After Grog Blog

UNDERWHELMY II: A TALL TALE OF TWO CITIES

... and a lot of the countryside, too.

Seems that Underbelly, a Tale of Two Cities is full of cons:

When reality goes belly up

THE 1977 murder of Donald Mackay was a defining moment in Australian history and the truth about it needs to be told.

Unfortunately - entertaining as it may be - the new Underbelly television series isn't telling it like it was.

That wouldn't be so bad if they were up front and admitted they were embellishing, dramatising and just plain making bits up, but it is being promoted heavily as a true story.

What makes things worse is that the program's makers appear to have ignored their own consultants, respected Melbourne journalists John Silvester and Andrew Rule.

I've seen the first four episodes of Underwhelmy II and while it goes OK in parts, the overall is pretty thin. Just about the whole third episode, for instance, was, to be blunt: rubbish. A cynical excuse for Matthew Newton, his Kiwi girlfriend and assorted body doubles to get their kit off. To say it was gratuitous nudity is to sell gratuitous short. It was low-rent Chances-like sexploitation from Nine, who obviously think the best way to deal themselves back into the ratings game is to flash as much skin and simulate as much sex as is televisually possible. Naturally, it is working.

But it's not just the raunch-lite. The makers infused the show with about as much menace as a a pillow fight on It's A Knockout. Sure, people are killed, many in violent ways, but the architecture of each scene in pissweak, to coin a Vidmar. Compare it to the great crime movies and TV shows: the doom Coppola creates when Fredo is bumped off in Godfather II; Joe Pesci's "Oh, fuck" in Goodfellas when he realises he is not about to be "made" he is about to be, well, unmade; the demise of our very own man of ham, Gary Sweet, when he jumps into the cop car in Blue Murder and suddenly knows he's a gonner; the bar fights in Underwhelmy II are not a patch on the bar fights in Blue Murder which almost jump out of the television, at which point I grab my drink, jump out of my recliner, and scurry to the side of the room.

Then there's the silly. Monday night's episode had a character bumped off in his bathroom. By my accurate count the hitters fired 32,478 bullets and yet there was not a scratch on the tiles, just a healthy smear of blood. I mean, come on.

Underwhelmy is certainly interesting from a local viewer's perspective, and Roy Billing is good for a chuckle as Paul Aussie Bob Trimbole, but the lack of a Roxburgh/Rogerson or Martin/Smith means this will never be considered a great piece of television. It will most likely be remembered, if it is remembered at all, as a semi-accurate docudrama, with some adequate acting and accents.

OSCARS UNDEAD!

Tonight for one night only! Liveblogging the Oscars here live on this blog! Tonight! In colour! With THX!

Commentary starts around 9pm.

Warning: Adult themes, occasional coarse language, medium level violence, low level drug use. AGB recommends parental guidance.

BEST IN SHOW-OFF

We'll be the judge of this:

"After the break we'll be joined by the best caller in the business: Dwayne Russell."

~~ Jason Dunstall, Foxtel, before the Melbourne vs Hawthorn game.

Don't you get sick of stations continually spruiking their on-air personnel? Fuck knows, I do. If Dwayne Russell is our best footy caller, footy calling is in a shocking state. A wannabe Dennis Cometti without the good humour, Russell comes across as a spiteful smartarse. The call is all about him and his latest bon mot. (An accusation that could be levelled at Cometti with his recent penchant for an intentional one liner, but after 30 odd years in the business as a clever and incisive commentator, he has earned himself the odd indulgence.)

And, what did you think about Kelli Underwood? DD at the Herald Sun and LLL at the Age pretty much have it down:

Kelli Underwood a worthwhile punt for Channel 10

CHANNEL 10 prides itself on being the risk-taking network. When the risk pays off, the rewards - ratings and advertising revenue - are immense.

Plucky Kelli butters up with a solid one percenter

Football’s first woman TV commentator earns a ringing endorsement.

THE argument could be made that the US has come a lot closer to having a female president than Australia ever has to establishing a woman as a regular caller on major male sport coverage.

My big knock on Anthony Hudson, an otherwise capable commentator, is that when the game is hot, he shrieks in a tone guaranteed to peel the paint off the squeakiest blackboards. This will sound sexist, but one can only imagine the GBH of the earhole should Kelli be at the microphone in a big, close match. Still, I like that she modulated her voice to clearly cover the game... and she's better than Michael Christian.

PIMPERIUM

(By Nabakov.)

