Lena, you see, works at the wine-producing offshoot of the Walker family business. She’s been having it off with handsome Tommy Walker (Balthazar Getty) since his adored wife went home to mommy, blaming him for the death of one of their twins, a decision they made together, as viewers would recall.
But wifey has come to her senses and Lena has shifted to troubled, recovering addict and war-injured Justin. So far, so soapy, you think? Well, to a point.
The terrific thing about B&S is that we know more about the characters’ lives than they do. Justin doesn’t know Lena has been diddling his brother. And Tommy doesn’t know she is diddling Justin.
This sense of being ahead of the revelations for the characters leads to some juicy ironies, most uncommon in American soaps, er, dramas.
It works best with the queen of adultery, still the series’ most interesting character, Holly Harper (Patricia Wettig), who works with Tommy in the Walker wine business.
Holly bore Walker patriarch William an illegitimate child, Rebecca, who strives to integrate herself, as a legitimate half-sister, into the already outsized Walker clan.
Lena works with Holly and Tommy, so the knowingness that viewers share with Holly, who sees all between Lena, Tommy and Tommy’s wife Julia (Sarah Jane Morris), is delicious.
Brothers & Sisters is at its best when it strives to integrate unusual elements into the Walker clan (and the show), such as adultery and its consequences, through the generations, and the troubled sexual and romantic life of gay Walker brother Kevin, played with terrific wit and sure-footed self-confidence by Matthew Rhys.
It’s at its worst when it falls into quirky urban neuroticism, which seems to be the strong suit of mother Nora (Sally Field) and sister Kitty (Calista Flockhart). Tonight there’s way too much of the latter as Kitty and senator Robert McCallister (Rob Lowe) tie the knot. You’ll wonder if you haven’t flicked back in time to Flockhart as that notorious queen of quirk, Ally McBeal.
LARISSA DUBECKI
Madonna’s latest offering leaves listener pondering: Just because she can, does it mean she should?
Say what you will about Madonna’s music; she continues to be a master—or perhaps that should be mistress—semiotician from the Benny Hill school of innuendo.
The title of her latest album, Hard Candy, refers to both her yoga-buffed body and the self-belief that she remains a scorching sexual proposition, a stance furthered by the lyrics to the single “Candy Shop”: “I’ll be your one stop/ candy store/ lollipop/ have some more/ my sugar is raw/ sticky and sweet.”
Clearly, the near-saturation level of global recognition she enjoys is not based on her wit, but Madonna has other claims to fame. Few other 49-year-old women, for example, would consider wearing an album cover outfit consisting of little more than a black swimsuit, thigh-high leather boots and an ecstatic expression.
Fewer still could boast a career spanning 26 years, or that each new album release is a keenly anticipated event—although her status is based less on the quality of her musical output and more on her infamous talent for reinvention.
She has gone from the rebellious Catholic schoolgirl of Like a Virgin to cowgirl (Music), urban guerilla (American Life) and purple-leotard-wearing disco princess (Confessions on a Dancefloor).
Hard Candy, her 11th album of original material, which is released in Australia today, doesn’t disappoint on that count. Hip hop–influenced R&B is the flavour du jour. Corralled for the project were Justin Timberlake, who co-wrote five of the songs and sings on four, plus top-shelf R&B producers Pharrell Williams and Timbaland.
As the world’s highest-selling female recording artist told this month’s Vanity Fair of working with the hottest songwriters and producers: “I needed to be inspired and thought, well, who’s making records I like? So I went, I like that guy and I like that guy.”
The Material Girl’s music is in many ways immaterial to her career, but with the artist turning 50 in August, Hard Candy is in many ways a stab at ongoing relevance, despite her quite believable promise that “I can go on and on”, on a track called “Heartbeat”.
The trouble is that, while her longevity has been based on an almost uncanny ability to plunder subcultures and turn them into mainstream trends, Hard Candy comes across as a thinly veiled attempt to keep up with an already forward-thinking pack of R&B-flavoured artists including Gwen Stefani, Christina Aguilera and Nelly Furtado.
