• A review of Weekend (2011)
• Dir: Andrew Haigh
• Cast: Tom Cullen, Chris New
• Running time: 97 minutes. 

Touching the issue of sex in film can prove to be more trouble than it’s worth. They hit the extremes; attempting to be more ‘realistic’ unfortunately paints sex as our antagonist, something to be remorseful for, while the wishful rom-com gives false hope that a one-night-stand can be the Westley to your Buttercup.

Can people really have sex without the proverbial strings entangling them, and, if not, does the emotion precede the deed or follow?

Andrew Haigh’s Weekend wonders just that. Russell (Tom Cullen), a young gay man, politely leaves a friend’s dinner feigning tiredness and stops by a gay nightclub on his way home. He appears happy, comfortable even, if a little awkward at both dinner and dancing, but ultimately winds up taking Glen (Chris New) home. The following morning, once the liquid courage has evaporated, Glen, confident and spirited, tapes Russell’s thoughts on the previous night, the naked confessions for an art project that, in contrast, seem oddly invasive.

And perhaps their personalities, too, serve for a level of unease and intrigue during the taping. Russell, gentle and calm, is not as boisterous as Glen, whose politically savvy mind makes him a pleasure to watch. When they meet later in the day, we finally see the two having sex, both revelling in the other’s body and silently enjoying the company that follows. As the weekend progresses, Glen and Russell spend their time having sex and taking drugs, with poignant confessional interludes and quarrels.

I hesitate to call Haigh’s story simply another gay film, a relief from the Hollywood fantasy of star-crossed cisgendered lovers, whose dalliances develop from post-coital chatter to marriage in 90 minutes. While Russell and Glen are not perfect, they argue the same question from different points of view. Regardless of gender identity or orientation, the two dance around the fundamentals of love and self: am I who I want to be, and be loved?

The problem with other films is they cloud sex, overpowering it with depressing ripple effects or delivering the Sparknotes abridged version. Haigh’s Weekend celebrates it, removing the gray and leaving us satisfied. Sex isn’t always easy, but the relationship developed in Weekend is unassuming, quiet and affectionate without being too bold. It’s honest, not as a gay film, but as mirror on a situation we’re never too far from.

I don’t mean to alarm you, but lesbians are everywhere. From Sappho to the hushed Sewing Circles of Hollywood’s golden age, lesbians have been tipping the velvet underground throughout history, with not so much as a second glance. So why now? Why have we suddenly been thrust into the pink spotlight?

Bisexual chic is by no means a new thing, but it wasn’t until the nineties that the male ambisextrous glam rockers moved aside for the West End thespians. Melissa Etheridge, Ellen and Margaret Cho came into our lives during a decade of plaid, Docs, and denim. But even these women, cherished though they are, are hardly indicative of the archetypal lesbian in the mainstream.

The femme has unconditionally made it onto conventional pop culture’s radar, but the result is hardly authentic. Black Swan, Katy Perry’s adventures in cherry chapstick, and a flurry of ‘lesbian kiss episodes’ dress the fuzz bumper as the latest fashion trend; a fundamentally feminine entity. Honestly, it’s as if we’re written by men who believe sneans are socially acceptable in the boardroom.

And perhaps that’s the underlying critique; men are the majority of writers who pen the femme into popular history. It’s a serious risk these writers are taking, bronzing the lesbian in such a limited mould. We’ve been hijacked for the 18-to 35-year-old male demographic, making representations of the ready-to-drink lipstick lesbian overshadow those of the delightful tomboi, loveable trans, and magnificent butch. Variety is the spice of life, and the scissors sisters of Sappho come in all shapes, all sizes, and all deserve equal adoration.

The attention we’re getting is flattering, but the truth is we’ve been here all along. While I applaud lesbian chic for giving us the spotlight, we’re treated with a degree of insincerity. In favour of a bi-curious house-wife or confused teen sub-plot, the crucial matters of sexual health, marriage equality, and the heartbreaking reality of LGBT suicides are too easily glossed over.

So I’ll keep my reservations about our rise to stardom. Short term, this could just be a fad, gone by lunchtime. I live in hope that if our 15 minutes are signed on for a second season, we choose to shatter the illusion of the male college population and address the delightfully diverse reality of female lady lovin’.

Lesbihonest, we’re here to stay.

Summer is a bitch. It’s hot, it’s uncomfortable … also public nudity is still frowned upon.

It’s that time of year again, where Wellington has two sun-drenched days and a ‘state of summer’ is unanimously declared. Never mind that it’s only just October, never mind exams are looming like a guillotine, it’s freaking summer! Get outside, you pasty git.

Perhaps I’m getting off on the wrong foot here.

But summer does have a tendency to announce itself unexpectedly, generally by burning poor unfortunate souls as they go about their business. You know the one, that tingling sensation you can’t quite find, the uncomfortable warmth on the back of your legs. (But is it a burn? It’s a burn, right? It’s pink enough, do I use cream? Where’s the fucking aloe vera!?) But after the initial panic of the Virgin Burn summer delivers
in small, secret doses to her victims, the novelty wears off. So much so that people forget they were burnt. Until they shower.

Ohai, summer! Didn’t see you thar!

It wasn’t always like this, feeling as if summer was more of a chore than a state of mind. During our earlier years, the first week of October simply meant there were a few last days of freedom before Term Four commenced and summer dreams were unceremoniously crushed by ‘no hat no play’. You’d try bargaining your 24-pack of Faber-Castell pencils, a delectable item of your packed lunch, or even help with cheating on the Basic Facts test, all just to borrow some kid’s measly spare hat for 45 minutes. You know you
shouldn’t—your mother keeps warning you this child is a breeding ground for cooties. But the little snot doesn’t relent. Even though you assure him it’s not possible to wear two hats at once, he does so. Just to prove a point, the bastard. And so you’re left sitting awkwardly on the concrete, adjusting your backside because it’s gone numb.

At high school, ‘no hat no play’ is a thing of the past; an ancient relic dug up to name and shame your friends. But summer did mean exams, a fact that transformed into an ominous feeling of dread, despair, and hopelessness… which continued into tertiary study. Where tiny children run free on beaches and begin to draft the all-important annual letter to Sandy Claws, fractious students from ages 15 and up are scurrying about libraries and crying in computer laboratories. Surfacing for air and food, students are often blinded by how unnaturally bright summer is, furiously blinking to avoid the glaring sun.

Students are often victims of the Virgin Burn.

When you get down to it, summer can be quite an awkward three months, filled with discomfort and pity-filled glances at pregnant women waddling around Wellington. I saw one in Farmers over Christmas, mere days from celebrating the miracle of life. Doting husband frolicked about the store in airy shorts and a singlet, prancing like a tit in front of the revolving fan. Hair sticking up, eyes wild with irritation, dear wife calmly explained if he did not stop, she would shove the fan up his arse and force their unborn son to
play netball.

I think she knew about ‘no hat no play’ too.

So this puberty thing lasts about a week right?

Standing at Mobil late one winter evening hopping about with my hands stuffed in my pockets, I noticed a crowd was starting to gather. I had just told the attendant via intercom quite loudly that I was in dire need of a four-pack of Cottonsofts. Avoiding eye contact with other patrons, the man returned with four—FOUR—bags of toilet rolls, off-loading them into my arms as I stood flabbergasted at his stupidity.

Christ, it was like suffering sex education all over again.

The introduction to the ‘birds and the bees’ is a moment none of us can bleach from our mind. For me, it all began in the summer of 1999. One fateful afternoon, Mum called me inside from the backyard as I was busy somersaulting on the trampoline, resembling some form of crippled gymnast. Sitting down on the couch next to Mum, she matter-of-factly began the ins and outs of baby-making and bed-shaking, which she calmly referred to as ‘intercourse’, a phrase which rocketed to Number One on my list of ‘words that shouldn’t be said aloud’. After a millennium, brain comfortably numb with new information, I stumbled in a daze back outside, assuring Mum that “yeah, I’m okay. I’m just… you know… going out here now…”

I was not okay.

Compared to other stories, my introduction to reproduction wasn’t that bad. Considering Mum literally opened with the phrase “when a man and woman love each other very much,” I did pretty well. Sadly, after the wide-eyed initial realisation I was not the Immaculate Conception, I zoned out before I learned about the specifics of sex and had to muster up the courage to sheepishly ask Mum three months later where babies came from.

Relax, it only gets worse. For children, discovering how you came to exist isn’t bad enough—parents also have the nerve to quietly pull you aside and mention your body is going to change: “oh, that’s nice, I always wanted to be a bit taller.” But what parents don’t realise is that no amount of pep-talks or wise words of encouragement can prepare a kid for the reality of puberty. Because let’s face it, the wonderment of adulthood aside, puberty was a miserable and degrading experience. Nothing ever worked out for us, even our desired growth spurts backfired. Limbs grew as if independent from our own body so we ended up resembling gangly, gawky monkeys. Why? Because there’s SO much hair, why is there hair? This makes no sense. I’m only going to spend the rest of my life waxing it to death.

Like most teenagers, I spent my days in a frump, willing puberty to simply do its thing and fuck off. Much like the Mobil attendant who handed me four bags of toilet rolls and smiled. Don’t smile at me, you dick. The awkwardness of sex education aside, I learnt valuable lessons amidst my misery, such as never underestimating the importance of an emergency tampon. The male equivalent I am led to believe is the trick of hiding a sneaky boner. But still, back to the matter at hand: how the fuck do I walk away with my dignity intact while carrying four bags of toilet rolls?

I think you should come over to Myspace so I can Twitter your Facebook

Since the dawn of Windows 95, students have found themselves scrambling at the eleventh hour to deliver their assignments on time. Sneaking along the corridor, mentally kicking themselves for not doing this earlier, students question how exactly they woke up, prepared to write a research essay, but ended up killing six hours on Facebook?

Perhaps the blame lies with Generation X. Doomed by the Baby Boomers to be the generation that would never amount to anything except plaid shirts, MTV, and a sense of entitlement, Gen X just had to prove everyone wrong and capitalise on the development of the World Wide Web. This has cursed Generation Y with the power to reduce grade averages with a few simple clicks.

Like most of Gen Y, I don’t remember spending a great deal of the nineties trawling various web pages. Grades for primary school assignments were hinged on actually visiting the school library, which always smelt like stale bread, wet dog, and socks. The first decade of my life was internet-free. I want to say it was a peaceful time but I don’t remember much of how I spent my spare moments, except that I dedicated several afternoons of my school week to softball, netball, cricket, and running.

This is no longer the case.

Instead of pretending to be athletic, the internet was heavily abused by Gen Y in high school for Wikipedia and social networking sites—an anti-social means of communication and ridicule. Furious after school conversations over MSN, where hotgurrrrl13 mercilessly flirted with sexcboiiii16, were replaced with Myspace and its inbred cousin, Bebo. Already plagued by acne, puberty, and life in general, teenagers were subjected on both sites to the cruel practice of ‘Top Friends’, being tagged in photo albums of drunken exploits, and the soul-crushing Bebo experience of being dumped as ‘The Other Half’.

Poor unfortunate souls.

Now we have Facebook! It’s slightly nicer, better looking, and often the perfect Austen gentleman until it explains “Oops! Something went wrong!” It’s also easier to watch the lives of your friends, frienemies, relatives, and one-night-stands fall apart dramatically through status updates. While Facebook does paint society in a lovely shade of schadenfreude, it has an annoying knack of eating up all our time, time I am sure we used better before the World Wide Web became a black hole of grades, assignments, and lives.

Facebook aside, I recently tallied my internet ‘most-visited-sites’ and came back with Facebook (shocking), YouTube, Overheard in New York, The Oatmeal, and Lamebook, which is like Facebook (again, shocking), only it focuses on the most spectacular of awkward social fails. But with several assignments due in a week and exams fast-approaching, I’m boycotting Facebook. Lying on my couch, I can’t imagine how on Earth I wasted six hours on this website…

Ooh! A witty page with an amusing title I can relate to: ‘when sluts hate other sluts for being sluts’. I must like this.

Shut up J.K. Rowling, just shut up!

Ten years ago, making any attempt to disrespect the House of J.K. Rowling and her fantastical world of wizards, Quidditch, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a move towards a public flagellation. Sure, there were children who disliked the books, but I remember that at the time, most would rather shrivel up and be swallowed by the earth than read any book. Talks of a movie flitted about the place soon after the publication of the first novel, adding to the excitement of kids across the globe. But as the final film approaches release, is anyone else getting bored?

Like most children, it was my teacher who introduced my class to the intriguing realm of Harry Potter. Dedicating an entire afternoon to reading the first chapter to a squabble of grotty nine-year-olds, my teacher only had to read one page before we were hooked on diabetus Uncle Vernon, paunchy Dudley, and Aunt Petunia, who I imagined looked like a Skeksis in human form. But then there was Harry—scrawny, scruffy, the weediest of kids. You just know he was picked last for everything but his scar. J.K. Rowling was good, you have to admit. From the beginning, you wanted to know more about the Boy who Lived.

The first novel ended with the spectacular introduction to Lord Voldemort and a hint that perhaps in future, these novels could be darker. This was the case with the Chamber of Secrets and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Major characters already well-established, Rowling had more of a free range with how they interacted and what horrid situations Harry Potter got his poor pal Ron Weasley into. Hermione Granger appeared to loosen up by the third novel, even punching greasy Draco Malfoy in the face. Introduced to such things as Dementors, Bertie Botts, and even Dobby the House Elf, there was so much promise, so much we still had to learn about Tom Riddle, Slytherin, and oh-so-awesome Professor Snape.

Then she had to write the fourth novel and ruin my life.

I was sitting at my desk one afternoon when She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named spied my copy of the Goblet of Fire. I was several chapters from the end. Suddenly she blurted, “Cedric Diggory dies!” It was in this brief moment that Harry Potter became a little less magical. Life over, I dragged myself through the fifth and sixth novels (you know, the one where Harry became an emo kid because he defeated Voldemort, still wasn’t a prefect, and Won-won was getting it on with Lavender Brown?), I reluctantly read the seventh novel over the summer of 2008, and promptly felt like writing a polite letter to Rowling asking for my decade back.

Over the years, parents have been subjected to countless Harry Potter-themed parties, consoled children after the traumatic death of Dumbledore, and dealt with the fact it took seven novels, eight films, and seven Horcruxes for Rowling to explain that Voldemort simply became an unholy shit storm of dark magic because he wasn’t loved as a child. I’ll see the final film (probably) but only in tribute to the first three instalments, where the magic of Harry Potter really came into its own.

It could be worse, I suppose, Stephanie Meyer has way more to answer for.

This is like my last supper; let’s have McDonalds!

At an early age, I decided my mother gave the best hugs in the entire history of mankind. Not that I was a promiscuous child, but I have hugged a fair few people, enough to know that their hugging styles paled in comparison. But as I watch her being prepped for a gastric bypass, I can’t help but think that following the dramatic weight loss expected over the coming 12 months I will be cruelly robbed of ‘mum cuddles’.

Being about as graceful and delicate as an overweight rhinoceros during my younger years, it was not unusual for me to get into tricky situations, like dangling by my overalls from a tree while gathering pine cones. My arse, back, and head served primarily as means of breaking my fall. But, no matter what I scraped, where I fell, or how I done goofed, a hug from Mum sorted everything. One day, I remember sitting in a small classroom after my knee somehow made it through a school window. I was scolded by a teacher and mortified that it was my bloody knee that managed to break a window five feet above the ground; then mum arrived and simply looked at me like the moron I was before giving me a damn hug. See? Problem solved.

But she’s sitting now, getting blood tests and arranging her dinner for this evening. For anyone who has ever been in hospital, the food is akin to shite on toast. Forced to suffer the degrading practise of nil-by-mouth, mum is given the option of lentil soup or broth, which draws us to the hard, cold facts of a gastric bypass: you never get to eat like your average tubby git ever again.

After years of spontaneous noms and between-meal smackerels, mum will never again stomach Mars Bars, Tunnocks Tea Cakes, or cheesecakes. She often mentions that one of her favourite moments in life was waddling, heavily pregnant with me, through Liverpool to Marks & Spencer, purchasing Fruitfuls and full-fat cream to mix and scoff before throwing up like all normal pregnant women. So when stuck with lentil soup or broth for her Last Supper, you can imagine she’s a bit miffed.

We’ve been here an hour now, meeting nurses, dieticians and physiotherapists and while the lentil soup is an ongoing issue, the team is marvellous. A buzz of excitement is in the air as she goes down to x-rays and an ECG, where mum explains “they’re going to squeeze all my wobbly bits”. This is the first day of the rest of her life and with a nervous smile she tells me we’re going shopping in Melbourne. She’s happy and for that, I don’t mind sacrificing my mum cuddles.

But with a room to herself and a television screening Cartoon Network (“Is there Invader Zim? I like that one?”), Atticus and I agree the physiotherapy might be more challenging. Sitting nervously in an armchair while a physiotherapist details ways in which she could “get fit” post-mangled stomach, mum was politely asked what her current exercise routine was like:

“I don’t.”

Relax. I’ll just cut a bit here and … Oh shit.

Birthdays seem to go hand in hand with relatives trotting out photographs of your younger self you wish did not exist. Forced to relive those mortifying moments when your parents were still the dictators of your wardrobe, you notice an unsightly trend as each image flips before you.

Who the fuck has been cutting your hair?

I have never got on with my hair and its constant mockery of my life began as a baby, when I would lie on my back and roll around the floor in an attempt to be athletic. This act was to have a severe impact on my dignity because, on the joyous day of Baby’s First Hair Cut, the hairdresser was met with an unsightly bald patch on the back of my bulbous noggin. Funnily enough, I have only ever seen this phenomena one other time—a local stray cat rubbing his ass on concrete. Said cat was bald in three days.

It seems hair only exists to scorn us. At age six, I retaliated to its misgivings by strategically placing a wad of gum in the curls behind my left ear as we drove around one Saturday afternoon. Sticking it to the man, as it would seem. My feeling of sheer triumph was short-lived, replaced with trepidation once it became clear that no, the gum was not going to cooperate. And, as my mum went to the kitchen drawer to retrieve a pair of scissors, it dawned on me that my hair had won. Again.

After that unfortunate incident, I spent three months growing out a kinky scrap of hair that stuck out in all directions. On purpose, I’m sure. So at age 12, I took drastic measures and opted for the pixie cut. After a month, once the novelty of mohawks and liberty spikes wore off, I was left with a curly mop of hair that refused to cooperate. Too lazy to blow dry or brush it, I spent my early adolescence looking like a hobbit. Clearly I had forgotten how much this irritated me because I cut it all off again at the arrogant age of 17. As I restyled it back into a mohawk, a skill that comes in handy, I jokingly thought I would make an excellent Harry Potter.

To date, I have dressed as Harry Potter three times.

It was clear something needed to be done about Hair before it turned me into a walking shrine to J.K Rowling. I made a vow to grow it out, wash it, tend to it, and whisper sweet nothings between brushings in the hopes it would stop being such a raging bitch and sit right for once. It’s a battle, I’ll admit, growing out hair. Hair’s latest trick is getting caught in car doors but looking back on the recent photo albums, I’m glad A-Typical Nineties Hair has been laid to rest.

But whatever you do, don’t mention The Bob. I’m yet to forgive my four-year-old self for wanting that one.

It is understood that once you are in a reasonable state of consciousness in the morning, you check your emails. While most of them are updates from Facebook or spam suggesting herbal enhancers, occasionally an email with an innovative subject line will find its way through to your account. Last Tuesday was such a morning and I found myself staring at a message titled ‘holy fuck shit’.

With an overactive imagination, and still half asleep, ‘holy fuck shit’ led my brain to the extremes of zombie apocalypse, or the ability to clone dinosaurs—which will happen one
day, mark my words. But after reading the linked article and learning the Triceratops never existed, I ascertained ‘holy fuck shit’ was an acceptable lead-in.

As it turns out, Triceratops is an immature form of a Torosaurus, which is ‘palaeontology’ for some dinosaur we couldn’t give a rat’s ass about. Seriously, Torosaurus sounds like a dance move combining arm flailing and ghetto stomping, reserved for tragic spinsters at their cousins’ wedding. But scientists have realised the Triceratops’ skull shape shifts, or for all you Poké-masters out there, ‘evolves’, into the skull of an adult Torosaurus, a three-horned less-than-amazing Triceratops. Scientists are basing this knowledge on the fact no juvenile fossils of Torosaurus have been uncovered.

Dear palaeontologist, a word of advice: might I suggest digging deeper before taking my Triceratops? It was a pretty crappy thing to do. Even Microsoft Word doesn’t recognise
‘Torosaurus’. I think you may have your facts wrong. Windows XP aside, Bill Gates is nothing if thorough… Sort of. Also, I imagine you look like Ross Geller so if you’re ‘on a break’, don’t take it out on Triceratops.

A glorious, prehistoric beast, the Triceratops was best known to children as that arrogant jaundice three-horn ‘Cera’ from The Land Before Time. You know, that one that acted as the fun police and crushed the dreams of her fellow adventurers en route to the Great Valley. Despite Littlefoot’s mother saving her ass, Cera was still a righteous mole. After sitting through umpti-billion Land Before Time sequels, prequels, and tragic spin-offs, I take great pleasure in the fact she no longer exists. Shame Spielberg, that’s what you get for failing to clone dinosaurs after Jurassic Park. You’ve had over a decade. We want some action here, pal.

But like so many other items ripped away from us by science, evolution, and all things politically correct, the Triceratops is the latest casualty in what I am convinced is a war against our childhood. It starts small, the first casualty being red-tipped cigarette Spaceman Candy Sticks. But oh no, this wasn’t enough and soon escalated with some ass-tronomist just having to snatch away Pluto.

Let’s look on the bright side though, dinosaurs evolve like Pokémon and Littlefoot, the Brontosaurus that could, has finally his revenge on Spielberg.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, the Brontosaurus isn’t real either!?

Attempting to blend in with four-year-olds is difficult on most days, but trying to achieve this feat in Toyworld is next to impossible. For one, they tend to cry more. Moving away to play ‘kill, boff, marry’ with the limited retro editions of Barbie, the latest tea party accessories catch my eye. They do not include the Easy Bake Oven.

Furrowing my brows together to make a serious face, I thought about the lack of Easy Bake Ovens. I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever seen one in Toyworld. Or New Zealand. On the three playdates I was invited to, no excited child ever squealed “let’s bake with my Easy Bake Oven!” Fun times surely would have followed, but the sad fact is, aside from Google image and YouTube, I’ve never actually seen an Easy Bake Oven.

An icon of childhood, the Easy Bake Oven has its own history page on the Hasbro website. The first thing you notice is that it now resembles a microwave more than a miniature industrial oven from the 1960s. After spending the coming decades changing the appearance of the Easy Bake from a pea-green cube with a faux stovetop to a state-of-the-art kitchen appliance, Hasbro introduced more recipes for children to cook, such as poptarts, french fries and sandwiches.

See, here’s where the confusion sets in. Turns out the Easy Bake Oven is actually an oven, not a Playskool Kitchen Set with plastic cooking utensils and bacon strips. Until quite recently I was under the impression the Easy Bake Oven ‘cooked’ pishy cake mix with a 60W light bulb. Shockingly, I was not interested in getting such a lame excuse for a toy. But apparently, this is not what happens, and the oven actually cooks cakes, desserts and biscuits with a high-powered heating element.

The last reason—the fact it cooks food with a heating device—probably meant I was never going to get an Easy Bake Oven as a child. The amount of times I either burn dinner, undercook pancakes or set the element on fire by accidently spilling cat food on it mean should I ever get my hands on an Easy Bake Oven, I could probably turn my home into Chernobyl. With a definite health hazard attached to the oven, this means I only want it more.

I can’t help but feel I have missed out on something truly incredible by waking up each Christmas and birthday without an Easy Bake Oven. I blame my culinary shortfalls and tendency to bring fire—literally—to the kitchen on the fact I was unable to flex my little chef hands during the nineties. Forever doomed to nuke my food in a microwave, I realise I have made the ultimate Easy Bake sacrifice, but I have not burnt down my house.

Yet.