I’ve already reviewed this movie. I saw it a couple of months ago in Melbourne and loved it then, just as I loved it now. My friend who lives up here suggested it, and being a few months since I’ve seen it, I was happy to come along to. It was lovely to catch up with her as well.
The movie was just as good on the second viewing. Based on Claire Keegan's novella of the same name, it's the story of a simple man who finds himself standing up for what's right. Cillian Murphy is excellent as Bill, a man with a history which appears buried. He is a family man - a man with a wife and five daughters. A man who becomes at odds with the local convent.
This is a film about understatement. Nothing is said outright, yet every small emotion crosses Murphy's face with clarity. Nothing is said. The crease in his brow and his vacant stare say everything.
On the second watch I picked up a couple of things. I was wandering how they could put Murphy's cheekbones to good use - they're sharp enough to cut glass.
Equally, Emily Watson is terrifying as the Reverend Mother. She's the woman that's the basis of millions of nightmares. She is not a woman of God. She out for herself and sees Bill as a fly to swatted. With his knowledge of what is going on inside the convent, she buys him off in no uncertain terms.
Yet Bill remains a man of principle.
If you haven't read Claire Keegan's works, get to the library/bookshop/ website and look at this master of fiction's novellas. She is amazing.
If you haven't caught the other movie made from Keegan's works - hunt out The Quiet Girl. It's as good as this, if not better.
If you want to learn more about the Church sponsored laundry services run by the nuns and staffed with unwed mothers and "wayward" girls, hunt out The Magdalene Sisters. Hard but essential viewing.
Talking to my friend, she asked when the movie was set. "1950s?" she asked.
"1980s," I replied. "Come on Eileen came out in 1982. Second-year high school."
"Gawd!"
When the dedication at the end of the movie showed on the screen, dedicating it to the 56,000 girls and women who were pressed into working at the laundries, you want to cry.
It's a great film for so many reasons.
But the best of all, there is something magical about sitting out under the sky, watching the geckos run across the screen as the stars inch their way into the trees.
We picked up the car at just gone nine and made our way out to Berry Springs, about 45 minutes' drive out of Darwin, where the three of us paddled around with our pool noodles for nearly two hours.
This has been a strange job. It's the only contract I've had where I've seen most of my workmates in their swimming costumes/bathers/togs. As most of us are in our forties and fifties, this is no mean feat. Also, nobody gives a toss - which is also a good thing. There are a couple of us who are the first in, last out of the pool - that's me. Swimming when you're a bit older is very liberating.
It's definitely the only job where we've had project pool noodles. These reside in one of the managers offices and under their desk. I went to collect the pool noodles yesterday afternoon. Some of the project team were in the test lab when I went in, and I was spring, walking out with three pool noodles under my arm. Immediately, I was transported back to my childhood, fronting up to a neighbour's place, asking if I could use the pool. One of my colleagues giggled at me."Look at you with your pool noodles... you look happier than a pig in muck." I was.
You can see that pool noodles make us 50 somethings very happy.
You can feel the determination as we went down to the waters. Pool noodles in tow.
And you get down to these warm waters and that little bit of flotation makes everything so much better.
I'm thankful we got there early - like just before 10. We had the bottom pool nearly to ourselves. Just floating about, putting the world to rights, not having to be in work. Bloody marvelous it was. The minor sunburn, not so much, but that's nothing some moisturiser and a long swim in the very cold hotel pool won't fix.
Lunch was had at one of the pubs at Humpty Doo.
Then we went out to Fogg's Dam - a nature reserve which came from some guy called Fogg, in the fifties, who thought he could grow rice up here in the Top End. The scheme was an abject failure, but what is left is an incredible wildlife reserve. You drive across an embankment to a car park. On one side you find a mangrove area, filled with lily pads and water birds. On the other side, there are wild boars, buffaloes and more birds. It's amazing. It would be wonderful to be there at dawn, just to see the birds. It's somewhere I'd love to go again.
But the highlight of the day was the crocodile. In the wild.
Driving over the dam wall, we saw a car sitting in the middle of the road.
"What's this idiot doing?"
"Taking photos of the birds?"
"Who knows?"
It wasn't a bird they were looking at.
More than likely, it was the two-meter saltwater crocodile sunning itself on the road.
Crocodiles are freaky enough at the best of times.
When they're about five meters away, only separated by the door of the rented Haval you're in - yeah... nah...
Mind you, like most wildlife, if you leave them alone, they ignore you.
Still. They're even more ugly than huntsman spiders. And deadlier.
After taking a few photos, we drove past very slowly, as not to disturb it.
It got the adrenaline going. Just seeing one of these beasts in the wild, even a little one, was amazing.
Thankfully, it had slithered off back from where it once came by the time we drove back.
In all, it was a fantastic day out with great company. You can't ask for more.
Today, in Darwin, I did something I've never done before. My colleague and I took to the bus. We got on the bus and went to Parap Markets, which are great. Did some shopping for souvenirs, then got on the bus home.