It is unlikely to tempt the thirtysomethings who pester wedding DJs to play “Into the Groove”. Nor is it going to impress children who associate Madonna with their parents’ vinyl collection, despite “Four Minutes to Save the World” giving the impression she threatened Timberlake with an electric cattle prod left over from the “American Life” video to repeat her name over an insistent beat.
Elsewhere, Kanye West pops in for a spot of self-aggrandising rapping on “Beat Goes On”, while Madonna shares her insights about how you don’t have to be rich and famous to be good (“Dance 2Nite”), and, in “Incredible”, we discover how great her husband, British film director Guy Ritchie, is in the sack (“Sex with you is incredible … metaphysical,” she warbles).
Hard Candy is no answer to the retro-disco pop of 2005’s Confessions on a Dancefloor.
Those who fail to find any relevance in the Madonna juggernaut may be left posing this question about the desperation faintly perfuming her Hard Candy Gucci-does-dominatrix image, and her latter-day music: Just because she can, does it mean she should?
MARIEKE HARDY
A time to repent: Big Brother’s over
So the comely goons have packed away their wee bathing costumes and mystifying array of headwear for the year and the Gold Coast compound has been disinfected and bulldozed or whatever it is that happens to the Big Brother house once its dizzy half-dressed residents stumble into the wider world.
And those of us who have bothered to catch more than one episode of the series can finally relax/repent. Bless me Father, for I have sat through BB 2007 in its entirety and, try as I might, I can’t seem to wash the blood from my hands.
For all its hinted at glamour, its conveyor belt of grinning wholewheat dill pickles, its comfortingly inane tasks, the ’07 series just didn’t sparkle. Even Mama Killeen was looking tired and irritable this year, presumably biting the heads off a few bats backstage before prowling out to ensnare a hapless halfwit in her verbal net and relieve them of their lifeblood.
Watching to see which terrified assistant slipped up with their autocue work each week and faced the poisonous glare from her laser eyes (I’m convinced she sleeps upside down or in some kind of futuristic ice chamber) was a mild diversion from the weekly tedium of feigning excitement over evictions, but not enough.
Everyone involved with the show seemed bored by the concept, the routines. How were the rest of us simple-minded fools supposed to get on board for our dose of cheesecore television when our hosts couldn’t even bother getting off the couch to greet us?
“What Big Brother promises, he delivers,” we were told via thundering voice-over in the weeks preceding lift-off. If a subdued mob of dullards treading water for 100 days and barely mustering the energy for a few limp rounds of Marco Polo in the pool was one of the original items on the “must have” agenda, then BB has certainly come through with the goods.
Whether the disappointingly tepid choice of housemates was simply a reaction to last year’s Turkey Slap incident (there was something privately enjoyable about watching Helen Coonan repeatedly use those words in Parliament, wasn’t there?) or—frighteningly— Australia has just milked its supply of ambitious dumbbells dry, the show failed to produce a character who set us alight. Where was our defiant Merlin, our adorably thick Reggie, our politically dynamic (swoon) Lefty Tim?
Last Monday’s Final Eviction Cashback Bonanza Johnny Casino Goodtimes was memorable mostly for the fact that it went about 18 years over schedule and several of the housemates waiting to be interviewed by Big Brother crossed over into mid
dle age during the course of the program.
A limp, drawn-out affair that proved a sadly fitting climax for a series that failed to set the nation’s texting teens on fire, it ambled from forgettable one-on-ones with friends and family members, to some of the most awkward time-filling since Molly Meldrum desperately attempted to subdue a rather refreshed Iggy Pop on Countdown.
Let’s face it, when even knuckle-dragging truckie Travis cottons on that the producers have run out of material and are informing their host to just “tread water”, you ain’t fooling anybody.
