“Every year it gets a little bit harder to get back to that feeling of when we were fifteen, and we could jump in the river upstream and let the current carry us to the beginning where the river met the sea.” – Josh Pyke (The Summer)

Lewis withdrew himself from the safe confines of his home, leaving behind his reserve and his caution. And he drove. He didn’t know where he was going, and he wasn’t yet sure why, but he did. He drove until his car spluttered and whined in protest. He stopped at a roadside petrol station and refuelled, and then drove on.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, and in the grand scheme of things, did it really matter? Lewis was free. He realised now why he was driving; the long, winding curves of the open road liberated him. It was just him, his wheels, and the road. No deadlines, no bosses, and no routine.
Lewis eventually found himself on a massive cliff, far above the waves below, amidst the coastal beauty of Northern New South Wales, near Byron Bay. He’d been here one before, for a music festival, back when he was young and spontaneous. Everything about the festival spoke of freedom. Drones arrived, and were no longer drones. The music transformed them. They became full of verve and joy, and who knows how many illegal substances. For a weekend, they escaped. Lewis didn’t want to escape for a weekend though. He needed longer. He didn’t know how much, just longer.
And with that, Lewis threw himself from the cliff.

And it was profound. As Lewis fell, he grew. As he plummeted, a part of him was deposited at the top of the cliff, far above him. Just as a part of him had been deposited back home, far behind him.
Lewis hit the water with a massive splash, this splash signalling a changing of the guard. The stresses that had not been left behind as he plunged through the air, now melted away, fading and diluting into the waves around him. Lewis had just shed a skin, and what had emerged was raw and uncensored. He realised that he had been subconsciously waiting for this for the past ten years.

flashbacks
constant flashbacks
his disappointments
your inefficiencies
the taste of his goodbye
versus
the cowardice in your inability
to ignore
to cajole
to wow

split second fallacies
grey mourning skies

the point of no return
will always lie
in what couldn’t be measured
and what didn’t add up

what more will it take
for you to be secure?
what will it take
for her to be implored

what have you
been offering her
what more have you
to offer?

anger-full honest eyes
offered up their tears
grey morning-night
fed her
fears

alone again
rapturously
wicked the thought
unkind the deed

regret.

Director: Matthew Vaughn
Cast: Aaron Johnson, Nicholas Cage, Christopher Mintz-Plasse
Screenplay: Jane Goldman & Matthew Vaughn
Running Time: 117 min
Rating: MA

Superheros, caped crusaders, masked avengers, latex wearing super studs – why is it that these paragons of righteous humanity only exist in our dreams? The main point of Kick Ass is to show us that superheroes don’t exist in our modern world for a very good reason. It is a parody of the insanely popular comic book adaptations that have been bombarding theatres since the release of Spiderman back in 2001. The satirical elements of the film seem to be lost on a large number of critics who have branded the film with all kinds of damaging labels; ‘exploitative’, ‘gratuitously violent’, and ‘politically incorrect’ to name but a few. Of course, Kick Ass is all of these things, but the film has a different motive than your normal run of the mill action flick.

Kick Ass tells the story of Dave Lizewski, an avid comic book fan who wonders why no-one has ever thought of becoming a ’superhero’ for real. The constantly unnoticed and downtrodden Dave decides to do what others only dream of and create a crime fighting alter ego, Kick Ass. Dave soon realises that being a superhero is harder than he thought, especially after only narrowly escaping with his life on many occasions. Dave’s problems escalate when Mafia kingpin Frank D’Amico thinks Kick Ass is behind a slew of recent drug busts that is actually the work of real vigilantes Big Daddy and Hit Girl.

Unlike most comic book adaptations, Kick Ass does not glorify violence. The graphic nature of the fight scenes serve to humanize the actions. They do not appear heroic, just a big bloody mess. The film also explores the consequences of violence. Every time our hero engages in a battle he is beaten to a bloody pulp and only narrowly escapes with his life.

