrys.

Bring the right friends – you know, the ones that can drink.

Make sure the end the night squabbling over who gets the extra Destroyer shot.

Your liver demands it.

Harrys.

You’ll forget your mothers name.

Oh and I lied about the four stars, I couldn’t possibly give this place any less than five.

Songs of the wanderers (Dublin Dance Festival 2011 Review)

2011-07-10T13:08:00Z

The Grand Canal Theatre Dublin opened its doors in March 2010. At a twenty-minute stroll from O’Connell Street, it is the newest and biggest addition to Dublin’s vibrant cultural life. With a 2000 seating capacity, within a year after its inauguration, it represents Dublin’s primary venue for theatrical productions. Therefore, the decision by Dublin Dance Festival to host the Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of Taiwan at the Grand Canal Theatre was extremely significant. In this wonderful setting, I was enticed by Songs of the wanderers (1994), which was presented by “Asia’s leading contemporary dance companies” (The Irish Times) and hailed as the centrepiece performance of DDF 2011.

By: The Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of Taiwan.
Performed at: The Grand Canal Theatre / Dublin.

The dance company is considered as one of the most influential across Asia. It was founded in 1973 by choreographer Lin Hwai-min and consists of around twenty professional dancers. In 1998 Cloud Gate (I) opened its Dance School in Taiwan for students between the ages of 4-84. Cloud Gate II was to foster the talents of younger choreographers (1999). The company has toured extensively throughout Asia, Australia, North and South America as well as Europe with Ireland being its March destination this year. Indeed, the grandeur of the Grand Canal theatre venue proved an apt setting for the Cloud Gate dancers whose cross training ranges from meditation, Tai Chi, martial arts, ballet to modern dance and calligraphy.

The treasury of the works by Lin Hwai-min generally points to a fusion of varied influences, such as Asian mythology and folklore with a modern twist. Lin is known for his modest stage set up, which often consists only of one medium, such as floating water drizzling down the ceilings in Moonwater (1998) or a stage showered with pink flowers in Whisper of flowers (1998). The modesty and simplicity of the stage often sets the mood for intensely spiritual and magical performances.

The choice of medium in Songs of the wanderers is equally significant in that it helps to create a mystical, hypnotizing atmosphere. The piece begins in dim light, a constant stream of golden rice grains drizzling onto the head of a statuesque monk, standing in meditation, his hands in the Namaste prayer. The golden grains gradually stream across the entire stage, forming golden dunes, hills and rivers, building an ever-changing golden landscape which complements the serene procession of dancers.

The chosen medium paints a solemn picture, and the warm yellows and orange hues of the rice provide a wholesome and spiritual visual experience. Personally, I dive into the constant stream of grains, lingering in meditative contemplation as the dance unfolds on stage. Inspired by Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha to embark a spiritual journey, and informed by Lin Hwai-min’s personal pilgrimage to Bodhgaya, where Buddha attained his enlightenment,

Songs of the Wanderers was conceived in 1994. Around 3,500 kg of golden rice grains serve as the set for this 90-minute production. Throughout the entire piece, the monk stands motionless, rice grain trickling down his body. Maybe it is this simple gesture of meditation in combination with the flow of the medium that touches the heart of so many. In any case, the simplicity of the gesture (amongst other things) moved many to tears at the end of the show.

The piece is performed to the soulful Georgian folk songs sung by the Rustavi Choir. A wholesome Georgian male voice accompanies the entry of about two-dozen dancers propped up on long wooden sticks that slowly, meditatively wander onto the stage and into the centre. The dancers, or pilgrims in my mind, then fill up the entire downstage stretch (the Holy River), and as the music stops – suddenly, all of them freeze.

On the onset of a different tune, the six men scatter rice fall to their stomachs onto the grains, and perform synchronized Yogic stretches. The female dancers, by contrast, gather on one patch of golden rice at the back, moving in sync. When this particular piece of music finishes abruptly, wild spastic hand gestures ensue from the female assembly. The group is then joined by a female solo dancer.

As the group of dancers leave the stage, the female solo dancer engages in mad convulsions. She is then joined by a man who rakes in rice in front of him. In my interpretation, Lin Hwai-min uses the convulsions of the dancing body to symbolize the hardships of pilgrimage, but also to indicate purification. Moreover, intense back bending sequences are used time and again in his Songs of the wanderers seemingly to point to cleansing, and the joy of life. In addition the impulsive jumps of the dancers, diving in and out of the sand, as well as whipping (with green leaved branches) are a recurrent gesture. The wooden sticks accompany the entire piece, and delicate bells attached to their tips create a meditative ringing. The rake man is also a consistent image, as he wanders across the stage, inspiring meditative devotion. He concludes the section in a meditative fashion, raking in the rice in circles, putting a structure to the vast unruly landscape of grains that has by then formed on stage.

