Pete Mahongonies

Filum & Arts Phorum

Saving Private Ryan - the review

Can one imagine a more timely piece of theatre, with the threat of global violence on an unprecedented scale being talked of in increasingly alarmist terms, where the deaths of many are swamped by the miasma of political infighting and internal divisions, where the chilling winds of death sneaking through our senses as each of us look to our neighbours as potential living bombs, this adaptation is so right.

The minutia of death, the scars of shrapnel, the explosion of bullets tearing into flesh, the inhumanity of man frozen in pigments of blood and gore, then the redemption of the soul, little stands in the way of compromise here, if its gritty realism you are after to jolt you from your drab suburban complacency, then see this riveting showpiece of theatre.

Director Simone Bo'nc'e', knew when he first proposed Saving Private Ryan, that the difficulties of staging the drama where likely to be swamped by the sheer scale of the set peices, the d-day invasion opening sequence, could so easily have bludgeoned the human scale of the unfolding story into obscurity.

"I knew that getting a hundred extras onto the stage of that size could so easily have turned into a disaster, the confusion, the smoke, the explosions, to then try and encapsulate the bonds of the soldiers and bring to the fore their individual personas stretched my and the tech staffs ingenuity."

"It was a massive undertaking, we originally planned to update Justine, probably the most sensitive of de sades works, and set it in the department of human resources, but they threatened to sue, and sent one of their clerical assistants to beat up my assistant director, Ms Junifors. Just witnessing the fight in the car park instantly transported me onto the beach at Normandy. I love a good bitch fight." said Simone, a veteran with three successful works already staged.

At first I was sceptical that the fourth graders of Montmorency Primary would have the depth to bring such a sweeping saga to life, but how wrong I was.

In a symbolic gesture, the opening of the movie has been scrapped, no more of the shilly shally of Spielberg's tainted twee humanism, we cut straight to the chase. As the audience sits quietly, perhaps eating a slice of the women's auxiliary coconut crumbles or one of Mrs Renton's very delicious vanilla lamb custard tarts, a low rumble begins to fill the auditorium, ominous, barely audible at first, it builds over a full fifteen minutes to an ear shattering level, the tension in the room by the time the curtain finally swings open is palpable.

I counted at least three people flee the room with their hands clasped over their ears, screaming, such is the tension.

This is just the prelude, the curtain is not drawn, it is set on fire, revealing behind the flames, a hundred scurrying creatures rushing into the centre of the stage to dance the macabre tango of death.

The set is simple, a few old mattresses, a pile of sand, and broken shards of glass, instantly stamps this as special, just what is it that we are fighting for? The trappings of luxury? The essence of freedom? No, we are fighting ultimately over nothing, nada, a big pile of detritus which under normal circumstances would only be of interest to those who lurk around late at nite before hard rubbish day. No grand plans, no huge sweep of ideas, no play of nationalistic interests, just a rite pile of old crap, how jejune! A hundred fourth graders just going hammer and tongs at each other, biting, kicking, punching, their shrill cries and attempts to recite dialogue are inevitable interrupted by a stray fist or knee to the sensitive spots of an actors soul, or the props people tossing fire extinguishers or small explosives into the midst of the fray.

Such wilful chaos, such physical theatre, to see the star of the piece, Denny Triage, a tour de force as the tom hanks character, rise after being struck fair on the head by a well aimed fire extinguisher, to deliver his lines, then collapse under the weight of perhaps twelve cast members piling on top of him, spoke of the depth of commitment needed for such a work. The reality of the screams as cast member after cast member succumbed to objects hurled from the wings or simply lay prostrate screaming as they rolled over the shattered bottles littering the stage, confronted the audience in a such a tactile almost palpable air of horror as many parents saw their child grasping the cut arteries and veins, but such was the professionalism of the cast, they simply piled on top of anyone who fell, rejoicing in the blood lust.

I asked Simone, how he managed to work the actors into such a fever pitch of raw emotion, his reply simple, "PCP" he stated plainly, "a little trick I learnt from Barry Kosky, although he goes a bit further and gives it to the audience, but as you know, budget restraints forced us to cut back on some aspects, such as the air strike at the finale, we originally had one of the fathers of the Hamas Social Club ready to fly a Cessna into the auditorium, but well as I say, arts grants just don't go as far these days.”

For some, the initial scene is a wearing affair, its hard edge of realism doesn't take into account the paltry concentration of the audience, after a half hour it is still going, with more than half the cast down and the rest bleeding profusely, this for the director was no time to afford compromise, the artistic sentiment won out over the commercial, at nearly an hour in length, the opening is minimalist opera with out the minimalism or the opera, it is just long. Visions of art are just that visions that must be maintained lest we all see that we are just fighting over junk.