Most of the flack received by the film centre’s around the character of eleven year old, foul mouthed vigilante Hit Girl. Why exactly is it that this character has received condemnation from family groups worldwide, especially since the MA 15+ film has never been marketed as anything less than strictly adult entertainment? Sure, Hit Girl is like a pint sized Rambo, but is she really any more disturbing than the mass murdering, psychopathic child in Orphan? The sociopathic, serial killer played by Macaulay Culkin in The Good Son? A callous, bloodthirsty Kirsten Dunst in Interview with the Vampire? There are countless other examples of child exploitation, but Kick Ass seems to be the only film taking the beating.  The fact that director Matthew Vaughn is making the point that Hit Girl is a product of our increasingly violent culture seems to be lost on most naysayers. He makes the statement that superhero films glorify violence so much that in our society it is perfectly within the realms of possibility for an eleven year old to wish for guns and knives for her birthday.

Kick Ass is a rollicking good farce and anyone who attempts to view it as a straight up action film is going to have trouble. It successfully pokes fun at many generic superhero conventions; the death of a parent, the arrival of a superpower (which in Dave’s case is a slightly heightened ability to take pain due to nerve damage sustained in a fight), the superhero costume ( a green scuba suit which Dave attempts to wear underneath his clothes at all times), the training regime, the nerd boy who likes the popular girl, the showdown and the inevitable sequel setup.

The dialogue is witty and the cast is exceptional. Nicholas Cage gives his best performance in years as Big Daddy, Chloe Moretz almost steals the film as Hit Girl, Christopher Mintz-Plasse brings the laughs as Red Mist and Mark Strong delivers another exceptional villain. The film’s star Aaron Johnson continues to show his versatility as an actor, possessing the humility to make Dave pathetic enough that the audience just can’t help but root for him.

Kick Ass is a unique film that deserves to find a large audience. Here’s hoping that audiences will get past the controversy and be able to view the film for the delightful romp that it is.

FOUR OUT OF FIVE

What do you think models do when they’re off duty? Shop? Party? Not quite.

Many well known, successful models are trading the runway for offices and becoming profitable designers, and none more so than Erin Wasson. The 28 year old classic beauty has been the international face of Maybelline since 2002, and has graced the covers of Vogue, Esquire and Elle, to name just a few. Following the likes of Elle Macpherson and Gisele Bundchen, Erin has joined forces with ‘RVCA’ to bring her intimate knowledge of the fashion world to the Erin Wasson for RVCA collection.

Wasson’s collection showcases everything the typical high-end range usually doesn’t – designs that are low key, and fun but still edgy. A lot of her own attitude comes through in the style of key pieces, from ripped jeans and over sized ‘Keep it Neil’ t-shirts, to ‘Ride Me High’ tops. The collection highlights Wasson’s two best skills, as she unsurprisingly models the designs herself – after all, who else would be better suited to strut her person style?  The line, together with her Low Luv jewellery collection of knuckle rings and tribal necklaces, combine to create the ultimate ‘tough-girl-with-attitude’ look.  

When it comes to supermodel designers, Wasson is definitely one to watch.

Stop me if I’m being alarmist.

Now, I’m usually the first in line to defend personal choice and the diversity of taste, but frankly, I just don’t get it. For one thing, Bieber looks all of twelve!  Where does he get off calling anyone ‘baby’? That people are buying into the pint sized Canadian just confuses me.

Ms. Kardashian’s claim to fame baffles me just as much. According to Wikipedia (a credible source if ever there was one) she’s a ‘celebutante’ – a combination of celebrity and debutante. Wait, what?  Do we really live in a world where there is an actual need for a word like this? This is where reality television has gotten us.

Let’s face it, Kim hasn’t done anything remarkable, she just had the good fortune of coming from a filthy rich family who happened to have their own reality television show. She’s definitely capitalised on that, but it has hardly required any stretch of the imagination on her part.

Still, she’s been lucky, and I won’t hold that against her. No, what bothers me is the idea that someone might actually look up to her, or aspire to be her. It seems like such a shallow aspiration that I just want to cry into my latte.

I’m inclined to blame MTV for the whole thing. Somewhere in the last few years it has just morphed into some ludicrous reality TV love-fest. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a music video on MTV, it must have been somewhere between an episode of ‘My Super Sweet Sixteen’ and ‘The Hills.’ Don’t even get me started on their latest attempt at entertainment, ‘Jersey Shore’. Now there’s a stereotype nightmare, if ever there was one.