As part of Grogflog’s ceaseless quest to bring you the finest in obscure cinematic gems, I was the other day rummaging through a tray of discount DVDs and pulled out a neglected masterpiece of historical drama about ancient Rome. However, as it was only five bucks, I bought ‘Caligula’ instead.

(1979 and 1984. Colour. Script: Gore Vidal (credited despite his best efforts), Bob Guccione, Giancarlo Lui and Franco Rossellini (uncredited). Direction: Either Tinto Brass or Bob Guccione (depending on who you speak to). Cinematography: Silvano Ippoliti. Score: Bruno Nicolai and Renzo Rossellini.

After watching ‘Caligula’ for the first time in 25 years I am delighted to report it lived up to all my memories of it as a vast, bloody, ridiculous, campy and ornate mess overseen by a bunch of oversexed venal Italians with grandiose ideas. Bit like ancient Rome itself circa 40 AD.

The credits above hint at the kind of clusterfuck (literally in some scenes) the project became as all the principals fell out with eachother and lawsuits and alternate cuts started flying around.

‘Caligula’ went from a bold and noble vision to a gaudy pornographic pageant in about the same time that it took its namesake to go from popular young prince to psycho party tyrant. The unintended parallels you can keep drawing between the film and its subject matter is one of its effable charms.

Yes ‘Caligula’ does have some charms despite the fact it is an enormous freestanding gilt and plaster turkey.

The art direction, while quite possibly perhaps not 100% historically accurate, is pretty damn striking and I think probably captures the flavour of the times quite well. Not the ancient Rome of austere marble, military and senators but the gaudy cosmopolitan capital of empire.

There’s also some gaudy cosmopolitan acting as well. The posh English talent hired to add a bit ‘o class, know what I mean squire, generally seem to be enjoying themselves and don’t hold back. Helen Mirren proves again there’s more to being sexy than just looking sexy while Malcolm McDowell as Caligula and Peter O’Toole as Tiberius, rather alarmingly, don’t appear to be acting at all. Only Sir John Gielgud as a court advisor seems to be looking forward to dying as soon as possible.

And if your taste runs towards to gorgeous women in scanty clothing and modish gladiator sandals you might find the odd enjoyable hour or two here and there.

The version I just acquired contains all the naughty bits shot by Guccione Caesar with a bunch of Pets and well-endowed extras who I can assure you are definitely not acting in the orgy scenes. However the inclusion of these scenes is an excellent example of the lack of direction, in every sense, that assailed the project. There’s not enough to make the flick truly pornographic and too much to make it erotic. Personally I found the most arousing moments were generated by Helen Mirren’s expressions and body language in certain comprising but tastefully inexplicit scenes.

The funniest moments are not in the film itself but in the extras which included a “making of” documentary - actually shot during pre-production, once again displaying the narrative ineptitude typical of the whole project.

In retrospect, the doco was probably made to raise more funds from investors as Guccione Caesar reeled from being overcharged by the locals. Shades of Emperors staging games on credit to get the backing for campaigns to find the loot to pay for the games. The parallels continue.

Anyway, between footage of the vast sets being um…erected underneath breathless commentary (“a visionary undertaking…master craftsmen from across Italy…no expense spared..”), the key players talk about their great expectations for this grand project.

Guccione Caesar is funny enough as he sits, shirt open to the navel to display some serious seventies bling in his chest hair, in his gold and marble dining room (apparently not used as a set because it would have been too over the top) talking in monosyllables about why it’s such a serious artistic endeavour. “I feel ancient Rome much to teach about today, y’know?”

The real hilarity though is watching a suave and urbane Gore Vidal fluently and intelligently discussing his original script, completely unaware of what’s already going wrong behind the scenes and how the whole thing will end up. “The underlying question is how would someone act if they had been given absolute power of life and death over everybody else in the whole world.”

After watching the rushes, Gore would have had a good answer. He was so appalled that he traded his 10 points of the gross (that’s gross not net folks!) in exchange for having his name removed from the credits. But not before one version was released, billed as ‘Gore Vidal’s Caligula’ – leading to the waggish logline “Or least he wishes he was.”

But don’t let this Grogflog put you off lashing out five bucks if you come across ‘Caligula’ while fossicking around in a bargain bin. At the very least you’ll enjoy how the spirit of Little Boots lives on in some corners of today’s movie industry.

GrogFlog’s verdict: “You're an honest man, Proculus, which means a bad Roman! Therefore, you are a traitor! Logical, hmm?”

Two out of ten laurel wreaths. Oh Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus! I didn’t see you there. Did I say two? I meant two hundred! No, two thousand!

