My Heroin

I wish I could remember her name. She was Irish and a tree-hugger, I recall. Forsaken by the bus, surrounded by the rain, I offered her my mobile shelter, if she was going my way. We walked three, maybe four blocks huddle together, making light conversation, shrouded in the brilliant shade of Old Red.

Old Red was the umbrella I bought in a New Orleans tourist shop with my brother Thomas back in 2012. We stomped the pavement, arm-in-arm down to the French Quarter under her cover. We had spent six weeks roadtripping from west coast to east coast to the deep south, sharing sleeping quarters, cramped train cars, and backbreaking Greyhound buses, and yet this seemed the first time we actually had come into contact.

I remember the day I lost Old Red. A Saturday, pouring down: I was riding the 200 bus into town to meet some friends for breakfast and in my rush off the bus, I had forgotten Old Red at the floor of my seat.

I left the bus station and tried to go on with my life.

Before I had walked too long, an elderly and acutely-accented man spotted me with my wilted newspaper hat. He walked up alongside me offering the shelter of his umbrella, a Black Beauty. “Thanks, my hair gets oily in the rain” I said then hoped he hadn’t heard.

We shared the umbrella, and then another surprising moment.

We paused at a crossing, just as a silver Jag came speeding past and rolled into a puddle, upsetting the water like a defibrillated shock that soaked us from head-to-toe. We couldn’t help but laugh.

One more vague, charming memory for each of us. Or maybe he’s forgotten our soggy encounter entirely. Maybe he never wondered my name.

*  *  *

I recently told a friend about my love of sharing umbrellas with not just family and friends, but also strangers. Heroin addicts say that they continue to using in the hopes of re-experiencing the ultimate transcendent high that their first shoot-up provided – so said my cousin, when I was 12 and she was 14, and we were playing ping pong and listening to Californication one school holiday. Like heroin users, perhaps my penchant for sharing umbrellas is about recapturing the fanciful friendly times of rainclouds past. Perhaps, it's my heroin.

For Mum...

It's a question that the lost, the lonesome, the desperate, the confounded, the most unwitting of confidants will ask in situations of personal crisis: what would Jesus do?

In considering a hypothetical response to such a query, we must first ask: what did Jesus do?

I mean, what did Jesus do? Really?

It’s been largely verified by today’s brightest, most thorough scholars of antiquity that Jesus did exist.  However, discounting the highly descriptive passages of the New Testament and its authors’ presumed collective and final authority to use direct quotation marks – these guys didn’t just paraphrase – when expressing his Divine status and teachings, there is no other record to suggest Jesus was more than a mere man.

For midnightly-blog’s sake, let’s just say he was an inspirational guy. A spiritual and charitable man. Like Gandhi or Bono.

So what about these miracles he’s allegedly performed? That is to say, if Jesus didn’t carry out acts of God, where did these claims come from?  Were these rumours circulating at the time he lived? Did he know about them? Did he entertain them? Perhaps he started them. What does that then say about his so-called morals?

Suppose they started after Jesus’ lifetime. Who decided to flavour his story with impossible doings like calming a storm, curing lepers with his touch, multiplying fish and bread, etc?

What are some of Jesus’ lesser known miracles?

Did he walk on hot coal?

Did he scull a gallon of milk in record time?

My favourite Jesus miracle is turning water into wine.

Namely so, because he did so at the insistence of his mother. Mary liked a good celebration and asked him, so as to avoid a social faux pas and downer on a wedding. Jesus obliged after some initial resistance.

Would this be classed as a selfish use of Divine powers? Consider this: he brought joy to people and harmed no one. But God, being omniscient and the only one in those times who knew about science, would have been well aware wine destroys brain cells and alters one’s personality and can incite anger, carelessness and social irresponsibility. Yet, drinking was a significant component to the ordination and post-celebrations of holy matrimony; widely practised at all meals and meetings in this historic culture. What excuses and meanings can one derive from this sanctioned boozing?

God and Jesus condone wine?

Mary was quite intimidating when sloshed?

God was terribly busy inventing mangoes at the time? Like a school boy eager to finish his homework so he can go outside and play cricket with Dennis and the older kids, but, to his surprise, gets really into his studies and works away well until dinner time?

......