Come to think of it, why are people still watching reality television? No really, why? It doesn’t even try for ‘reality’ anymore! I don’t get it, I really don’t.

I’m just terrified of waking up one day to a world overrun with Heidi Montags. No one needs that. But if vacuous spoiled rich kids with shallow dreams are constantly glorified, we’re not exactly giving anyone a fighting chance. There are so many brilliant role models out there – both real and fictional – I just find it so disappointing that it’s always the flaky ones that get all the attention.

Welcome to the age of virtual immortality! Fill in your details, click the ‘I accept the Terms and Conditions’ box without reading the document, hit ‘Sign me up!’ and you are on your way to creating your digital legacy – warts and all.

That’s right, all those naughty pictures you share behind your partner’s back, all those bitchy comments left for faceless people on forums, all those embarrassing status updates will be preserved by the countless parent companies and subsidiaries of the website you just signed up to without reading the Terms and Conditions. But there’s nothing to worry about right? After all, nobody thinks about their digital legacy when they are posting away on Twitter, or writing that blog post about your crap job. That is, of course, until it’s time to apply for a new one…

Are you concerned about what an employer could find out about you?

If you knew how deep they could dig, would you change your online behaviour?

What would it take for you to consciously think about your digital legacy before you hit the submit/publish/post button?

Let’s hear your comments.

The world fell in flavours over her lips, which she used instead of fingertips to define trust.

The route to work divided into Flavours With A Tick (tangy metallic of the guard rail attached to the staircase; sharp screw-up-her-face-flavour of the pedestrian crossing button; bitter promises in the bedroom of her first skim flat white). Flavours To Beware Of came in categories she categorised just so (seventeen salts on the hard currency required for the bus ticket; stale musk on the mouse used by the man in the next cubicle; bitter citrus comedy of overflowing newspapers).

Her man (because she must have had one) used to look at her with one brow lifted while she dressed in the mornings. A quick flick of her tongue, eyes closed, and an ensemble of pleated skirt in deep maroon, dusty peacock blue ruffled blouse with keyhole at the tip of one shoulder, and beads in brilliant aubergine wound around her neck eleven times to stop them dragging on the ground would stare back at him.

I could eat her in that dress, he often thought, or tomorrow’s or yesterday’s.

To her, a banana split of sweet/healthy/heart attack felt like Monday on her calves, but Friday’s demanded something a little more. Intoxicating. Kalamata olives marinated in fresh red chilies accompanied by shiraz deep enough to flow through veins (plunging neckline/highwaistedskirt/shoes to be caught dancing in).

You turned your head after her. Couldn’t help it. Confused, she would part crowded hallways with her cacophony of scents. People melted or moaned loudly at The Stench (beetroot does not go with tuna on workdays), but she never paid them any mind and continued licking the underside of used pens to find which one was hers.

He met her on the footpath (liquorice laced to her thighs/cream dress buttoned to the neck Keeping You Out Today) and bribed her with promises of must-be-experienced gelato combinations for three dollars at the wharf. First there was the part where he muddled her up in the museum of contemporary art – the free exhibitions – her lips fumbling with distraction at the melting green tea. He took her bag (fermented cherries, the kind you find in puddings from the olden days) and they passed ferries.

By the late afternoon she was strung, his marionette, from the ceiling in the centre of the room (there was no place else for dessert). The guests took turns at tasting the spot behind her knee (jasmine tea), her half-chewed fingernails (unsalted cashew nuts), and the braver ones, the full length of her spine (imagination cannot be replaced).

There are things about her he wouldn’t tell. Her secrets laid out, a degustation course for the especially well-bred, while he kept notes on the back of his serviette. It came time to cut her strings when the room was overcome by her lips, all dry and peeling from lack of use.

The world used to fall in flavours over her lips, which she used instead of fingertips to define trust.

What is it that attracts people to trawl this chatroom in the hopes of conversation, when the odds of seeing something you don’t want to see are so high? My flatmate came to an interesting conclusion: “In the end,” she said, “it sounds like everyone’s just honest. There is no room to lie.”

And maybe she’s right.