Not content with merely a straight reading of the film, simone has revamped and updated the script, the characters are now all that much more modern and so much richer for the experience, Ryan for example is a knife wielding psychopath who tortures prisoners and straps grenades into their mouths before pulling the pin, the very idea of returning to the woman who cast him from her body into this blood soaked hell hole, a palpable idiocy, making the rescue seem that much more futile, the system is corrupt, yet not, yet is. He not only loves the war, he is ready to die, waiting die, and in a shattering climax skewers one of his rescuers on the end of his bayonet and tongue kisses him, while breathing lustily, "you suk Billy". A tour de force of modernity rising above simple material, so to it appears as condemnation of all violence, while rejoicing in the manly camaraderie and homoerotic aspects of having all characters perform the final scene naked.

For sum this stunning work will be just more grist to the already overcrowded shock mill, this performance has so much more than horror or shock value to rouse the audience, few will forget the appalling Nicki Webster star vehicle "100 days of Sodom" a vacuous musical, enlivened only by the truly degrading depths that the star was willing to put herself thru, many still say they were shocked by the razor blade/ Ping-Pong ball closing number, but few could doubt Ms Webster's desire to avoid typecasting, or the producers dubious marketing ploys. None of the hypocrisy of bell can be called upon to taint this production, it is raw, real and heavy on the bandages. The only query is the length of the run, at six weeks, the demands upon the performers is enormous, as nearly half the cast needed to be replaced for the evening show, with three critical and unlikely to return for even walk-on roles, it will truly be a closing night party to be behold.

To all at Montmorency Primary for their breathtaking audacity to overcome the odds and breath life into such a stale old gem, can only come hearty congratulations, poignant, apocalyptic, dyspeptic, a gem which needs only reach a larger audience and a steady stream of fit cast members to reach dizzying heights.

Play: Saving private Ryan

venue: Montmorency Primary Gymnasium

Cost: $49.95 (less if a volunteer at the tuck shop)

Star rating: 14.5/17.36

Synopsis: we all know the story, we all loved the gore and glamour, now see it as it should be, in vivid screen made flesh, but remember to wear a raincoat if you are in the first twenty rows.

Highlights: The vanilla lamb custard tarts Lowpoints: the accidental decapitation of shawn O'Mara (playing Ryan) on the opening night

Mamas dont let yer babies grow up to be cowboys

A tribute to Waylon Jennings R.I.P

Waylon was not just a man, he was a man amongst persons who called themselves men among men, especially in the sauna or whilst driving their pickup trucks to their limos.

His deep soulful voice, by turns burning with the rich passion of a life led in the depths of 7 failed marriages and three divorces. At other times his voice had an emphasemic quality one finds on the outakes of tom waites records where the singer breaks down in fits of gutteral coughing, a range unmatched outside of his own caravan.

His first album, "these here truckers are my buddies", a bold concept for its day, told tales of failed love, heavy drinking and changing tyres, barely bruised the face of country. His second, "Run the Bitch over good trucker buddie", confirmed even less, marking him down as yet another good old boy who like to change tyres while drunk.

1972 saw the passing of the flames of c/w royalty, none expected waylons contribution, his subsequent arson conviction nor his eventual induction into the country music hall of fame. His third album, "Mitt Conte De Cozzi Fanne Solielie, Good Buddy", pushed country to uncharted territories, seemlessly blending Mozarts The Magical Pink Oboe with good old boy tyre changing rollicking tunes, a critical failure at the time it sold in the millions, pushing Waylon onto a larger more lucrative stage.

Sadly his then third wife, Brenda Lee, was accidentaly shot by Waylon when his gun discharged while unloosening a nut on the wheel of his truck, sending Waylon back into the studio to record his next majestic opus, "How to save on Alimony", a tribute to Brenda Lee and a plea for Smith & Weston to add a drunkproof safety to thier Hairtrigger 2000 range of pistols. None could doubt the mans courage, voice or ability to overcome tragedy.

Yet tragedy was to follow him throughout his life, his personal secretary whom he dictated his songs was sadly dyslexic, leaving Waylon with nearly three hundred completely unusable songs. This didnt stop the man releaseing nearly twenty five albums a year for pert near to twenty years.

Each an individual work of genius. Each unmistakeably Waylon. Each about changing tyres and drinking heavily, interchangable and yet becoz they all contained at least one song about his current wife, or about the differing alimony payments, or about the sad fate his pregnant fourteen year old lover, each can viewed as just different enough to discourage being sued by his own record company for trying to pass off the same three songs nearly a thousand times.

Life did eventually become better for Waylon, on the day he died, he looked up at his best frend and tyre changin drunk good buddy, Willie Nelson and said "Willie Im sick of livin, Ive changed my last tyre good buddy, its all over fur me, Ive drunk my last slug o bourbon and I've married my last woman. Hell my last marriage was over so quick I hadnt even gotten outside the church before I wuz married agin. Willie good buddy, I am gay."

