Hi Geraldine
I promise this will be my last non poetry post, but I've been mulling
over the Olympics all day.
No, you didn't dream the Bananas in Pyjamas.
The surprising thing about the closing ceremony (and even the opening
ceremony, which was much more self conscious) was that it was so
subversive: total camp, beginning with the mambo and ending with the
Sydney Mardi Gras. Only sometimes wobbling over into straight kitsch.
(As in the obligatory Slim Dusty rendition of Waltzing Matilda.) Most of
the rest of it was more informed by Neil Gladwin on the feral lawnmower
flattening the sponsors.
Frankly, I was surprised: I expected to be cringing, as I usually do when
Australia hits the headlines (PM bans UN human rights team, demands more
greenhouse emissions, &c.) After years of IOC corruptions and AOC
ballsups no one was really very interested. In the end I wished I was in
Sydney; a friend of mine who was (and who was deeply uninterested before
it opened) said the city was alight. What saved the games was the fact
that it became a genuinely popular event: and the comedians Roy and HG.
It's hard to convey what effect they had, because it was so enormous: by
the end of the Olympics the real mascot was their sendup, Fatso the
Fatarsed Wombat, who was portrayed putting out the flame by pissing on
it. By resolutely pouring shit on everything they made the whole thing a
hoot, and somehow returned it to its actual pretext (sport).
Nick Cave? Lotsa people like him, but the Birthday Party used to bore me
something wonderful. Ditto his Ass and Angel southern gothic camp. But
it's true Australians don't appreciate their own talents. Apparently
AC/DC wouldn't come; maybe Nick had other pressing engagements.
I'm ambivalent about these spectacles too, for lots of worthy reasons,
but in the end I couldn't resist this one.
Best
Alison
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