uroskin

It was strange that in the midst of an environmental disaster and resource wars everybody drives these gas guzzling vehicles. Oil was obviously not in short supply. I suppose the pyrotechnics would have been limited if everybody was on push bikes. Also, there were no non-whites in the cast, as far as I could see under the dusty and pasty faces. Was there any reason for this, apart from appealing to adolescent white males who are into heavy metal culture? And there was no sex, no nudity, no kissing. Just violence. The would-be censors might have to revise the "sex & violence" meme. Plenty of body fluids though - blood, spit, breast milk - but strangely enough, no semen. There was a caesarian birth but the actual scene was not shown - I guess some things were a step too far for its target audience! (The umbilical cord twirling doctor was the obviously token gay character in the film).

Feature films set in English public schools are strangely timeless: their look, their feel, their atmosphere (and if they were in Odo-rama, probably their smell) are all very similar and, of course not forgetting the hazing, caning, abuse, humiliation, hierarchy, class structure and repression of all sexual orientations - all aimed at transmitting social strictures and structures to the next generation. Lindsay Anderson's "If... " doesn't depart from that template but the difference is that all those strictures are the film's main subject rather than its background to another story (as in, for instance "Another Country"). Malcolm McDowell's character resistance is existential rather than political and there was something marvellously 1960s about the movie, with its trippy escape into town ("out of bounds!"), street theatre and a joyride on a stolen motorbike, the hook up with the cafeteria girl and the dreams of free love. The ending is a little disappointing due to the cop-out into violence - the Sixties' hedonist culture did at the time reverberate through even the stodgiest of social institutions, for a while at least. The film switches back and forth between colour and black & white film stock, which gives it an alienating and interesting feel. (Prosaically, this was due to budget restrictions forcing some scenes to be filmed in black and white for technical reasons). Marvellous sound track with Sanctus from Missa Luba.

Pasolini's "Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom" is available on YouTube, without English subtitles, but that doesn't really matter, it works as a silent movie and if you want to know the story, read the Marquis de Sade's book which inspired it. It's a tough film to watch and is the complete opposite of his previous bawdy and fun stuff like the Decameron. I'm not sure whether the transposition of the 'story' from absolutist France of De Sade to a latter-day Italian fascist mini-state works well. Stripping down the nature of power to torture, degradation and sex is a little limiting in its social criticism of the positions of Duke, Banker, General and Bishop - and the linking of fascism with capitalism. What it does well is the equal opportunity in degrading the sexes. No sexism here. Considering it a porn or horror movie is doing the movie a disfavour. Recommended to watch once (I don't think many will feel the need to watch it again) but do read De Sade's 120 Days of Sodom, a hilarious book.

An amusing TV series sees British comedian and wit Paul Merton travel around Europe in a series reminiscent of Eurotrash, without that series' knowing camp but with a general ignorance of things continental as is wont of Englanders who haven't travelled much.

Any prejudices of Germany as humourless, boring or fascistic were instantly removed the moment he arrived and by everybody he met there, and with good reason. Even I had to chuckle at the "Appelsaft" shouting anti-fascist demonstrators, and next time I'm in Germany I want to do some "nacktivist" stuff too (nudist activities such as bowling and hiking - the only stuff I got to do recently was just the sex) or just stay in a prison converted into a hotel, with guard/staff as optional extra. The beer tub treatment for your skin (and a kip in the hay after) had to be seen to be believed and wouldn't miss being appealing to any beer-swilling Brits.

Not sure whether the rest of the series will live up to the marvellous fun in Germany, but I'm willing to be surprised too.

A small British picture, basically a two-hander featuring two gay, non-young, non-twink, non-perfect, provincial city dwellers, but the subject matter is vast: you meet the man of your dreams but what do you do next when you cannot hold on to him forever? The chance encounter of love is played out in a naturalistic, conversational style - and there is a lot of talking in this film! - and probably intimately recognisable to all of us who have gone out on an evening and got more than what we had bargained for. It is almost an updated "Brief Encounter", complete with train stations, trams and bicycles (no cars feature as props or settings) but with loving, understanding friends and (very 21st Century that) facial hair. Saying goodbye to the love of your life (or of the weekend) in a train station is dramatically and terribly romantic. Yup, been there, done that before, but lived to tell and fondly remember the tale.

When I was a young whippersnapper, the youth club where I hung out at offered a course in modern dance, just for fun, mind you, not to eventually do a public performance. My good friend Riet was the course leader and I remember (this is about 35 years ago) her talking about this German choreographer woman Pina Bausch. The quite physical intensity of the weekly course I still enjoy having taken part in because it was just such enormous fun to try and express emotions into dance. I particularly remember trying out falling in love with a bare wall and how to explain that to it. Ms Bausch sadly passed away two years ago just before a film about her work and life was about to start shooting by Wim Wenders. I watched the resulting documentary at our local marvellous little Waiheke cinema and the focus is very much on her troupe, with only token but poignant archive material of her choreographing and dancing in some of her productions. Had she lived longer the film would have had very different focus, more about her, how she worked and where she got her artistic creativity from. But as it is, her dancers explain what it was like working with her, for her and how she got into their heads (and they into hers). A raft of extracts from her productions gives an excellent overview and feel for what she did, but there is very little background information on how any of the dance theatre pieces were developed, which leaves you a bit baffled if you have no idea who she is and why she is a pivotal figure in modern dance and theatre. Some is quite hard to watch (some critics say her work has to be experienced rather than watched) but I thought several pieces were exhilarating and I would have loved to join in, especially "Vollmond". I must add that a fantastic guest role in the documentary is performed by the Wuppertal Schwebebahn. It's such a cool piece of public transport kit!

BBC Knowledge is re-running a 1998 series by Louis Theroux in which he goes Gonzo-style into 'weird' subcultures. It makes a worthwhile change from the standard fly on the wall stuff. He's filming openly, to the point of even participating in the main activity reported on. There is no subterfuge or undercover try-to-catch-them-out but he leaves it, thankfully, up to the viewer to ponder the lifestyles of the strange and unknown The episode that caught my attention was about the Los Angeles porn industry, then (1998) in the midst of an HIV scare (several performers had been recently diagnosed and caused shock waves through the industry with many reconsidering their careers) but not yet fully affected by the online free-for-all (performing and downloading) which has made the current business model basically untenable. But what we learn from the film is that it's an excellent short term money spinner for performers despite the risks to your physical and mental health. The glaring difference with the real world - speaking in terms of male and female pay rates in doing the same job - is that men earn far less than women and actually have a much harder (to excuse a pun) job than their female co-stars: keeping wood and delivering the money shot after a long day filming on a set with many staff around and when many of your co-performers may not be of your sexual taste is admirable. The attrition rate mentioned by the producers and casting agents, who, of course, make the most money out of your talent, is not surprising. A few vignettes stuck in my mind: the English girl who preferred to work in American porn instead of Europe because "she doesn't get bruised or injured here"; the male former Airforce performer who looked genuinely puzzled when asked what he was going to do if porn didn't work out in the future (there is never a plan B in America, it seems); the sheer stress on all the males to perform - and you got to feel sorry for those gay-for-pay straight dudes who have their minds and genitals messed with.

Trying to portray ancient, non-Christian cultures on screen in this far more tight-laced (despite all the rantings about too much sex and violence) cultural environment of contemporary television is fraught with difficulties for producers aiming for accuracy rather than pandering towards modern prejudices. Let's look at one offering.

Spartacus: Gods of the Arena is the prequel to Spartacus: Blood and Sand and much has been made - nay, it is even the crux of its marketing appeal - about the amount of blood-soaked violence and sweaty sex featured. And it is true that the portrayal of blood, in all that slow motioned slicing, stabbing, carving and flaying of the unfortunate humans on the receiving end, is high on the fetish scale. To defend yourself or kill your opponent in Roman times you needed to be prepared to get your hands bloody (and it teaches all those modern gun-nuts how real men used to do it without access to 2nd Amendment firearms), have enough strength, moral inclination and willpower to drive that steel into another human body, and be ready to deal with the splattering and gurgling consequences. And that's what we viewers have to deal with too: the sight and sounds of an arc of blood flying slo-mo through the air, a standard image sequence in each episode, has all the qualities of a moneyshot. And that is my main criticism with Spartacus: I wish there be as much attention paid to visual and aural detail in the sex scenes as there is in the gore. The sex is portrayed as coy: genitals are barely glimpsed (certainly no hard-ons), the writhing only worthy of a standard soft porn movie, the throes of passion look choreographed and determined by lighting directors and makeup artists - you need to almost put it on fast forward to get some earthy grunt and sweaty action. In all, if you're going to make a bodily fluid film can we please have less blood and more semen?

UKTV has started screening a terrific cop series here in New Zealand. Inspector George Gently has the appearance of a run-of-the-mill detective series but its setting in 1960s rural England makes it interesting. The death penalty was still in force and enforced, which makes a conviction for murder a risky affair for your own life. The lack of modern gadgetry in crime solving such as DNA testing, cellphones and computer databases are still decades away. It makes for so much better drama when it is all about the relationships of the protagonists, the criminal motives and the psychological games played between the 'cops and robbers'. Hence the popularity of series like Cracker, Inspector Morse and (even) Waking The Dead.

Male homosexuality was verboten at the time but that didn't make it invisible or unknown and it featured as a crucial subplot in the first episode. The hotel lobby scene, gay "Brief Encouter"-esque in feel if not linked to the reality of the scene, turned the frisson between the closet and the contemporary illegality into a marvellously subtle criticism of the law's nonsense. The waiter, in the briefest of appearances, gave a brilliant performance on how to skirt the sensitivity of the subject professionally. And Martin Shaw's face was priceless at the hapless Bacchus. "I'm not like that, I'm married!" still echoes down the ages as the truth that dares not speak out.

What I also liked (in episode zero at least) was that despite the psychotic revenge binge the Philip Davis character embarked on, the actual violence or gore was barely shown and the horror was implied off-screen, which makes it a very classical Greek-style drama.

Men and their dicks have the most intimate of relationships but, like in most relationships, it can all go horribly wrong and divorce isn't really an option unless you are a transsexual, of course. The Documentary Channel showed "My Penis and Everyone Else's" exploring the vast terrain of the fixations men have with their dicks: whether it's the wrong length, girth, shape, colour, in bad working order or laughed at by women. Comparing cocks isn't really an option in the straight world and mental health issues are being created by the distorted lenses used in pornography showing unrealistic but aspirational sizes, girths and tumescence. Competition between men is fierce in the sexual arena and it's made even more relentless by the perceived female judgments behind their backs. Somebody should tell those smirking women that it's not the cock that's too small but their vagina that's too big. It would save a lot of male heartache and anxiety. Again unfortunately, this was a very hetero-centred programme and forgot to draw on the vast real-life experience of gay men in penis sizes and shapes and not only from pornography. Gay men of course have size issues too, hence the half-jokingly gay male dual typology of size queens or liars. Not that that encourages gay men to talk about their dicks either but at least they are not as ignorant as the males in the film at the (inspired) exhibition of photographs of anonymous (flaccid) cocks collected via Snap Your Chap. I was surprised that no-one picked up on the fact that flaccid cocks are really a bad indicator of how big they can grow and thus shouldn't be a worry (or as Gay Banker said he'd rather have a hard one than a large one). But the revealing thing was that it only took a few pints of beer at the exhibit to get the boys talking and eventually snapping their chappies too for an instant polaroid addition to the exhibition. The one thing that did annoy me was the cod historical lesson in classical Greek sexual aesthetics. Greek marble statues of boys and men have all small penises but you cannot conclude therefore that Greek people ignored genitalia. The aim of the statues was to portray the ideal body, i.e. its athleticism and muscle definition. Since the penis isn't a muscle and therefore can't be worked on at the gymnasium, having big cocks on statues would only detract from the real object of beauty: those shoulders, those arms, those pecs, those legs, that six-pack, that arse! And pointing out that satyrs and 'uncivilised' creatures were portrayed as having big cocks just means that as long as you have big one you don't need to be beautiful to be successful in the sexual arena. A truth still valid today.

It's not only the western economy that is in a funk these days, please spare a thought for the creative, poor, but good-looking young men who, in their ephebic years, could always rely on making much more money by getting their clothes off and getting it on than working in a dead-end job, but now, thanks to the creative destructive forces of the internet, file sharing and sheer ease of satisfying customer demand for fresh faces, the economics of the porn industry have collapsed under the weight of over-supply of films, easy DIY marketing and zero distribution costs. A Finnish documentary, Poikien Bisnes (All Boys), seen on NZ's Documentary Channel the other night, was a worthwhile attempt to trace the gay porn business in Central Europe, especially its move eastwards by producers searching for ever cheaper models. If you have been fed up with all that relentless Czech and Hungarian twink for the past decade, you are not alone! But the expose of the sheer exploitation by mostly foreign (German, American) porn producers - inevitably always sleazy old men - of any hairless, white, uncut, well-hung young man with a swimmer's physique, is the film's major strength. One of them proudly told us that his was the first full length bareback movie which heralded the condom-less trend in porn production, and which has led to a general disregard for the health and safety of his 'employees'. And then he had the hypocritical gall to tell us that his favourite model 'didn't love him' or 'only thought of himself', so he had to get rid of the boy after his cherubic years were over, back to the homelessness of the Prague streets, while bemoaning the fact that his films were available all over the internet for free and he's not able to make money anymore from trawling the Eastern European back alleys for fresh meat. Forgive me for not feeling sorry for him. But the health havoc he caused is unforgivable.

The Documentary Channel screened this BBC Horizon programme called "What's the problem with Nudity" the other night. It tried to figure out why nudity is such a social problem for our species by asking 8 total strangers who have never stripped or been nude in front of other people (and a battery of TV cameras) to do exactly that. Coupled with a potted history of homo sapiens and more ancient forebears, it tried to figure out at what stage in our genetic and cultural history we decided that it was not OK to be around others without "clothes" on. As this kind of cod TV science goes, it was rather un-illuminating on practically all questions it set out to answer. On the contrary, it left me with a great deal of other queries about aspects that never got touched on. The obvious clanger was asking 21st Century males and females to rate male chests' sexual attractiveness based on hirsuteness or baldness of said chests. This was supposed to give a clue that evolutionary we have lost our body hair because females preferred to mate with hairless men. But what this really showed was the scientific incompetence of the sex researchers setting up such a thoughtless, biased and uncontrolled experiment: even intuitively (if I may) I would have shown the subjects a range of hairy and hairless women to rate, and I bet the outcome would have been far more pronounced in favour of hairless-ness than the male-only version. Hairy females did far worse evolutionary speaking than hairy males, just look at the number of hairy men still with us compared to the amount of hairy females (ladies with moustaches notwithstanding) and the relentless marketing of lady-shaves, depilatory products and the opprobrium heaped on unshaven continental women. And we all know that when woman are at their most fertile era in their cycle, they prefer hairy bad boys as bed mates over plucked metrosexuals - and this has a long history too: interbreeding with hairy Neanderthal men apparently was far more common than many of us would like to remember.

Latter Days is a film that could only be made in America and only be fully appreciated there. It pushes all the 'au courant' buttons in a culture that is still at war over issues that have long been settled in secular societies. The existential struggle between being gay and being religious going to the heart of American identity (deemed worthy of the epithet "culture war" but really akin to the inability to have tolerance at the core of your society) is such an alien concept to the rest of us living in secular societies. Mormonism ("The original alternative life-stylers" as described in an all too rare insight by the main character) is this really outlandish form of religion few of us have any connection to, especially outside the USA, and is portrayed in the film in all the familiar clichés: stern patriarch father, neurotic mother and absolutely no insight into family life - even to the point that the "family unit" is never actually seen together at home. They look, sound and act like aliens, strange frat boy pod people on bikes. I guess if you want to make an 'opposites attract' romance, the other side has to be portrayed as clichéd as possible too and the film doesn't fail in that: Los Angeles as a honey pot for fame, fortune and sexual conquest never fails and the movie's non-Mormon characters do their best to act, look and sound as predictable as their religious counterparts.