Willly tears in his eyes from losing such a good buddy, pulled out his portable sawn off shotgun and killed him in a fitting tribute to a life of a man lived amongst men who can only think of being men whilst around other men changin tyres.

We sure gonna miss ya, good buddy.

i sit
the green of the sun
a bastion
a simple movement
ache and ryhme
and then
i whisper
to my goddess
the moon

she never answers
she walks across the sky
regardless of my inquisition
graceful in her oblivious
recanting
of my oblivion
of my saddest heart
of my sorrow
of my desires
of the twisting echos
of a song conjured
on tears and waves
until i sit
and wait
watching
for the green
of the
sun
to emerge
and remind
that all i am
is to
sit
a requiem
of notes
of silence
of white
on white
of black
on black
with grey
as a cat purring

my solitude.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I always

wonder weather

in rain

or shine

if this message

gets through

to that
precious jewel,

falls before

the eyes

of beauty,

or rests

on that

crystaline skin,

a glistening

droplet

reflecting,

magnifying

the very essence

of

u

the intangible parade

of gorgeous flesh

and thought.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

just

when

i feel

the world

has betrayed

my senses

and

i live

for naught more

than the

carriage of air,

a muse

muses,

and my

world

is

restored

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

one day

i will do

wot peeple

imagine

me capable of,

rather

than their

imagination propelling

the crimson transfer,

i may

at least

feel human

for an

hour.

y dont ya

come back

i feel like flyin

y dont ya come

back

i feel like diein

evrything

evrything evrything evrything

evrything evrything

i scream

so much

im hurtin

no one

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

my life is changing

in so many ways

i dont know who

to trust anymore

theres a shadow

running thru my days

like a beggar goin

from door to door

its all too disposable

my life

my freedom

my sense of self

and i wonder

as i sit amongst

the trees of thought

and ponder on freinds

that arent

on those that are

that nothing

is as i make it to be

the fictions

of a stoning

a wall pushed over my sins

and my sins

are a multitude

of never knowing

what i am

or have been

or could be until

i see them reflected backwards

in a frends smile

or tears

and i am that beggar

now moving from

house to house

locking into my own weaknesses

giving play to the frailties

that i wish would

melt into the ground,

that the strength

to wash away my petty traits

is no more present

than the strength

to accept wot is good within

and force it to the surface.

i feel nothing

and then feel the world crumble

on top of me

i open my hands

and try to breath

through my soul,

and find it nothing

but fire

and the embers

hardly bright

hardly perceptable

and i am alone

as i should be

for wot could want

this creature of

torment and pain,

this problematic

forago of

misnomers and lies

of death and kindness

and what i want

is to be swallowed by the sea

and given a second chance

to breathe

a while ago somewhere

i dont know when

i was watching a movie

with a frend i fell in love

with the actress

she was playing a part

i could understand

and the part

i could understand

was how temporal

how transient

how disposable

i am how little

i am

how minute

i feel

how nothing is

as i see

and all i see

is my lie

to myself

that i am

living.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

my head

is full

of the verb

hate

and its all

to do

with a black spot

on my lungs

which needs

filling

with sweet sweet smoke

but me brain sez no

and so

i hate

so my company is

not what

sensible peeple

would

crave

unlike i

craving

a cigar

a cigarello

a cigarette

a gun

to silence

the chirping

of little birds

and wonder

is

why

i am here at all

as there is

no god

only cognizance

and a mirror

to confirm.

work in progress..................

I

dream

of walking

on the

surface

of the sun

and diving

between

the ruptured

tulmult

to swim

its

molten

blazing

core

to share
your soul
without
sharing
your body
is to
glimpse
only the
willowing
fabric
covering,
that which
rests
across
and covers,
however
unconsciously.

to be given

your body

without

your soul

to be given

naught more

than access

to the

brittle crust,

as body

without soul

is a flower

without earth,

in blossom

and beauty,

fleeting,

making

dread

of

eternity.

you can

be burnt

by the sun

without ever

touching

its surface,

you can

only be

consumed

by

plunging

within

its core.

All wars begin with the lie,

that diplomacy

has failed

to see

your

truth.

When I die

on foreign fields,

clawing

blood soaked sand

for policy,

let it be real,

my viens opended

to meaning,

presence

and the hope

that if not tomorrow,

then soon,

change will accompany

that slimmest of realities,

peace

in the cry

of a dripping mother

giving birth

knowing her child

will not sacrifice

these far too few

gasps of air

for a vote

in a

subsidised

cornfield.

When I leave

this life

in a snipers

glass cross,

my red river of existence

sprayed across

my saluting comrades,

let them believe,

as they stare ahead

that the future we all shared

will endure

and prosper

beyond the spin,

the endless empty

posturing

of those who

lied

and branded

my soul

forfeit

for an

ill planned,

ill concieved

illusion.