Chatroulette has a weird polarity of intimacy, yet anonymity, and I think the site’s seemingly simple layout has a lot to do with how people act in that space. It feels like an old-school chatroom, with just a simple text box layout. It inspires wild tales, fake identities, stories which could be yours, but aren’t. For me, it reminds me of a time when I was in high school, exploring the internet for the first time. It brings back memories of exploring the world, making new friends, meeting strangers, trolls, spammers and naughty individuals all at once. While Chatroulette feels like a chatroom, it is also like a Private Conversation you’ve unwittingly stumbled into. It’s a place for wild fancy; a place where rules don’t exist. After all, private messages in chatrooms of old had their own level of fancy.

The two video screens, however, remind you that you’re in your own skin. They totally change the dynamics of the chat; and make the space feel like Skype. It feels like I’m chatting to a best friend whose traveling in Europe, or my mum who (still!) gets a kick out of chatting on Skype. So it brings this warm and fuzzy familiarity, and feeling of safety with it. What happens in this space is between you and the person. It’s not just private; it’s personal.

Chatroulette enforces anonymity with no usernames, yet, because it reminds us both of wild chatrooms and old and the personal space of skype, it creates a very unique environment. If you stumble across someone who wants to have a conversation (and you’re not too shellshocked from the experience of finding someone to converse with), it creates a space open to private conversations, kind of like that D and M you have with a stranger in a bar. You can share bits of your life you never thought to. (In theory, at least.)

On another extreme, Chatroulette pushes our limits. People love to explore the site to see how far others will go. Whether it’s someone dressed in a Batman costume to see how people react, someone creating impromptu songs about the person they end up meeting (see below for this very fine example), or just people creating new and riveting ways to reveal they are not wearing any pants; it’s testing boundaries of people in a very intimate space. It’s digging into seeing what people can take, finding out just what is normal and acceptable.

Chatroulette has been labelled a lot of things. And, I’m not even sure what it is yet, I’m open to discussing what you think this space is – why it draws certain kinds of people or kinds of behaviours.

But Chatroulette, simply, feels like it’s a space for humans to be true. Whether it’s an ugly truth (and, gosh, Chatroulette attracts some ugly truth) or whether it’s an openness to creativity or exploring lives of strangers, it seems to be centred around honesty.

There’s no screename to hide behind. The video is live. The audio is on.

It’s just you. And them.

So, you’re on Chatroulette. And everyone can see you’re a dog. But maybe, on Chatroulette, no one cares?

Other peeps talkin’ bout Chatroulette:
TechCrunch: Chatroulette Is 89 Percent Male, 47 Percent American, And 13 Percent Perverts

The Daily Show: March 4, 2010: Tech-Talch – Chatroulette

Director: Sam Taylor-Wood
Cast: Aaron Johnson, Kristin Scott Thomas, Anne-Marie Duff
Screenplay: Matt Greenhalgh
Running Time: 100 min
Rating: M

Conceptual artist Sam Taylor-Wood has crafted the most entertaining and thought provoking piece of Lennon mythology to date with her feature film Nowhere Boy.

The movie chronicles the adolescent years of John Lennon. Having been brought up by his Aunt Mimi, John’s world is turned upside when his free spirited mother Julia re-enters his life, ripping him open and pulling out his artistry as well as pain, anger and frustration.

A number of films and documentaries have tried and failed to make a definitive statement about John Lennon the human being. The reason why Nowhere Boy is so successful is because we are presented with a complex and multi-faceted young man, one who was a number of things to a number of people, and impossible to pigeonhole.

Based on the novel by John’s sister, Julia Baird, with the script penned by Matt Greenhalgh, Nowhere Boy possesses an enormously strong emotional undercurrent that is missing in many films of the biopic genre. The Lennon legend has risen to almost unparalleled mythical heights within our culture, and Greenhalgh does a superb job of humanising the story, so much that you forget that you are watching a film about a legend in the making, but rather the story of a young boy caught between the women he loves.