My whole mind, body and soul were immersed into this celebration of the dancing body, and the entire production is simply outstanding. However, one of the most striking scenes was a sudden big bang at the back caused by a big patch of rice (and a male dancer) falling down from the ceiling. The dancer (I am still wondering if the fall hurt) subsequently engaged in a very heartwarming solo. Mad convulsions informed his path, as he hurled the rice from the hill on which he landed. The stage lighting focused exclusively on the male soloist, and the mustard yellow of the rice corns contrasted his white face paint. Meanwhile, the monk at the front was emerged in darkness.

Suddenly – the monk is lit up again. Aside from the beautifully light lifting sequences that followed, the section that perhaps enthralled me most was the Rite of Fire. As the title suggests, it consists of balancing bowls of fire and spinning – it invites feelings of warmth and spirituality.

Finally, the piece ended in an equally impressive finale, with rice grains streaming down ceiling like curtains, and joyful, boisterous dancing with rice thrown in the air mingling with the sound of the rice. The Dublin audience thanked the Cloud Gate Dance Theatre with a long standing ovation. I could not stop cheering the dance company for the unique pleasure they afforded the audience. As we finally settled and the clapping subsided, the conclusion of the piece revisited the image of the rake man. For what seems an (enjoyable) eternity, he is sweeping the rice into a circulars pattern, silently, meditatively, with great care. Is this the finale or is it the beginning?

My verdict of the piece is an entirely positive one. Elaborating on some of the well-constructed details will hopefully give the ingenious nature of the piece some justice in writing. Songs of the wanderers is immensely inspiring, and carries the audience away to a dream world of spiritual and magical practises and creatures. Another message inherent in the piece is that continuous travel keeps the mind fresh and alive. For “there is no happiness in him who does not travel (…). The feet of the wanderer are like the flower, his soul is growing and reaping the fruit; and all his sins are destroyed by his fatigues in wandering. Therefore, wander!” (Aitareya Brahmana) Therefore wandering equals wondering and this beautiful work of art reminded me of this fact. It was complete and utter bliss!

I would invite everyone to check out Lin Hwai-min’s work in greater depth. Many of the most significant works of the Cloud Gate Dance Theatre have been turned into DVDs in Europe and are therefore easily accessible. It will allow you to savour the magical and spiritual quality of the Company’s work. Better even, it will carry you away from the everyday pressures of the modern world. While nothing compares to the live experience and all of you should seize the opportunity to see the company live, the DVDs will in the meantime provide entertainment at its best, with dance technique at its most refined.

<u>Further Information:</u>

Dublin Dance Festival information on the pieace

Cloud Gate home page

The 2011 Dublin Dance Festival ran until the 28th of May. If you did not get to go, do check out their website.

Read Jasbelly’s introductory window onto the Dublin Dance Festival

Messages From The Big Rock Candy Mountain would like to thank the 2011 Dublin Dance Festival and Stephanie of Kate Bowe PR for everything

Thoughts on Larry Crowne

2011-06-30T13:34:00Z

In an alternative within the multiverse of meatspace – Steve Guttenberg made it big and Tom Hanks lurched from The ‘Burbs to having a surprise hit with Forest Gump.

It’s a better place.

It’s nothing personal, there’s just something about him.

You know, word about Hollywood is; even Wilson couldn’t stand him and they barely spoke during the filming of ‘Cast Away’.

In this version of meatspace – corpulent things that scuttle about like Longshot’s Mojo decide much of what we get slopped out to us. Remakes by the dozen, comedies that feel as if they have been written by hagfish, and everything dumbed down or softened to be across the board twelves to catch the universal audience.

Adults are barely allowed adult movies now.

Everything seems to be at a soft Christian mid-range.

We hear tell of films coming out with an 18s or R certificate, then they arrive, twelves or fifteens at best.

We have to turn to French Extreme, Independent films and if it’s not a hard boiled cop drama or something about sex abuse, we may well have to wait for the DVD release to see even a shadow of its former self.

Somewhere along the line they castrated most big budget Horror films – shortly afterwards they lobotomised Sam Raimi, stopped giving John Carpenter both the budget and the scripts and made sure most of the new Horror had their special FX done by Sloth from The Goonies.

Every time we get excited about something coming out – that it might be a bit harder, visceral – fists balling in anticipation – just a little bit wet/hard – our hopes are cruelly dashed when we see the rating the studio made them chump for upon cinema release.

It gets worse from there. The cut away before the mildest violence – did he just hit his thumb with a hammer – it was off screen – we – they blinked away, for your safety. Because seeing a thumb being hit with a hammer may give you cancer of the soul and pretty soon you’ll be an amoral bastard just striding into day care centres to bang up Krokodil and skull fuck the under threes.

Your mind will rot from scenes of a graphic sexual nature. Nothing spectacular there, it will just rot – one minute you’ll be watching Melissa Joan Hart bang a midget next minute it will be covered in that same white fur fruit gets and leaking fluid. Hollywood is trying to protect you.

So when I hear about Tom Hanks making a romantic comedy drama about middle aged man going back to community college – finding acceptance with a bunch of moped riding “outcasts, also rans and losers”. I am filled with the sort of warmth someone with Alzheimer’s gets when they’re left unchanged. I keep thinking I’ve just sat down on a seat someone was keeping warm for me and when it grows cold I have to wonder why they won’t close the window, don’t they know my cat will get out and the neighbours dog will chase it and who the hell gave me a cat don’t they know I hate cats…

Tom Hanks is fifty-five years old. He’s only middle aged now because machines will keep you dribbling piss and memories as close to a hundred as they can manage or until the money runs out.

For those sorry saccharine sacks of truly wasted internal organs that willingly go to see this – I feel nothing.

I pity the poor goons that get dragged along to this by their significant heart worm.

I can only imagine the horror of watching Hanks try and remain somehow relevant in the romantic comedy drama genre. It is matched with the sight and sound of Julia Roberts and her rictus cheap serial killer mask leer, sorry, grimace, I mean smile. There, chewing the scenery with Hanks – banal dialogue and mopeds – trying to cover up the gibbering background madness gurn of his three or four expressions and the crinkling shrivelling plastic bag sound of her womb as she sags through a performance.

This is a man who likes to tell anyone who will listen about how he would go to Brecht, Williams and Ibsen plays on his own so he could be engulfed by them. Who doesn’t need the money – who could, ah fuck – who am I kidding, outcasts, losers, also rans, probably geeks and mopeds. Fucking mopeds man, mopeds and Tom Hanks, and if we’re lucky Julia Roberts will get down to her underwear and we’ll get to see what Ogra from the Dark Crystal looked like naked.

I could absently hope that there will be a little bit of reality to this.

That it will be a black, bleak wrenching landscape of the sort of cynicism I encounter in suddenly unemployed and single fifty year old men. I’m hoping there will be scenes about Viagra and prostate checks. If we’re lucky there’ll be particularly hilarious one where Hanks takes the Viagra too early and can’t get his zipper up for his date.

With any luck, Roberts will be roaring through menopause and instead of running out for condoms, there will be a terrific scene where they have to drive around for hours to find lube for her arid cleft.

This could be followed up with the deeply uncomfortable sex scene where a slightly younger and perhaps prudish Roberts has to deal with all the weird kinks a single fifty-five year old man has picked up from jaded marriage, late dating and a life time of cheap hookers. Just how comfortable is she with how tight he wants to be strangled with a pair of bobby-socks. Or when he ends, close to peak, stuck like Max Headroom just screaming “Whore” over and over again into her face until puce he judders to a halt and collapses on her and she thinks for a moment he’s had a heart attack. That is, until he wheezes back to life, rolls off her and passes out. Maybe we’ll be confronted with the mirth of her guiltily trying to decide whether to use what the Viagra has left up while he sleeps or finish herself off with the General Lee she keeps in the bedside locker.

Will she have to deal with his outmoded, racist friends from university? Will he have to deal with her barren childless friends who spent their time looking for a man to settle with the same way a meth addict looks for the junk they lost between the cushions?

Probably not.

But hey, Tom Hanks and mopeds.

Wow I actually managed to get through this without mentioning how his face looks like a Henson studios puppet made out of the phalloplasty and vaginoplasty left overs from a back street butcher clinic. A lone desperate puppeteer hand ungulates wildly as it tries to express…