I think, Jesus loved his Mum more than anything or anyone else in the whole world and thought he ought to show her-- bless all mothers, Happy Mother’s Day!

The World of Wes in a Nut-Shell

A friend recently shared this piece of writing by Michael Chabon on Wes Anderson:
http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2013/jan/31/wes-anderson-worlds/
I re-read sentences several times over. To totally comprehend his meanings and impossibly good grasp of language, structure and metaphor. To marvel at his deeply-considered comparisons and well-justified arguments. He's so on it.

I particularly liked his openings paragraphs regarding childhood, the paradoxical power of scale models and our adult longing / futile efforts to re-capture that same world perspective. Also, he's found the words to describe what I've only felt, beyond my own understanding, and have wanted to explain to audiences who don't 'get' Wes - that sedateness that somehow speaks volumes about characters' emotions; that his rich, precise mise-en-scene creates a doll-like world, an ideal world setting (like that of a child's game/view or adult's nostalgic recollections!); that the juxtaposition (work of art!) shows us that these broken characters don't fit in this ideal world:

"Anderson, like Nabokov, understands that distance can increase our understanding of grief, allowing us to see it whole. But distance does not—ought not—necessarily imply a withdrawal.... the teeming, gridded, curio cabinet sets at the heart of The Life Aquatic, The Darjeeling Limited, and Fantastic Mr. Fox - often cited as evidence of his work’s “artificiality,” at times with the implication, simple-minded and profoundly mistaken, that a high degree of artifice is somehow inimical to seriousness, to honest emotion, to so-called authenticity.... indeed I would argue that artifice, openly expressed, is the only true “authenticity” an artist can lay claim to."

Seriously, bravo.

Heaven: The Ultimate Dream, My Secret Nightmare

The idea of Heaven seems flawed to me.

I’m not referring to a purported afterlife, which I accepted as word as a Catholic teenager, prodded and questioned during the soul-search years of uni, and finally deemed unlikely as an occasionally heartbroken, sometimes unemployed, oft user of public transport. Indeed, I have reached the cynicism ordinarily ascribed to formerly great American novelists who now shred everything they write, snack on bird seed, foster and scream at an ungrateful tabby cat, eat meals alone, go on walks alone, and shop alone for rugs meant for a cabin nestled in the heart of an insane forest on the outskirts of civilisation. The one thing that distinguishes my twenty-two-year-old self from a middle-aged cynic, thankfully, is my distaste for whiskey, especially when poured over my morning cereal.

Faith or a lack thereof aside, I’d like to examine the depiction of Heaven that even the non-religious can recognise, describe and envision themselves. That is, there is a single representation of a Christian Heaven. Pillowy clouds; soft, white light; harps and bugles; already passed family and friends. Too good to be true, right? Perhaps, in theory. I only wonder why Heaven, the ultimate prize and personal paradise, should be so bleached and boring.

I can’t say I’ve ever chosen to listen to harps or bugles or that I look forward to reuniting with people who, however good a life they led or well-timed their final repentance, I simply don’t gel with. There must be a toll booth at the Pearl Gates, a surrender of what you’d call your authentic self – the one you spent a whole life wanting to express, share, grow and defend – because who on Earth can say they really like small talk and that bunch of ignorant cousins? No one is going to bicker in Heaven – with the flat lighting or with each other. There’s no question of preferred landscape or integration of favourite pastimes; your state of being is suddenly wise, boringly content and apparently incredibly patient what with the whole eternity factor.

If our personalities did accompany our souls up above, I don’t think I could appreciate the so-called reward. I think I’d grow sick of the bliss. Considering the givens that may await, that shall surround me forever (that’s always; no glimpse of an end, nor non-Hell alternative which is also always and endless), my chest sinks with an ironic kind of depression.

It’s like counting down the days for that awesome party, continually checking the date and details on the mad invitation and quietly suffering the whole work week because you’re too excited, feeling too grateful for and already guilty about the amount of fun you’re going to have at this awesome, mad party. You dress “effortlessly cool” and arrive at the unacknowledged, though perfectly understood appropriate time only to find yourself inside a woefully lit room, hearing Guy Sebastian on a loop, amongst familiar somebodies with whom you have nothing in common and stuck in a line for the bathroom that does not move. Gee, this do’s a little underwhelming, not really my thing...

My idea of Heaven is a long weekend broken up as such:

Saturday

Family BBQ at home – food preparation, a savoury smorgasbord, homemade desserts, dogs, kids, pool, debating movies and sometimes politics, quoting old Simpsons, Mario Kart, afternoon nap, left-overs and Willy Wonka on Channel 7...

Sunday

Youthful folly and inner-city adventure with friends – big breakfast in West End, browsing the markets and boutiques, exploring GoMA, posing with statues, a ferry to New Farm, a sneaky game of Frisbee, someone suffering a wardrobe/shoe/muscular incident that becomes the running obstacle/joke of the day, people-watching, philosophising, sketching, singing, dancing, gelato.... Then James St of an evening - cosmopolitan bars, hazy lights, acoustic guitar, salty seafood, Palace Cinemas and a brisk, sobering stroll out in the cool air...

Monday

A day mostly to myself – walking around my sleepy suburb, amongst nature, listening to music, podcasts and audio books, smelling freshly-cut grass and simmering curries in neighbours' kitchens, reading comics, drinking tea, watching BBC comedies, pondering, writing and moon-gazing...

Overall, no harps, some clouds, inevitable sunburn.

  

And Batman.

 

REVIEW - Django Unchained

      Year: 2012        Writer/Director: Quentin Tarantino          Producers: Stacey Sher, Reginald Hudlin, Pilar Savone

      Stars: Jamie Foxx, Christoph Waltz, Leonardi diCaprio, Samuel L. Jackson, Kerry Washington, Don Johnston.


Django Unchained tells the story of a pair of bounty hunters who undertake a personal mission of rescue and revenge in Mississippi during the 1850s. The gun-slinging anti-heroes are Dr King Schultz (Christoph Waltz), an Austrian and former dentist, and the black man he freed, Django (Jamie Foxx).

Despite killing wanted men and their nuisance affiliates for bounties, Dr Schultz oozes charm and conducts all affairs like a reasonable businessman. When he recruits Django to help identify his latest bounty targets, Dr Schultz learns of the former slave’s torturous separation from his wife, Brunhilda, and furthermore witnesses the man’s ruthless bounty hunter potential. Over the course of a winter contract with Schultz, Django learns elocution, redefines his wardrobe, and becomes a deadly hunter in his own right. He is ready to rescue his wife. Only wherever they go, Django’s clothes, horse-riding and projection of superiority (over white and black folk alike) elicit tension and physical threat from the many fanatical racists they encounter.

Following a skit (it would appear) and fiery ambush involving the KKK, Django and Schultz meet the wealthy plantation owner who most recently bought Brunhilda. The superficial millionaire, Calvin Candie (Leonardo diCaprio), entertains the men who pose as new hobbyists of “Mandingo” – a fictional sport and consuming passion of Candie’s that pits black slaves against each other in a wrestle to the death.

Candie enters a long bargain with Schultz that sees them all staying at the millionaire’s estate. Under the hospitality and suspicious eye of a loyal footman (played by Samuel L. Jackson), Dr Schultz and Django are so close to rescuing Brunhilda and simultaneously being  found out by a house and barnyard full of embittered, bloodthirsty racists.

Meeting high anticipation, Django Unchained delivers cool, crafty and roundabout dialogue. This colours outrageous situations that make you smirk, jaw-drop and bite your fingers off in suspense. Moreover, the film unfolds very well, and although lengthy, it doesn’t feel clunky or wane our interest as an audience. Amongst these favourable elements, I would like to raise a qualm regarding the film’s dubious depiction of racism. However masterful a storyteller Tarantino is, and ambitious a director, this mishandling shouldn’t escape discussion or disapproval just because of Tarantino’s reputation to push the envelope and garner instant acclaim for it. 

Tarantino has defended his movie against fellow filmmaker Spike Lee’s claims of being “disrespectful” to black ancestry. Presumably, Lee is denoting the 100+ times n***** is uttered, unrelenting discrimination of African Americans, and exploitative nature of Mandingo wrestling. I don’t believe Tarantino feels any malice or intended any harm toward black ancestors – more so, he likes to test his characters, imagine badass muthaf****ry and shock his audience – but I agree that examples of racism in this movie are boldly and needlessly gratuitous.

Arguably, there is some form of commentary on racial prejudice within early-days America, and correlations may be drawn with attitudes, ongoing struggles and landmark victories of today. However, this sensitive subject is not the study of this film. Revenge is the story and the means of “happy” resolution and racial prejudice is the conflict. Whilst the movie holds our attention all 180 minutes –even as we close our eyes and open our ears to Candie’s vulgar championing of a depraved sport and the bone-crunch that hopefully signals the end of the close-up, rapidly-cut graphic violence – one leaves the cinema and sifts through the smart quips, eccentric characters and explosive action in search of an actual message. Racism is horrible and was disgracefully permissible over a hundred years ago, and Tarantino hammers this point into every second of the film as if each and every last scene using hateful slurs and depicting racial oppression hadn’t stayed with us. However, the movie makes no substantial offer of morals or lessons, which all stories of value should – primary to any thrill-capacity or artistic merit.

Whilst one can enjoy the movie, you are also forced to experience parts of it on an extreme level that I don’t believe the MA15+ classification prepares one for. Even as a mature, open-minded and extensive viewer of film, I didn’t expect to feel so uncomfortable watching this in the cinema. I was surprised this didn’t receive an R18+ rating, and am relatively concerned that people as young as fifteen can access content with as much potential to disturb.

Django Unchained is worth seeing if you have a strong heart and stomach – for the banter, performances, Spaghetti Western kitsch and ambitious action-rescue mission, if not the worthy discussions on racism, desensitisation and film classification.

7 / 10

REVIEW - Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters [3D]

Writer/Director: Tommy Wirkola          Year: 2013

Producers: Will Ferrell, Adam McKay, Chris Henchy, Christoph Fisser, et al.

Studio: Gary Sanchez Productions            Distributors: Paramount and MGM

Stars: Jeremy Renner, Gemma Arterton, Peter Stormare, Famke Janssen, Pihla Viitala

This film adaptation of the Brothers' Grimm famous fairytale is set in the all familiar German villages and spooky, dark woods only it takes place "many years later" and is revamped with sexy leather costumes, steampunk gadgets and automatic weaponry, and the main focus on the fun of full throttle combat and bloody carnage.

I entered with expectations of an average horror-action movie with the mean, rambunctious energy of the trailer. I walked away feeling robbed of my money - a strange feat for a movie, given this was a free ticket - and with the unmistakable aftertaste of cardboard in the back of my mouth. I also entered the cinema late. My friend and I scoured the darkness - one of the criticisms of 3D movies, apparently - for two empty seats at this advanced screening for some time. We crouched in the aisle - "but what about clear passages to the fire exits?" we thought like responsible young adults - and found terrible seats in the third row, then relocated to better seats up and to the far right. As the constancy of my critiques of Avatar (2009) and Les Miserables (2012) have demonstrated, poor seating is yet to impede my ability to, respectively, completely hate or love a movie. I believe the only scene I missed was a bite-size version of the original story of H&G - which I actually became very well-versed with as a child.

The epilogue to the original story (the film hereafter), unfolded swiftly with spectacular violence and insufficient development of its lead characters. This witch-hunting brother and sister are on a blind quest to somehow find and save 12 children from sacrificial slaughter by a zillion witches. They also face personal conflicts involving memories of their abandonment as children and whether to let the hot redhead help you and make love to you or to just give her the flick again.  Yet whatever the situation, little intellectual exercise or emotional pause is shown by the characters, and relationships between them seem to form in brushing and cling like Velcro. The dialogue is basic, expository and personifies no one. Momentum versus character development. It had to be a compromise, as is the case for many action blockbusters with "high-concept" scenes.  Slacken the pace to learn more about these terribly-written, dismally-realised characters? Even still, I remember praying for the experience to be over the minute I sat down for the second time. Talk about a Catch 22.

Modern integrations such as leather jackets and parkour stunts by witches slightly phased me but I don’t believe matters of personal taste should render a movie unwatchable. I don’t usually* pick on multi-accented casts and I can even accept the extreme physical injuries characters walk off. All this comes secondary to the actual story, which my criticism targets.

The plot, themes, characters and credibility of the world is the foundation of a film and until these are solidified in writing, I don’t think you can move onto casting, scouting, let alone shooting. Is it a contradiction to say this movie isn’t corny or cliche, just unimaginative? For all their lack of surprise, I think corny and cliche movies can still be engaging if not entertaining (think rom-coms). I simply mean: the troll’s name is Edward. “You get the children, I’ll get the heart,” to quote the arch-witch. Every magical or fantasy world term is self-explanatory or something you’ve heard before. Elements of “intrigue” and “mystery” unfold plain as day and what’s more, they have to be explained to the leads and us as an audience by Famke Janssen’s villainous witch. She even adds incidental thematic warmth to her long-winded narrative that “x did this to save y”.

I feel faintly embarrassed for Renner and Arterton who were roped into modelling and blinking and waking up over and over again and asking where they are under the guise it was “acting”. Not even the Messiah himself, Peter Stormare, could resurrect this film. His stubborn antagonist was a waste of the Svede's full and comprehensive power to act the menace. As for the 3D effects, I’m not a big advocate or commentator on the subject. I think it’s a neat trick but it certainly didn’t enhance this movie experience for me.

I felt so little in this movie, I can’t even hate it. I scathe ceaselessly but it honestly comes from an objective, open mind. I’m just pointedly aware this is the worst studio picture I’ve ever seen. I enjoy many fantasy genre movies and nerdlinger obsessions – just inject a little credibility, H&G, then maybe I’ll laugh at your swear-joke-rhetorical-questions. But don’t worry dear audiences, writer/director Tommy Wirkola has put in heaps sick kewl blood and machine guns and stuff coz that’s wat we really love!!!!

0/10

*Timeline (2003) starring Billy Connolly and Paul Walker as father and son respectively. In all fairness, it may have been the total lack of chemistry between the actors and their equally questionable performances skills - with due respect.

All My Friends Are Leaving Brisbane

Half a dozen of my friends are moving away. When you say “half a dozen” in a sentence it doesn’t sound like so many, but that’s six relationships changing and yanking my heart in far-reaching destinations across Australia and around the globe. Even though I don’t see them all so regularly anymore, a greater distance between us feels like an irrevocable loss. I know if the friendships mean anything, we will stay in touch, and I’m certain we will. It’s just sad that the next stage of each of our lives shouldn’t necessarily be shared like our high school/uni days. And just to clarify, I have more than half a dozen friends (re: title). I’m just terribly witty like that and the sudden succession of jetsetting friends warrants exaggerations like “all” and “Nazi-loving Judas”.

My friend Maree (still living in Brisbane) mentioned that her mid-year trip to the US – her first international caper – awakened her to how BIG the world really is. I suppose I could never fathom it myself until I’ve spent 15 hours on a plane, overpassed the largest ocean, stepped on soil 12,000km from home, and integrated a new population with as busy lives, as dense histories and as unique cultural groups directly into my existence.

Brisbane is pretty small in the scheme of things.  Think of how often we see people we know when we’re out and about. I say ‘see’ because we don’t always stop and say hello to friends and polite acquaintances in public situations, do we? No one expects to be sited or likes to be encountered somewhere you’re not accustomed to seeing them – it’s very embarrassing for some reason. I can get quite awkward but gosh darn it; I can’t pretend you’re not there. Funny how you can instantly recognise someone’s frame from your peripheral vision but not realise the shelves they’re browsing contain toilet paper until you’ve called out their name... Strange enough, she took the upper hand. She furthermore exclaimed how extraordinary it was that we should run in to each other. Actually, former classmate, it’s hardly fancy to see me, here. It’s quite likely that I need to shop somewhere just like you. I suppose you do say things like “fancy seeing you” when caught buying toilet paper... because you’ve literally caught them and they need to be armed with a generic phrase to seem relatable again. After all, you’ve just discovered they poop and who can relate to that? I would have liked to have cracked, “Big night ahead?” but like I said, she had more idioms to offer and hence the upper hand.

The Last Picture Show (1971):
Filmed on location in Archer City, TX

Contemplating these frequent run-ins and the trend of friends who seem to have outgrown this city, I’ve started viewing Brisbane as a small town in the Deep South or mid-West. You know the kind I’m referring to. The kind of town with latticed apple pies cooling on window sills; the kind where your next door neighbour is the deputy sheriff; the kind where the mayor, barber and owner of the bowling alley are one and the same person; the kind where you exchange stories of “spooked” horses at a bar at three in the afternoon; the kind of town you love but know you can do better than, and desperately want to flee.

First you must escape your widowed father’s guilt, then your job wiping windscreens at the gas station, then your high school sweetheart who is determined to revive his family’s failing beet farm, and finally the dusty backward town itself. It’s a good thing you have the support of that tired spinster waitress at the diner and of that unwashed hermit, possible murderer and proven cabbage patch saboteur living in a shanty by the swamp, who, in actuality, is a really kind and misunderstood old man.



The Dark Knight (2008): Bank Robbery scene

 So when, you ask, do I plan to escape the little rustbucket that is Brisbane? I’m aiming for this year – definitely this year – even if I have to hijack a school bus and crash it into a bank to rip off and kill William Fichtner.

That is to say, I’ve struggled to save enough in the past – but I think I can now realise my dream to escape my hometown just to pass through crappy small towns that I’d want to escape if my life was a movie. Taste that irony? As finger-licking-good as Laverne’s cherry pie (the tired spinster waitress I will befriend).

My inspiration to road trip America came about after watching a Russell Brand TV special. Brand and his friend and radio co-host Matt Morgan specially set out to follow the roads travelled in Jack Kerouac’s novel On The Road. Despite the sobreity of the UK tourists, I found Brand and Morgan's trek a little more colourful than that of the novel's trippin' roadtrippers. It took me three attempts to finish On The Road, because yes, it could be dull – but also because I start and quit books like a Hollywood marriage.



Breakdown (1997): Kathleen Quinlan is kidnapped and
held for ransom of 90,000 donuts.

The book’s modelled on Kerouac’s own misadventures. His alter-ego protagonist, Sal, is a writer from New York who leaves his sad wife and sad life to cross the many plains of America with his erratic buddy, Dean Moriarty. Drugs, sex and pick up trucks. How romantic, I think, to hitchhike. I’d to like to do it at least once, but my gap-tooth and bony wrists scream “I’m vulnerable! I'm naive! And I’d be the perfect addition to your secret cellar!” I should like to travel with a stoic male like Sal because that would be much more safe – Kurt Russell and Kathleen Quinlan would agree.

Yes; New York, San Francisco, Washington and New Orleans all seem wonderful to me. The history, the culture, the architecture, the food and entertainment! But on an even keel of anticipation and riotous shenanigans, there’s Brownsville, Oregon.



Keifer Sutherland and River Phoenix in Stand By Me (1986); Phoenix overdosed outside the Viper Room in 1993.



Brownsville is the town where Stand By Me was filmed. Just to think, I could be walking on the very pavement Kiefer Sutherland pummelled River Phoenix’s face into. I guess there’s always the pavement outside the Viper Room too.

I looked up Brownsville on Google Maps with Tom (my brother and reluctant friend; still living in Brisbane) and to our surprise and delight, the town’s 50s quaintness and simplicity seems to have been snaplock-sealed and refrigerated for consumption by today’s nostalgic youth. And unlike the time capsule I buried and hoped would be preserved with my friend Alishya (not living in Brisbane), it has not been mercilessly ravaged by a dog and/or flood water.



Bless Google Maps: Directions from Brisbane QLD to Brownsville OR
This route includes a ferry. (Useful: mode of transport)
This route has tolls. (Polite: pack spare change / gold bars / chickens)
This route crosses through Japan (Harmless observation or something else? Cautious of radioactivity? Inferring opportunities for environmental protest? Hm... Subtley played, Google.
Oh yeah, and worst directions ever.



The Great American Dream

The fantasy I’ve cast myself in consists of an idle, arm-out-the-window drive down the main drag in an old Chrysler convertible (rental) with a mix tape of Ben E. King distorting through the shot speakers. Then, if I were so inclined (and a dude), I’d stop in for a cut-throat shave. My liberal beliefs in racial and gender equality, fabric softener and the necessity of dance would probably see me run swiftly out of town by locals toting pitchforks and blazing torches.

By golly, I can’t wait to escape Brisbane just to escape a shithole like Brownsville.

*   *   *   *

If you enjoyed reading this blog and would like to vicariously escape a small cruddy town, I would recommend watching: The Night of the Hunter, East of Eden, The Last Picture Show, Paper Moon, