Archive for the ‘Documentary’ Category

The Strip Club.

May 12, 2017



So far I had managed to politely wangle my way out of every social invitation that first week on the job (I don’t like going out if I can help it) but it was Friday and my new boss was insistent. “I can’t afford it,” I said meekly. “You have already used that one” he shot back “and I am paying so come on, the Uber is waiting downstairs and we gotta go”.

Uber I wondered? I was only just up from a small provincial town and still adjusting to the ways of the big city and had no idea what Uber was. Turns out it was a car with a driver, like a taxi. “Where are we going?” I ask the boss. “You’ll see” he grinned and ten minutes later the Uber pulls up outside a strip club. I had never been to a strip club and wasn’t about to start, or so I imagined.

“It’s looks a bit flash and there is no way they are going to let me in,” I say indicating my jeans with holes in the knees.“ Ah, but I have this ” he says waving a wad of cash at me, “Opens every door every time”. And sure enough the blank stare on the huge Polynesian guy guarding the door quickly turns into a beatific smile at the sight and he waves us in. Damn.

Dimly lit, read velvet, cut glass mirrors and shimmering gold. Then there is the stage and the silver poles and a guy staring at a naked dancer the way a biologist might stare at a rare specimen. It was a lot to take in at a glance and feeling nervous I turn my attention toward the action at the bar.

“Four tequila shots” thunders the boss at the young woman making the drinks. “Are we expecting guests?” I wonder as the shots appear before us. He pushes two at me and watches to see that I knock them back before ordering the beers. “Two beers,” then “No”. He pauses dramatically then winks, “make that four beers.” So that I was how it was going down tonight.

The alcohol tickles my senses making everything shimmer more brightly. The young woman serving behind the bar carries a thick Italian accent and the kind of dusky Romanesque features I have long considered the epitome of female beauty. I could have happily sat back and watched her do her thing all night long when an arm falls about my waist. I had not been touched by another person for sometime and the sensation causes me to start. “Relax,” whispers an accent that turns out to be Hungarian, Budapest to be precise. She is tall, and by tall I mean very tall. I am tall, very tall, and she is looking me directly in the eye.

“Do you know so-and-so?” I ask blurting out the name of a friend from the same city. Her response is to ask if I want to go upstairs. I follow her eyes toward a stairwell off to the side. “She wants to know if you would like a fuck,” whispers the boss into my ear pressing something into my left hand. “It’s strip club currency,” he whispers and then in a voice that is now no longer a whisper says “To pay for it.” “No” I blurt out at him and at her and just like that she is gone and for the first time I see her in perspective as she hones in on another man who is not tall at all.

The thong about her waist is but a suggestion and I tick off every question I might ever have about what a very tall women might look like naked. It’s all very positive. Two more tequila’s appear in front of me. “From your friend” says the Italian girl indicating that I might tip her with the strip club cash if I so desire. I desire and she smiles beatifically.

The boss was nowhere to be seen and with the alcohol fuelling my confidence I sit down and consider the naked young women swinging about the poles. “We have to wipe them down a lot” says a voice off to the side, “With all that pussy action they start smelling a little ripe after a time”. The speaker is a smartly dressed young woman with a tray. “Can I get you another drink?” I pass her some currency and she returns with another beer. That she is world-weary is obvious and I ask her to sit and talk. She sits and talks.

She is half-Maori and half-Portuguese which explains her exotic looks. She is also a student and appreciates the money if not the clientele. We are watching two well-dressed business types rubbing their crotches as they watch the girls polish the silver. “Welcome to my world.” Her grimace says it all.

I ask her if she dances and she says yes but tonight she is on the bar. We chat a while longer and she unloads a bit then touching my arm asks me to stay put before rushing of backstage. A while later she walks onstage and does a strip routine and some pole dancing. She knows her stuff. Later she reappears and asks me if I enjoyed it? I shove the wad of ‘strip cash’ at her but she politely demurs pushing it back with a blush. “I have to go,” she says, “study then sleep”. Then says “Thanks for listening.” It is my turn to blush.

Later a kid of no more than 18 and wearing something akin to bare flesh eyes up the ‘strip cash’ and asks me if I would like a lap dance. I say no and she takes this as a challenge and offers to throw in something extra. I ask her where she is from. “Guess” she says and I guess Rotorua. “How did you know that?” she laughs. “Your accent” I reply. She gives up with the lap dance thing and I give her some currency regardless. She gets me a beer. “On the house” she winks. The boss reappears and I tell him I have had enough and say I am off home but he is not listening. The girl from Rotorua has caught his attention.




On Coffee, Tobacco and Steve McQueen.

May 6, 2017



Some people think Decaf is coffee. I am not so sure. Tea has caffeine but is not coffee and neither is beer, though it might as well be. Give me sunshine or coffee? I’ll take the latter – Roma style, (that’s ‘very dark roast’). Sun cannot outshine that. It’s the flavour the Decaf kids tell me, “It’s about the flavour!”


On Saturday at boarding school we were herded into the gymnasium to watch a movie inadequately displayed on a white canvas screen (home video was still a decade away). They asked me to choose the films once. It was supposed to be for the year it lasted a month.

I was picking stuff I’d been reading about in the newspaper but I didn’t take into account the whole censorship thing and after a few screenings the Brothers decided I was a liability and stripped me of my status as the film guy. I missed the weekly trip into the city to select the films from the warehouse and I missed the kudos that came with the job.

Later I became the music guy. Otherwise ‘persona non grata’ I was well read and if anyone wanted to know anything about a song or artist I was the guy. Once a kid sidled up to me and said, “I know its uncool but I like Abba. I reckon they are pretty good. Is that alright do you think?” I said yes but we both knew better than to say it out loud.

I remember Joe Cocker raging his away across the ill lit canvas in a concert flick called Mad Dogs and Englishman. I was thirteen years old and none of it made much sense. The supervising Brother spent a lot time with his hand over the projector lens during The Godfather. I had picked that film. I thought the horse head in the bed scene quite shocking and never quite got over it. He was more interested in protecting us from the sight of ‘sexy ladies’.

The best gym moment ever was Steve McQueen driving over the horizon in his big American beast car towing a horse trailer. He stops at a diner at the edge of a desert and refills on coffee and cigarettes while thinking about the next paying gig. I was a loner myself  and decided Steve McQueen’s Junior Bonner was a loner worth emulating.

Directed by Sam Peckinpah Junior Bonner was not one of his usual things. Peckinpah was the shot em up king. No, more than that, he was an artist and his violence was beauteously studied. Junior Bonner was a character flick and quite a departure for the man. Of its failure to fire at the box office Peckinpah said, “I made a film where nobody got shot and nobody went to see it.”

In the Documentary film I am Steve McQueen (2014) Steve is painted as a restless soul, an intelligent self-involved Renaissance man with a destructive bent, McQueen did it his way or not at all. The establishment accepted that about him because he was box office gold. Lesser personalities would not have been able to get away with half as much I imagine.

I wanted to be just like him for longer than necessary. I rode my motorcycle hard and fast like he did and I drank black coffee and smoked cigarettes like Junior Bonner and dreamt of the wealth that came with great fame. I equated wealth with freedom. Many years later I realised that freedom was mostly a state of mind. A little cash helps but too much and that house of cards becomes a prison. My favourite ever Steve McQueen is Papillon (1973), a harrowing film that explores the harsh French prison system as it was for a time. McQueen is relentless in the lead role.


Back in 1960 -70s New Zealand it seemed that everyone smoked except my Dad. Our house was dominated by women and for ever so long I thought that smoking was a female thing until one day we were out in the car and passed by a farmer herding sheep, a smoke dangling from his lips. “Look Dad” I said excitedly, “that man is smoking”. Noel then explained that men smoked too. I found that hard to accept.

Second hand smoke from Mum, Aunties and Grandmothers – I loved it. I would inhale it and exalt in the heady rush but mostly I would stare at the blue plumes drifting up and about the car, the living room or wherever it was we were. The smoke shifting in the tidal air currents was a kind of artistry as was the way the cigarettes were held, waved about and stubbed. Everyone had a method and my mothers mannerisms were especially stylish I thought.

Of course I took it up as soon as I could and by age twenty I was a seasoned smoker. It was my bulwark against a cruel and confusing world for which I was little enabled and with that cigarette sitting between me and everyone else I felt safe. I promised to love tobacco forever. Forever lasted until six months ago when I just stopped and that was that. It was easy really and I have only looked back twice when I caged a couple of rollies off a mate just to see. Yes they were delicious but I had lost the love. Where did it go? I have no idea.

Smoking looks glamorous in the movies but in reality it stinks, clinging to clothes and breath in the most ungainly way and the people who smoke heavily don’t look great. One of my favourite film stars Humphrey Bogart died from a smoking related cancer, and painfully so it is told. Over the years you can see this chain-smoking matinee star loose his lustre as his skin dried up and puckered.

Happened to a whole slew of generations who smoked themselves to death. Long before the authorities got in on the act people intuitively knew it wasn’t great. ‘Smoke Smoke that Cigarette’ goes a hit song from 1947 – ‘Puff, puff, puff and smoke yourself to death/Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate/That you hates to make him wait/You’ve gotta have another cigarette’.