Vox pops with the crowd fared little better—there’s only so many times you can watch Mr Gold Coast Mike Goldman lean into a terrified-looking child and ask them who they think will win before you become sorely tempted to go do rum shooters at the pub instead.
Monday’s other two standout moments involved Gretel being hit in the head by a rubber chicken thrown by a toothsomely imbecilic ninny named Bodie (police are yet to find his remains, though judging from the murderous expression on Killeen’s face post-collision there wouldn’t have been much left for the crows to pick over) and a cheerily half-baked pantomime performed by the housemates that was so utterly horrifying I have written a strongly worded letter to my local MP demanding all involved be lined up and shot.
From what I witnessed through my self-imposed finger jail, the piece was supposed to be some kind of cheeky, self-reverential knees-up romp but in actuality was more excruciatingly embarrassing than having a naked sauna with your uncle.
Anyway, in the long run, I know, I know … you’re right—it’s Big Brother.
Me sitting here complaining about the lack of sexy zing in this particular reality television show is like turning up at Mardi Gras and musing aloud that there seem to be rather a lot of homosexuals in attendance. You know what you’re signing up for when you throw yourself at the mercy of Gretel and co.
I only hope that next year they manage to relocate their mojo and give us sinners something worth repenting for.
MARIEKE HARDY
Lashings of lust curved up by Nigella
I get the sneaking suspicion—and I’m quite happy to be proven wrong here—that a large portion of the sisterhood isn’t all that keen on Nigella Lawson. We like food, certainly. Some of us are also partial to boobies, and innuendo, and ladies with big, round bottoms, but even then Nigella seems to make selected members of the wymmyn’s network slightly suspicious.
Perhaps it’s the chocolatey vowels and habit of rolling herself all over the preparation space in a fashion that would be considered deeply unhygienic by most food and safety officers. Perhaps it’s the overly posh “grahnd piahno and plahstic bahgs” business. It could even be the high-waisted trou. Most of all, though, I’m guessing what many folk get their knickers slightly twisted about is the heavy lashings of sauce. And I’m not referring to the lady’s condiments pantry.
The unadulterated in-your-face smorgasbord of sexuality—for let us not pretend for a moment Nigella Feasts is anything but—is on display from the opening credits. A pair of lusty red animated lips opens up and makes good work of a glistening cherry. A curvaceous lemon is lustily sliced in two. A line of asparagus spears stand firm and erect, presumably awaiting a thorough blanching.
There’s absolutely no escaping the orgiastic celebration of pulsating lust. Even in moments of idle chitchat Nigella sounds as though she’s moments away from opening the door to a team of rowdy sailors looking for rumpo and giving them a full oil and lube. “I find it really … hard …” she breathes, gazing longingly into the lens, before throwing in as an almost whispered verbal postscript, “… to zest citrus fruit”. “OOOOH, JUICY JUICY!” she climaxes later still, when a wayward lime threatens to drench the camera crew with its pulpy innards. By the time she gets elbow-deep into kneading some raw lamb mince you’ll be forced to cover the eyes of your children and lead them from the room with firm instructions to go directly to bed with a cold wash cloth. Why Nigella doesn’t just cut out the middleman and strip naked while pounding the mince into submission with her buttocks is beyond me. At the very least it would lay down a not uninteresting gauntlet to Kylie Kwong.
Anyway, all that innuendo and trite “tee hee, we’re so naughty in the kitchen together” business shouldn’t work, it really shouldn’t. It’s too needy; too in-your-face and wanting to be fondled, like your year 11 art teacher who perhaps shouldn’t be let loose around teenage boys after one too many rum babas at the school formal. Who among us not attending Sex Addicts Anonymous actually describes yoghurt as “voluptuous”, or employs the idiotic term “stir as if you meant it”? I wanted to write Lawson off as an oversexed dandy with a bitching shelf and leave her to her sticky, dollybird kitchen and seductively shiny accoutrements. I wanted to denounce the lame celebrity chef phenomenon and turn my back on school marm-ly British femmes with wealthy husbands and a penchant for nosh. But I couldn’t.
Oh lordy, I submitted. Completely. Before 10 minutes had passed in last week’s Lebanese feasting episode, I was helplessly drawn in. By all of it. Her sharp, delectable nose, the way she fondled her aubergine. I’ve never wanted to be a portion of aubergine so much in my life, not counting the time I accidentally swallowed a tablet of dishwashing powder and thought my name was Vanguard the Invincible for three days. Nigella’s perfect pink fingers, and the way she picked at pinenuts, or sifted “fat flakes of salt”, absolutely did my head in. By the time she took her perky woven basket and strode off to the market to buy pistachios I was ready to chase her along the street and climb on for a patootie ride like Robert Crumb. She simply reduces the viewer to the most base of emotions—lust, hunger, the urge to take a sizeable bite from her backside. I have no idea how. I can’t cook to save my life and have absolutely no interest in learning, and even still I plan to tune in to Nigella Feasts until the day I die.
It’s just that she’s so deliciously plummy. The cool, collected kitchen, the blush of peachy V at her decolletage, the milky British sunlight setting her wicked self aglow as she artfully creates gastronomic warfare. She’s prim and proper and “let’s all have a jolly nice afternoon playing hockey” while simultaneously undressing celery sticks with her eyes. It’s like being tied up with leather straps and flogged by Enid Blyton.
So forgive me for capitulating to what is essentially a cheap grab at the audience groin. I’m base and repulsive, I know. The question begs asking, though—if the Nigella Feasts producers are going to push this panting, licky-licky she-beast upon us in such blatantly rabid style, why not go the whole hog and dress her in a pair of polka-dot knickers and sequinned nipple tassels? I’d tape every episode.
God, she’s fantastically obscene. Someone come and hose me down; I’m on fire like Bruce Springsteen self-immolating.
GARRY WILLIAMS
Interview with Ja’mie King
It’s been a big year at Summer Heights High for Ja’mie King— but that doesn’t mean she can’t wait to leave the povvos behind again …
Q: How has the Summer Heights High experience been for you?
A: When I look back at what I’ve achieved I’m SO blown away. Making friends with the hottest girls in year 11, getting a year 7 boyfriend, dumping him, being President of the SRC, the fashion parade, formal, going out with a lesbian. It’s been an incredible experience. The whole school is going to be SO lost without me.
Q: Do you feel pressure to look hot all the time?
A: I have natural hotness so I don’t feel pressure because I’m basically what I call “Born Hot”.
Q: Why did you pick this dress?
A: It was designed to show off my assets: arse, legs and face and enhance my boobs and make them appear bigger than they really are. I looked into getting breast implants for the formal, but there’s a six-week recovery period so I couldn’t.
Q: Do you have your eating disorder under control?
A: Yes. I only starve for events now. Like dates, formals, school photos. Two or three days without food prior to
an event can totally improve skin and body tone.
Q: Going to the formal with a lesbian when you’re straight sends a message of acceptance. Was that the intention?
A: Not really. It was more the shock factor. And lesbians are really in at the moment and I always like to be on top of fashion and trends.
Q: Do you see yourself as a role model for teenagers?
A: People always say I am and I can see why. It’s so random, but I’ve got this secret dream that all teenage girls in the world become just like me. It would be an amazing world, wouldn’t it?
Q: The girls at SHH seemed to worship you. Why was that?
A: I think public school girls are always fascinated by private school ones. It’s like if you drove a crap car and like a Rolls-Royce parked next to you. You would totally want to check it out.
Q: Are you going to miss SHH?
A: As if. I don’t want to be a bitch, but why would I miss sitting in a fibro classroom with a bunch of skanks and no airconditioning listening to a teacher who was too crap to get a job at a private school? Seriously.
ANDREW HANSEN, DOMINIC KNIGHT, CHAS LICCIARDELLO, JULIAN MORROW AND CRAIG REUCASSEL
The Best Australian Humorous Writing Page 12