The storyline is trite: boy meets boy/boy falls for boy/boy loses boy/boy finds boy (it's not like I'm putting any spoilers here); the sex scenes are as vanilla and PGR rated as you can get away with; the evil characters on both sides (usually always the most interesting parts in a movie), the Mormon father and Dirk "the Watersports Boy", undeveloped and cartoon-like; and an obligatory coterie of sympathetic fag hags and their fairytale safe haven refuge (Lila's restaurant - as the Land of Oz reference?) make it an unsatisfactory movie. If you are looking for gay romance against all cultural odds, maybe try "My Beautiful Laundrette" instead.

Totty award to Steve Sandvoss

Normally a fairly moronic US teen sitcom, brought to you by the producers of the American Pie film series, but this week's episode featured a thing that poked my interest: a nude male gym. Now this would get me to pay attention to my physique situation and urge me to improve on it. But, helas, I have not found any gym that fulfils my requirements of being able to exercise as the Greeks and the meaning of their word gymnasium have intended. I'm no sweaty lycra gym bunny, yuck! In a future episode, the "British" lead character (Sean Maguire, that lovely Irish football laddie on EastEnders a decade ago) will have his possession of a foreskin questioned in said gym. As a good Irish lad, we can be almost certain his meat was intact in reality. Why are American males so jealous of everything they can't have?

During the mercifully brief ad breaks in Inspector Morse on UKTV last night, I switched over to Starship Troopers on Sky Movies, a truly atrocious shoot 'em up sci-fi dirge. The only interesting bit in the film is, of course, the shower scene. It's the usual coy camera shot above the waist only. For most pimply adolescents this has the bonus of the girls' breasts visible during the banter. And, of course, the boys' fabulous pectorals - the only thing a movie multiplex dweller can aspire to. The terrible sexism of the shot was not the girls proudly displaying their tits, which turns the boys into soaped-up droolers, but the clearly visible (and listed as a goof) boxer shorts on one of the boys. I hear it is fairly common in New Zealand sports clubs that men shower in their underpants. Personally, I can't think of anything more disgusting. Why isn't that unnatural behaviour outlawed?

Since we are in the age of empire again, it's not surprising Hollywood is making films about earlier versions. The fun with films set in the classical age (i.e. the time before those superstitious "people of the book" got hold of our civilisation and ruined it) is how they handle the rampant homo exuberance of the main characters such as Achilles and Alexander and thus whether it would be actually worthwhile to go and see the films. Now I, for one, wouldn't mind seeing Colin "Alexander" Farrell (the tattooed one) getting it on with Jared "Hephaeston" Leto (the other one), but a nagging little voice in my ear says chance would be a fine thing.

Why do we always have to wait for the porno versions of classical stories to get some truth on the screen? If you ever have the chance to see Glaadiator, do not miss it. It's a fine tale making mischief of Russell Crowe's pathetic attempt, and queer as f***!

We sat through all three Lord of the Rings movies in one go on Boxing Day and it turned out to be less of an ordeal than anticipated. Plenty of pit stops made the nine hours very bearable, but I wish the story line had been too. Unfortunately, and I may be repeating some criticism from elsewhere on the myriad of LOTR fan sites, if only the writer had paid less attention to linguistics and more to economics I would have enjoyed the epic more. As it was, it's fairly standard fantasy fare - I always disliked the books for their over-acting characters, apart from the Ents, the only ones with a sense of humour. How did those Gondor and Rohan people actually survive in a landscape like that (glorious central Otago and the McKenzie Country) since there were no crops, nor flocks of sheep and other livestock. How did they manage to feed so many people in their cities on the hill - let alone so many horses? Their defence budgets must have been about 100% of taxation looking at the number of knights and fighters they managed to field at short notice, but where did the economic muscle come from? On the 'other' side, the baddies were all stereotype, not an attractive character among them, except Gollum, who is about the only individual in the whole story who manages to survive on his own wits - almost an archetypal queer character in the endless sea of conformity in Middle Earth. And Sauron (or the nature of Evil) was far too sketchy, I wanted more about what drove him to wanting to rule the world and how he would have dealt with inevitable social change and evolution - Orcs and other bad characters will need management, social manipulation and motivation if he wanted to stave off future rebellions. It is intriguing to think about what such a society would be like. I mean, there'd only be ugly orc boys without girlfriends, cloning themselves as far as I could figure out the way they reproduced. The epic story was actually quite small in its scale: a little tussle over who will become the dominant species for another short time in history. And it was quite claustrophobic in atmosphere despite the vast landscapes, I suspect any medieval society with strict social structures and magicians must have been like that. If the age of man dawned as the age of Elves came to an end, why have another king and not a republic? It was definitely not the age of reason that had come into being. JRR Tolkien was obviously a conservative.

What happens when youth cultures grow old? That was the interesting context of a rather gruesome episode of "Waking the Dead", the crime series which specialises in digging out old murder cases (but not necessarily cold ones). Police crime series seem to always try to incorporate contemporary concerns subtly and/or brutally into their story lines: Jane Tennyson in "Prime Suspect" was forever chasing 1990s paedophiles and John Thaw as "Morse" always got the 1980s Satanic and druggie rave party murders. But this episode of "Waking the Dead" had a massive overload of hot buttons du jour: far right British racist skinheads turn politicians, Muslim intolerance and its threats, wife abuse, Aids (and how you get it), Nigerian homophobia, snuff movies, cross-cultural love and its pitfalls. It all made watching it rather heavy going and resulted in some inelegant, anachronistic and convoluted story lines. But the subcultural references were enjoyable in a perverse kind of way: the superannuated skinheads looked like a bunch of gay men who refuse to grow a combover, and their SM antics wouldn't look out of place in the more adventurous underground nightspots. And I did marvel at how we should believe that a 17 year old video recording which was hidden in a not too sheltered space all that time could produce such clear vivid pictures. Analogue tape never looked or could be made to look that good, not even my Betamax. I wasn't sure whether you can actually easily get HIV from a tattooing instrument where the tattooist mixed the ink with his own blood. I thought HIV was a rather fragile thing that doesn't survive well outside its warm blood medium. But perhaps an epidemiologist can work that one out for me?