The women in question are John’s Aunt Mimi, the ever brilliant Kristen Scott Thomas; and his mother Julia, brought to life in a star making turn by Anne-Marie Duff. Though much of the acclaim seems to be percolating around Duff’s performance, Scott Thomas deserves to be equally praised for making the incredibly complex character of Mimi relatable and sympathetic. In the wrong hands Aunt Mimi could have come across as highly unlikeable considering she can often appear distant and cold, but Scott Thomas juxtaposes these instances with such an understated kindness and warmth that we as the audience realise that Mimi is a very caring person who has the misfortune of finding it almost impossible to express sentimental feelings. On the other end of the spectrum, Julia appears to be everything Mimi isn’t – a free spirit who flouts convention and lives for a good time. Julia is a flirt. She flirts with life, men and even her own son. There is a rather incestuous undercurrent to her and John’s relationship, captured in one instance where she lays on top of him, lost in ecstasy to the tune “I Put a Spell On You”. The scene is uncomfortable, as is many aspects of their relationship.

John Lennon is played by relative unknown Aaron Johnson, mainly associated with his role in Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging. Johnson breaks free from the shackles of his teen pin-up persona and delivers a mature and layered performance worthy of accolades. Johnson fully embodies Lennon’s complexities; he is both good and bad, insecure and arrogant, sensitive and brutal, caring and careless. From Lennon’s wit to his magnetism, pain, anger and sarcasm, Johnson gets it all. Considering that Lennon is one of the most imitated celebrities of our time, Johnson does well to avoid caricature, creating a version of Lennon at his most human. Johnson’s vocal abilities also sound eerily reminiscent of a young Lennon, making him an excellent choice in more ways than one.

Taylor-Wood is definitely a talent to watch as she not only elicits fine performances from her cast but also manages to capture the essence of post war Liverpool in a vivid and imaginative way. Gone are the bleak greys, squalid mean streets, and endless rows of two-up two-down houses that usually characterises any depictions of the area. Instead we are presented with a much more colourful and vibrant picture of Liverpool, a City just beginning to discover the charms of rock and roll. The excitement in the air is palpable.

Nowhere Boy is an absolute gem of a film that will hopefully find the audience it deserves. You’ll laugh, cry and kick yourself for not learning guitar in your youth. Possibly the most touching film of the year, Nowhere Boy is available to rent or buy April 28th.

FOUR AND A HALF OUT OF FIVE

I’d like to introduce you to Jen, our new MobyMag editor! Jen has heaps of experience writing and editing and is pumped to bring you the upcoming issues of MobyMag.

Feel free to drop Jen and email and say hi, or even submit her some work you’ve been dying to share. You can chuck her an email at jen@mymobymag.com or at the good old editor@mymobymag.com

Not only does MobyMag have a new editor who will henceforth take the reigns and be looking after MobyMag, but we have a brand new Facebook Page to go with it – so you can get the latest MobyMag updates when they happen in your Facebook newsfeed.

If you’ve been hanging out for the next submission callout, now’s the time to submit to the next issue of MobyMag. Submit pieces by the 30th to Jen for the next issue.

Don’t forget to check out our new Facebook Page at http://bit.ly/mmagfb

I can’t commit to MobyMag as much as I once could, but I am so excited to see the exciting new direction which MobyMag heads in under Jen’s wing. Give a warm welcome to Jen, drop her a line and say hi!

Love,
Rach.

New Facebook Fan Page: http://bit.ly/mmagfb
We’re on Twitter: twitter.com/mobymag
Submit pieces to Jen: editor@mymobymag.com

Some of our fave pieces:

Write:
Silent Treatment
by Alexandra Hodgson
I rummage for you in old notebooks and boxes. When it’s late, when it’s dark. The grainy dregs of coffee mugs and buttered toast crumbs. Photographs, paintings, sheet music. I turn the fragrant pages of second-hand poetry, expecting to find you worn transparent and preserved inside a cover somewhere like a forgotten flower pressing.
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Rant:
Are you suffering under the illusion of fine?
by Juliet Bathory
I have a confession to make. I haven’t folded my washing all week. My bed isn’t made. My dishes aren’t done. My kids are still running around in their PJ’s at 10:30am on a Sunday morning
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Think:
The Pub With No Cheer
by Kylie Adoranti
On behalf of myself and all the other young people who go out, I would like to thank all the inner-city residents, Police and the Liquor and Gaming Administration Board for killing Newcastle’s night life.
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