In Darwin, the buses are free.
And despite everything we'd heard, it was a good experience. Mind you, this was 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning and we were on with lots of other tourists.
I wouldn't take the bus after dark.
But it was pointed out to me that the 109, my tram route in Melbourne, has its moments, this was just the same - only free.
Anyway, that's today's adventure. Tomorrow we're going about outside of Darwin, picking up a hire car at 9 am and seeing where the wind takes us.
At the moment, as I have access to cable because I'm living out of a hotel I'm watching all sorts of fun things. I spent the afternoon watching Michael Portillo going around Scotland on a train. And now, I'm watching the 90's version of the movie, Sabrina. Good, fluffy stuff to watch in a warm, dry Darwin night.
A. Audio: What are you listening to?
I'm listening to audio books, but I'll talk about that later. The last song I listened to was Skunk Anansie's Weak. I was in a shop talking to the proprietor. We got talking about her kids, who are called Mowgli and Anansi. I could place Mowgli, being from The Jungle Book, but Anansi? I asked if she named her daughter after a 90's alternative rock band. She said no, she was named after a spider god. I introduced her to Skunk Anansie, the band. It was pretty good. (See the song of the day)
B. Book: What are you reading?
On audiobook, I've just started Jodie Picoult's Mad Honey. It's fine. I preferred Ann Napolitano's Hello Beautiful, that just finished, but it's going to be fine.
On paper, I've just started reading Olivie Blake's Alone With You in the Ether. I've really like what I've read so far.
I’ve stumbled across a show, which I believe is on one of the streaming services I don’t have. It’s called Mix Tape. Unfortunately, I came into this at the end of the third episode, so I’m going to have to work out how I can watch the rest of this. Regardless, the concept of a mix tape - it's got me thinking. The youth of today do not know the importance of this small piece of plastic which populated the lives of Gen-X teens.
I mean, how do you get to know somebody if you cannot hear what they’re thinking through music? I remember making mix tapes tapes in my youth. I remember receiving mixtapes in my youth. I’m sure, if I still had a tape recorder and those cassettes, I would still be listening to them.
Next types put me onto things like the joys of people like Rodriguez, Johnny Clegg and many other artists of the 80s, many of whom were South African, who I would’ve never heard of if they weren’t put onto said mix tapes.
And there is no romance in a playlist.
At least a mixed tape was something physical, even it's successor, the CD has some sort of permanence, opposed to a playlist which goes out there in the affair and sits around on Spotify doing nothing (And what if, like me, you don’t have a Spotify account? And yes, I know that I am a bit of an enigma with this, but like not getting an air fryer, I don’t see the point and there are other things out there that do the job.)
Here is a question. If you were getting to know somebody now, and you were asked to make them a mixtape, what would you put on there? How would you tailor this list of songs? Which era would you focus on? How confident would you be that this person was still your friend after listening to this list of songs? What would you like that person to discover about you through your music?
It’s just an interesting list of questions. Next tapes used to be so much of our lives, back in the day. How can the youth of the day feel complete When I have never had to compose a digital list on a piece of magnetise plastic, often waiting near a radio for a song to come on. Will they ever experience that sort of anticipation, or regret when an ad cuts through the song?
How do they get to know their friends? For without music who are we?
I'm going to ponder this and maybe write about it tomorrow - for anything is better than writing about Revenue functions and the role of the SDC marker on customer accounts.
Why is it, when you’re not feeling quite right you return to childhood memories to get yourself better?
After the flight from hell on Sunday night, sitting next to this person who coughed all the way to Darwin, I think my body is waging war with some errant bug. I’m not sick, but I’m not feeling on top form. So I’ve been trying to do everything right. Drinking lots of water, taking my vitamins, giving lots of rest, eating healthy, and taking the Panadol when things are getting a little bit out of hand. It’s not helping that I’m stuck in air-conditioning about 23 hours a day.
Often, those childhood remedies appear to help. Toast and vegemite is often the first thing you'll eat after having an upset stomach. Flat Woodies lemonade is wonderful for dicky tummies as well - but you can only get Woodies lemonade in Adelaide - and it is still the best. It's not too sweet.
With colds, flu and general aches and pains, there's all sorts of things that can help.
But what makes me feel better than anything else?
Butter Menthols.
They’ve been around since I was a child. As far as I’m concerned there is no better throat lozenge and pick me up, not that they’re really a cough lolly. They're really just a souped-up butterscotch, and that’s probably why I like them. There's just enough menthol in them to coat the throat
For the last two days I’ve made my way to chemist warehouse to pick up supplies, you know, a spare pack of Panadol, some Betadine throat gargle, zinc and Echinacea tablets, all hoping to stay off the dreaded lurgy.
But I think it’s the butter menthols that making me better.
I think another early night, lots of fluids and keeping on with this regime and I’ll be right in no time.