Coming soon: The end of the world featuring the United Fruit Company, the kind of animated feature Pixar will never make and some blatant salosism.

ON THE LAMB

Giant sausage remains at large

Butcher Mark Nolan says he has little information which could lead to the kidnappers of a 40 kilogram fibreglass sausage from the roof of his Toowoomba shop.

CONFLICTS OF INTERESTING

Mentioned Richard Hinds over here at what could, maybe, almost, possibly be the oldest cricket blog in the known world.

Hinds is always worth the read. Here he tackles the tennis commentary:

Choking with joy over Jimbo's calls

It is the common refusal or inability of ex-athlete commentators to openly criticise, or even point out the obvious faults and mistakes of present-day players, coaches or officials that continues to stifle local sports broadcasting — particularly infuriating when it is due to mutual management deals, friendships, continuing involvement in the sport or some other conflicting interest.

Here he visits Olympic funding:

Sorry John, the Olympic funding bid doesn't wash

Is the common media interpretation of Coates' warnings about reduced funding — that Australia's reputation as a sporting nation would be diminished if we fell down the Olympic ladder — the myopic view of those in the thrall of the Olympic movement? These are, after all, a collection of mostly minor sports in which Australians have little emotional investment, and almost no practical involvement, for all but 16 days every four years.

Regarding the second article: I'm surprised Peter Bruckner hasn't already popped up somewhere to defend the Olympic ideal.

FAT CAMP

After ticking all boxes, except the last one, I'm four-fifths gay.

BAA BAA BLACKSMITH

(By Nabakov.)

When Tony once pointed out that my post on the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar generated more comments that any of the Grogflog reviews, I realised that it wasn’t culture you mob were interested in but punch-ups and war machines.

So with the kind of swift and decisive action characteristic of all great commanders, I now present three and half years later another post on military history and technology. A homage to the second most beautiful machine ever to take the skies – the Avro Vulcan.

It’s a remarkable aircraft and not just because of its looks. It represented an amazing technological leap forward, one of England’s greatest writers trained to fly it and its first combat missions were also its last.

Let’s start with the fact the Hawker Siddeley subsidiary Avro went from this to this in around one decade, admittedly with the help of some captured German swept wing design research.

However a certain operational research “Never mind the science Prof, how does it actually work?” attitude was never far away during the Vulcan’s development. Like strapping a photographer to the front landing gear to take photos during the brake-testing phase – while taxiing at full landing speed. Or like Roly Falk taking the Vulcan up for its first demonstration flights and rolling the 200,000 lbs, 100 ft wingspan monster while properly attired in tweed suit and tie.

Despite, or perhaps because of this, the chaps at Avro came up with an absolute masterpiece of a plane. Yes, the Vulcan’s V-bomber stable mates, the Handley Page Victor and Vickers Valiant also had an ineffable Dan Dare charm about them but neither could match the Vulcan for sheer futuristic beauty. Not to mention Avro had also unwittingly stumbled across one of the secrets of stealth technology twenty-five years before the yanks. The smooth delta profile proved to have an extremely low radar cross section, later echoed in the design of the B-2 Spirit.

Also worth noting here is that the Bristol Olympus jet engines developed for the Vulcan ended up also powering Concorde, the third most beautiful plane of all time.

The Vulcan also handled superbly, more like a fighter than a bomber with reports of it out-turning F-15 Eagles during exercises. An example of how well it flew was its famous leap off the runway like it was homesick for the sky.

Perhaps this was why J.G. Ballard joined the RAF to, as he said, fly a Vulcan “with a splinter of the sun in its belly”. However he dropped out after primary flight training at a NATO flying school in Canada. Interesting to think though that in an alternative world, the author of ‘Crash’, ‘High Rise’ and ‘Cocaine Nights’ could have been piloting one of these beasts across the Arctic wastes to vapourise Murmansk with a Blue Danube nuclear bomb. Could be a book in it Jim.

Another design peculiarity of the Vulcan was how the shape of the air intakes generated a distinctive wailing moan during takeoff. This may not have had much practical application but I bet it bucked the erks up no end as they watched their charges thunder down the runway. “Oh yeah baby!”

But during the fast evolving technological landscape of the cold war, the Vulcan struggled to find a lasting strategic application. Originally designed to fly high and fast (and painted white to help reflect the heat flash from its nuclear payload), the Vulcan performed so well that during the 1961 SKYSHIELD exercise to test the US’s air defence systems, one Vulcan, supported by some virtuoso ECM action by three of its mates, pulled off a completely undetected mock attack on New York. Undetected that is except by the presence of rowdy RAF bomber crews in local bars afterwards.

However the Vulcan soon became outmatched by new generations of high-altitude interceptors and missiles so the RAF reconfigured it as a low level bomber instead to scoot underneath the Russkie radar, camouflaged like its ancestor the Lancaster with an abstract evocation of a green and pleasant land. This role turned out to be a great fit for the Vulcan’s brilliant flying characteristics, to the point where bits of vegetation were found caught in control surfaces, where one brought down a powerline by flying up into it and where a photo was displayed at Nellis AFB after a RED FLAG exercise of the furrow left in the Nevada desert by the wingtip of a banking Vulcan that survived with no more than a touch up of paint. Try that with a B-52.

Once again though technology outstripped the Vulcan. The low-level penetration bomber role, lugging around a WE 177B nuke, could be better performed by aircraft like the Panavia Tornado while the Senior Service was now well tooled up for the deterrent role with their Chevaline-enhanced Polaris system.

(A fun diversion here. Chevaline was a UK project to boost the ability of Polaris missiles to evade Soviet Anti-Ballistic Missile defences, masterminded by a British boffin who was also one of the world’s leading authorities on Morris dancing. A quote from Francis Spufford’s ‘Backroom Boys’ – “These Morris men came dancing up the street, led by this big fat bloke in a kind of Andy Pandy outfit, who was bopping people on the head with a pig’s bladder – and I said to my wife, “Sweetheart, you won’t believe me but that man is one of the brains behind Britain’s nuclear defence.”)

And by now the Vulcans were getting old, fatigued and a bit cranky and the decision was taken to retire the fleet in the early 80s without it ever having been used in anger. Then the Falklands War happened.

While the RN and the Army scrambled around assembling a taskforce, the RAF, feeling a wee bit left out, proposed some long range bombing raids. The arguments were a) cratering the Port Stanley runway and taking out radar systems would deprive the Argentineans of a lot of local air superiority and anti-craft capability, b) if the RAF could reach the Falklands, then it could also reach Argentina, which would provide some food for thought for Galtieri and co and c) the UK armed forces would be seen to be doing something at least while the taskforce got its shit together – Immediate action! Always a key issue for politicians.

So the RAF put together Operation Black Buck based around Britain’s last operational heavy bomber, the Vulcan. It was simple in concept. A bunch of Vulcans would fly from the UK to Ascension Island, load up with twenty-one 1000 lbs general-purpose bombs, drop them on the Argies and fly back.

Except for the fact the last leg would involve a return flight of around 12,000 kms through some of the world’s most inhospitable skies in planes well overdue for retirement and which learnt to shave before many of their crew.

Undaunted, and no doubt inspired by memories of Barnes-Wallis and Biggles, the RAF went ahead anyway. Under canvas on Ascension, blokes in Bombay bloomers (shorts, tropical, for use of, RAF) that exposed their knobbly knees developed intricate in-flight refueling plans that involved up to 11 Victor tankers per mission shifting kerosene between each other and the Vulcans in flight down the long stormy South Atlantic like some hi-octane version of pass the parcel while back in the UK, erks frantically worked to remove the speed governors from the Vulcan’s Bristol Olympus 301 engines, renovated bomb racks and reinstalled refueling systems, which involved at one point “foraging” for extra parts in stealthy raids on display Vulcans at museums and airparks. (I think that last sentence needed in-flight refueling too.)

And it worked. Sort of. Five Black Buck raids were conducted, the longest bombing missions to that time, with all targets being hit and without any loss of RAF personnel. Although one Vulcan had to divert to Rio after its in-flight refueling probe broke. There the plane and crew were interned for nine apparently very hospitable days before being returned by Brazilian authorities impressed by the RAF’s élan and amused by the discomfort of their belligerent Southern neighbour.

Tactically, the merits of Black Buck are debatable. Strategically it led to the Argentineans keeping some their best fighters on the mainland in case Vulcans appeared over Buenos Aires. And sent a clear message the Brits were taking the whole thing very seriously indeed.

And for the Vulcan, it was a fitting end. The fleet was retired shortly afterwards as a bunch of clapped-out old warhorses who showed at last they could do it when it mattered. Thank god though they never had to carry out the original mission for which they were designed.

But let us at least thank Sir Roy Chadwick and his Avro team for creating one of the most beautiful machines ever to slip the surly bonds of earth.

134 Vulcans were built and today only one remains flying.

One day I hope to see it personally roar overhead with a Supermarine Spitfire at its wingtip. The first most beautiful aircraft ever built. But that, as they say, is another story.

TAKE YOUR HAT OFF

Yesterday in the Herald Sun there was a face staring out at me from among the pictures of casualties.

"I know that bloke!"

Veteran actor Reg Evans and partner feared dead

VETERAN actor Reg Evans and his partner are believed to have died while trying to defend their small farm at St Andrews from the fire that destroyed their land.

My mind meanders back to 1980 and the Karratha drive-in. There, with Neil Darbyshire and Kevin McGinty, I watched The Island, a reputed howler in which Michael Caine stumbles on an undiscovered tribe of pirates of the Caribbean, one of who is Jack the Bat as played by Reg Evans. A farcical fillum according to many, but entirely plausible and entertaining as far as I am concerned.

But, while Reg in The Island has stuck in my nadger these last 29 years, he will forever be famous for another monumental scene:

Bubba Zanetti: We're here to meet a friend. Comin' on the train.
Station Master: Nothin' comin' on the train except a couple of crates and a, uh, coffin!
Bubba Zanetti: Our friend.
Station Master: That must be your friend over there. They didn't leave much of him.
Bubba Zanetti: Must've cut his heart out, eh?
Station Master: Yes. That's what I meant. Poor bastard!
Toecutter: [whirls on the Station Manager] The Nightrider. That is his name... the Nightrider.
Station Master: [frightened] The NightRider.
Toecutter: Remember him when you look at the night sky!
Station Master: I will.
Toecutter: Take your hat off.
Station Master: Anything you say.
Toecutter: Anything I say. What a wonderful philosophy you have. Take him away.

Reg doesn't get a name, he's just "station master". But there would barely be an Aussie fillum fan who can't recite that exchange, almost verbatim.

SETANTRUM

Two Irish headbutts:

Carlton's Chris Judd describes O'hAilpin violence as 'regrettable'

CARLTON captain Chris Judd has described Setanta O'hAilpin's violent bust-up with a teammate today as "regrettable".

Carlton coach Brett Ratten refused to rule out sacking O'hAilpin after he punched and kicked teammate Cameron Cloke during an intra-club match today.

SPANISH GUY

PUNT BOWL

Fair enough. That Aussie punter Ben Graham is playing in today's Superbowl is reasonably noteworthy in the overall sporting scheme of things, especially given the circuitous way he got there. Even if the Cardinal's offense has The Greatest Day in its travelled history - down Route 66 don't ya know - and Graham only ever gets to hold for the kicker, he will have had a bigger night that Dinara Safina, probably Serena Williams, and certainly the tennis spectators.

But let's not get carried away.

Both Saturday papers in Melbourne had the beater out exaggerating Graham's importance to the Cardinal cause. The Age went with Graham set to shackle speedster, while the Herald Sun went one, and maybe ten orders of magnitude greater with Ben looms as lethal weapon.

It's well known that the Strayan media rarely miss a chance to exaggerate Straya's standing in the world. There is barely an Aussie achievement that is not hailed as "the greatest" or "WBP". On the flip side, there's that patronising tone American sports folk have of saying things like "Really, I didn't know they played football in Australia." This is usually accompanied by mentions of a quirky sense of humour, strange accents and kangaroos.

But surely, somehow, somewhere between Australia's grasping perception of itself as one of the big guys and America's blithe unawareness that there actually are other guys, there's a middle ground where lurk sensible, rational sports folk.

The fact is, if Ben Graham turns out to be Arizona's lethal weapon simply by kicking the ball out of bounds to curtail Santonio Holmes run-backs two things will have happened: one, no one else scored; and two, all the other players went home.

Ain't gonna happen.

What is going to happen is this: Arizona are going to get spanked.

The Cardinals are only in the Superbowl courtesy of Philadelphia's Donovan McNabb's generosity of spirit. Unfairly, but just as unavoidably, the names Andres Escobar and Hanse Cronje bounced around inside my brainbox when McNabb missed 132 open passes (that's a lot of misses when you consider he only attempted 75 passes) in the NFC championship game. Had McNabb not had an absolute shocker, the Eagles would have won comfortably.

Pittsburg will not be so generous. When - not if - the soft Cards secondary give the Pittsburg offence room to move, Big Ben Roethlisberger will pick them apart. Conversely, the Pittsburg defensive line will cover James and Hightower, while their secondary are not going to give Fitzgerald and Boldin anything like the room they got against Philly.

Of course, I could be wrong.