But that’s what cigars are for, a taste from time to time. God help you though if you get a ‘real liking’ for those bastards. True, you can’t draw the strong smoke down into your lungs, which is why people think they’re the ‘safe option’, but puffing causes cancer too. Sadly.

My grandmother’s cousin Old Kamali died when he was ninety-five. He grew his own tobacco in an allotment on the outskirts of Suva and after curing rolled it into cigars that he chain-smoked from his perch under the eaves of his house. My grandmother, died in her late eighties. A lifetime smoker of cigarettes she was a ‘puffer’ like Kamali. So was I.

I had my lungs checked a while back and they were clean. I was both surprised and pleased but this had nothing to do with my giving it away. They both might have lived longer had they not been smokers someone once suggested to me. I thought that an odd statement given their overall longevity.



I like my coffee ‘very dark roast’. That’s a certain variety of bean burned and then finely ground (not all beans can stand up to a heavy roast). Get the espresso grind. The filter grind does about as good a job as ‘tits on a bull’ as a friend used to say. The finer the grind the more intense the end result.

I use a one-cup drip filter device, a two-dollar plastic thing that fits over the top of a mug. Place a filter paper into device, add some coffee, pour in some boiling water and as soon as the top of the heat has drifted off, it’s ready for sipping (the brew needs to cool a little for the myriad flavours to become fully apparent). No milk, nor sugar – these things ruin it.

My brand of choice is Robert Harris (a big commercial roaster), their bold Italian and Roma styles being a perfect fit for my sensibilities. ‘Very dark roast’ coffee has none of the astringency of lighter roasts. I am not a fan of this ‘astringent’ quality but many are. I like it bold and gold, angst and man, burnt caramel and bitter carbon. Many don’t.

Food is our medicine it is said and I medicate readily. Eating is a game as much about pleasure as it is about nutrition. Sometime part of the pleasure of eating is knowing that you are looking after yourself. Sometimes you can’t help yourself and that is pleasurable also.

Tobacco, beer and coffee: Only one of these is bad for you. Spent coffee grounds should go to the compost. Plants, earthworms, beneficial fungi and bacteria love em. Got no garden? Then feed the compost to a public tree or shrub somewhere. Caffeine is essential so if you ever see me drinking Decaff then you’ll know the decline has set in. Life without narcotics is a life half lived and flavour is only part of the equation.


Film Review: Where To Invade Next

September 12, 2016


I am a little late getting to Michael Moore’s latest film ‘Where to Invade Next’ but it was well worth the wait. A typically earnest and somewhat mischief Moore holds up the USA, (the greatest country on Earth), against a slew of various other countries (who are not the greatest) and finds the USA looking a little shabby if not paltry. In fact by the end of it I was convinced the good old USA was starting to look more like a retrograde ideological totalitarian regime than a modern progressive democracy and the comments from various leaders from far lesser countries seemed to confirm this.

A Female Icelandic CEO summed up the sentiment best with: “America confuses being most powerful with knowing everything. You do not know everything and looking at the way you treat your own people I am very happy not to live there. America is a ‘me’ society. Here (Iceland) it is all about ‘we’ and here ‘we’ look after each other and ‘we’ are all much better for it.”

I guess the most disturbing thing for me was examining my own country New Zealand (the worlds actual first progressive Social Democracy) against the worlds more progressive and prosperous nations. We are not doing too bad but our political leaders (especially on the conservative team) obsession with America’s economic model left me thinking wondering at the wisdom of that choice.

We have indeed embraced a ‘Me’ focused attitude over the last 35 years or so and we have replaced community focused ideals with the idea that the acquisition of personal wealth is the most important thing in life and the results speak for themselves: increasing child poverty, lack of housing, poor environmental management, lower wages and diminishing personal rights and so on. Fortunately we are a small and mobile society and a change of government and attitude could quickly turn this around so I live in hope.

“Where to Invade Next’ is thought provoking cinema for the progressively inclined that lifts the veil on the myth of the American dream and shows it up for what it is – a race where only a handful can possibly finish prosperous. Moore argues persuasively that the Socialist Democratic model (aka the EU, Scandinavia and Australasia) is far more successful method of delivering the promise of a decent life for the majority of people. Sure there will be fewer with lots (which goes against the American grain) but there will be many more with plenty and hardly anyone with nothing.

PS after watching numerous Moore films based in the US where he is ignored by CEOs, marched out by security and dodged by politicians, it is a real eye-opener to see him operating into the much more open and inclusive European environment.