The History Channel has finally broadcast the "Sex BC" mini-series in prime time. Last year, on its first outing, it was buried in the wee hours, probably due to its subject matter, but there's really nothing that would frighten the horses. It has only three parts dealing respectively with prehistory, Egypt and the Classical period. It's actually quite informative and well presented but throughout you feel this frisson when archaeologists start to speculate - due to the lack of any written material - what all the stuff they have found (large-breasted figurines, wooden dildoes by the box full, graphical and hieroglyphic pornography in scrolls and on the walls everywhere, threesome burials with ritualistic mutilations etc) actually means to an audience steeped in 2000 years of Christianity or 1300 years of Islamism. A delicious irony is that Egyptology was a favourite pastime of some Victorians who couldn't get all that salacious material fast enough to the vaults of the British Museum to be locked away forever, if it was up to them. And what a contrast too between the sex-everywhere ancient Egyptians and the contemporary repressed Islamic society that inhabits the Nile Delta today. Monotheism has a lot to answer for, and you can't but think that a lot of world trouble would be helped by relieving all that sexual frustration by and repressive submission to religious regimes. The final installment on the subject of the Classics, from which we libertines and secularists can still learn a great deal sexually, was a very satisfying one because the sex in that historical period was treated as an evolving subject, not as static given. It thankfully covered a much broader range of subjects than the cliché Greek pederasty so beloved by Victorian and modern outrage: there was some tut-tutting in the programme when describing the symposium culture, where citizens brought their sons who had reached puberty for introduction into civil society - a "coming out" truer to its concept than the modern day versions. But luckily it also told me a lot I didn't learn in my high school classical education: how did the Greek city states manage such effective fighting forces in their athletically-trained, sexually-competitive youths? How did they breed such good soldiers? (A marriage ban before the age of 30 still makes sense today) How much was all this vaunted libertine civilisation only an upper-class, male citizen preserve and why does it still fascinate or morally outrage some of us? A slave economy helped enormously, of course, with women and children as chattels too. The Greek city state and its culture and social organisation was obviously a product of its economic basis. The loyal (sexual) bond between its men was a powerful social glue where being a coward on the battlefield in view of your lover was a huge dishonour. This alien (for our modern armies) concept is completely absent in practically every Hollywood sandals and swords movies, the truly atrocious "300" a good example (including the depiction of Spartans fighting in leather jockstraps). Contrast also with Alexander, whose conquering feats a few centuries later had more to do with a Freudian proving himself in the face of his father - a type of behaviour predating monotheistic submission to the God instead of fighting for your Polis. Channel 4, which commissioned the series, has a great background article on the issue of sex in history: http://www.channel4.com/history/microsites/H/history/n-s/sex.html

Jackass Two isn't normally my kind of fare. The grossness of the skits, involving mostly pain and humiliation, is in contrast to some areas that remain taboo. The Jackass idiots do a lot of anal stuff but would never involve any male erections on screen - there are hardly any penises (limp or otherwise) on view in the film, compared to the acreage of male arse. John Waters's cameo making the "wee man" disappear was an inspired moment (if you haven't seen the film, it's not what you may think).

I watched the film when on holiday at a backpackers accommodation, which had an earful of eye candy, if you allow me to mix metaphors, consisting of American and English surfies. Gauging their reactions to the film was much more fun than watching the movie.

It was good to see, even though it was somewhat surprising, an R18 movie on Alt TV at 8pm on a Sunday night. I had to check the BSA pay TV guidelines on this issue, and yes, R18 material is allowed in that timeslot. The film was Edmond, a rather obscure (well, I hadn't heard of it before) piece.

**Don't read on if you want to avoid spoilers**

It tracks life path chosen by a nondescript salary man, who suddenly wakes up to the realisation his life with his wife is too mundane and boring (sexually and spiritually) and decides to try something different. So he goes out in the big city to try and enjoy some of the deadly sins, such as wrath and lust (disguised here as racism and sexism). Some might describe it as a descent into anomie or hell as he gets frustrated, conned and robbed at every turn and he finally lashes out and kills the woman he didn't have to cajole, pay or force to have sex with him - even though the only penetration that takes place is with a knife. The film is not exactly a great advert for heterosexuality, but many a viewer may squirm at the film's conclusion that longterm happiness, contentment and personal peace can finally and only be found in the arms of your black cell mate.

If I had to name one of my favourite film directors, a few always come to mind, and they always include Michael Powell. He has made some of the (for me) most fascinating, thrilling, strange, intriguing and often exhilarating movies ever. He has made about 60 films in about 40 years and plenty of them would easily fit into my all time favourite top-10 films: The Red Shoes, Black Narcissus, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Peeping Tom, Gone To Earth, A Canterbury Tale, 49th Parallel, One of Our Aircraft is Missing, A Matter of Life and Death, I Know Where I'm Going, Contraband, A Spy in Black - I can recommend them all as essential viewing if you are interested in English cinema of the 1940s and 1950s. Now the Arts Channel (in New Zealand) decided to screen one I hadn't seen before, The Edge of the World, from 1937. A tragic and powerful tale of an isolated island off the coast of Scotland (in Roman times known as Ultima Thule, the island of Foula standing in for St Kilda) affected by diminishing local resources of fuel and manpower, causing emigration, economic, social and environmental decline. It was fascinating and moving to see the stories of local families intertwined with the larger social and economic issues driving change. A constant recurrence of a cinematic theme throughout the film was gravity, which of course pulls everything down: people and sheep falling off cliffs, the pull of the wider world out there affecting the economic base of the island, fishing, livestock and crofting. The camera angles are fascinating throughout as every scene is filmed either from a upward or downward position, emphasising the will of men to fight for what they want and believe in, or being looked on by the camera acting as mother nature overwhelming the actors by the majestic cliffs, pounding seas and constant winds. You'd wish there could have been another outcome for the people involved but in the end it seems it's not possible to live at the edge of the world: you either choose to leave or die on the island.

A disappointing and sometimes very boring movie, which tries to highlight particular New York sexual neuroses (done already ad nauseam in stuff like Sex & The City) in a particularly graphic way: erections, cum shots, group sex, deviant sex positions, the lot. The characters represent a neat set of sexual problems and we're invited to have a peek into their world and how they're trying to deal with it. I was particularly impressed how the sex therapist dealt with one of her clients: a good slap in the face. Most of the characters would have benefited from that or a good spanking. But instead it was interminable and often inscrutable what exactly was wrong with them or what they were looking for. For all the sexual graphics in the movie, it was rather tame and seen and done before - as the host of the Shortbus club said: "like the 60s but without the hope". The sex depiction was hardly subversive, groundbreaking or original (try a good Fellini or Pasolini instead). But there were two scenes which were instantly memorable: One, the dominatrix displaying her range of didoes and toys on the window sill of her trust-fund brat/john/client's apartment overlooking the gaping holes of the Twin Towers - the sacrilege of that imagery shouldn't be missed by any patriot itching for a good cat-o-nine tails trashing. And two, the gay threesome during which the American national anthem was bugled into an asshole while cocks were sucked in a most musical manner. It was instantly recognisable and quintessential American sex, something Fellini of course couldn't have done. And it was pornography with a sense of humour, something hardly ever heard or seen, but for which I long. Totty award to Raphael Barker. His one and only film role ever.

Adolescent Australian angst is usually the stuff of world famous and world popular soaps like Home & Away, whose characters manage to populate the screens for years night after night without becoming any clearer what they are about. So I was a little apprehensive whether a full length film would shed any better light on the hormonally murky world of high school students. I wasn't greatly disappointed with 2:37 last night on Rialto TV, even though most of the characters were like cardboard cut out clichés: the bed wetting weirdo, the geek with issues, and the jock with issues. And that's only a few of the boys. And there wasn't a happy girl in the whole school.

I must thank the Director of Photography for being so considerate and lingering on the beautiful torso of Sam Harris (the jock). A truly magnificent adolescent specimen, unafraid to proudly show off his tiny nipples for more than half of his scenes. If only his character had the same courage regarding his sexual desires. So, totty award, of course, to Sam Harris.

A film about scientific observation and how it affects researcher and research subject alike set in 1950s rural Norway hardly sounds a promising scenario, but you have to try out Salmer fra kjøkkenet / Kitchen Stories, which screened on Rialto Channel a few nights ago. It's the sort of movie Ingmar Bergman could have made if he had had a sense of humour instead of being the stereotypical dour Swede. It certainly had me on the floor with glee from the opening scene when a troop of identical looking caravan pulling cars cross the Norway-Sweden border where they had to change driving lanes (Sweden drove on the left of the road in the 1950s, while Norway did not) and one of the drivers was physically unwell from having to drive on the "wrong" side of the road. All part of a whole host of digs Scandinavians make at each other, like any neighbouring nationalities do, but it never turned malicious. The Swedish researchers going to observe Norwegian bachelor peasants in their ergonomic use of their kitchens had me slightly squirming in my seat, because it so horribly illustrated bad sociological or psychological research, where observers think they can just watch their subjects go about their lives without actually influencing the situation or behaviour. If it all sounds unpromising or esoteric as a comedy film, don't be disheartened, but try to catch it next time it's on. Scandinavian humour is very droll.