Film Review: The Wrecking Crew, A Documentary Film (2008). 5/5 Stars.

April 4, 2016


Wrecking Crew regular Carol Kaye front and centre.

Through ten years from the early 60s to the early 70s a loose collective of musicians known as the Wrecking Crew dominated the L.A recording scene playing on several thousand recordings including singles, albums, jingles, TV themes and films scores. These were not touring musicians, these were studio specialists, folk who could turn up to a session listen to a song, throw in some ideas rough up the arrangement and then play it, all in a couple or three hours.

They famously sat in for The Monkees, The Beach Boys and The Byrds among others and the big question of why so many bands did not play on their own records is addressed with the most interesting response coming from Crew regular Glen Campbell who toured with the Beach Boys while the bands leader, bassist and songwriter Brian Wilson stayed at home to work with the rest of the Wrecking Crew on the bands magnum opus ‘Pet Sounds’. “Regardless of whether they were up to playing on the record or not I can see why Brain might not want them around in the studio because all those boys did was argue and bicker. It was tiresome.”

The Byrd’s Roger McGuinn describes the band as being very disappointed when the record company excluded them from their first recording sessions but muses that their first No1 was recorded by the Crew in a couple of hours and their second No1 recorded by the actual band took some 75 takes proving the record company’s initial decision was probably the more financially prudent given the cost of studio time.

We sit in with Brian Wilson, discuss Phil Spector’s ‘Wall of Sound’ and learn how legendary licks for iconic tunes like The Mission Impossible Theme and Wichita Linesman were constructed. We talk with master songwriter Jimmy Webb and learn about craft of the session player from Glen Campbell. There are conversations with the likes of Cher (Sonny and Cher), Herb Alpert (The Tijuana Brass), Mickey Dolenz (Monkees) and of course a number of lively and telling interviews with various Wrecking Crew members including the amazing Carol Kaye (guitarist, bassist) and the doyen of the Wrecking Crew, guitarist Tommy Tedesco.

By the time I was halfway through this film I realised that so much of what I loved about pop music of that era was as much about the style of these players as it was about the song. The theme from MASH, The Pink Panther Theme, The Age of Aquarius, Something Stupid, These Boots, Up Up and Away and a dozen other tunes that have informed my inner musical world were laid out in front of me offering me a new insights about my own relationship with music.

It was a wondrous time of invention and Denny Tedesco’s (son of Tommy) delightful film captures the moment just as the sun begins to set on living memory. For musicians and music geeks, record collectors, musical archivists, historians and lovers of fine pop music, this is a documentary experience to savour and treasure.


Film Review: Sweetgrass (2003). 5/5 Stars

March 25, 2016



What is the miracle of the sheep herd? There is the man and woman, their horses and dogs: a collective intelligence feeding, protecting and maintaining the flock. It is the dream of the seasons, flowing cycle of birth, death and rebirth. The flock is constant but ever changing

The drama of birth: The Sheppard separates new mother and lamb from the flock. The mother’s instinct for the protection of the crowd and to be with her lamb pulls her in two directions. The pull of her offspring’s cry is too strong and she allows herself to be separated and penned. Safely apart she might now be carefully looked after and required to feed an orphan, a singular process of trickery whereby the Sheppard hoodwinks the mother into accepting a lamb that isn’t her own.




With the springtime comes the Absaroka-Beartooth Mountains and the 3000 head flock is let loose from the barn that has sheltered it across the raging scope of the Montana winter. The flock, like schooling fish or flocking birds, weaves its way across the landscape in flowing patterns. The dog, watching for subtle gestures from the Sheppard turns the flock this way and that. A study in enthusiasm, a portrait of intelligence.




Prairie, glacial valley, mountainside, forest. The flock moves across wild summer pasture, growing fat and fat is money in the bank. The bond between sheep and lamb, dog and man is further revealed. Bears prey, knees wear, horses grow thin and dogs lame. 150 miles of mountain go by and exhaustion sets in. Cocksuckers, sonofabitch, dirty stinking motherfucking whores. Little sleep, predators and hard weather, the Sheppard weeps thinking he can’t take anymore.




‘Sweetgrass’ is a stunning meditation about man, dog, sheep, horse and grizzly bear. It is a rumination on passing seasons and food supply. It is a prayer, portrait and narrative and hymn to the soul of the landscape and it leaves no stone unturned as it seeks to set to record a tradition that is about to be consigned to memory for the times they are a changing. The sheep drive has been going on for well over a 150 years but the economics of it don’t add up anymore.

I don’t know why I chose this one. It looked like it could be boring. It wasn’t. It was rich and subtle, deep and luminous. It was perfect.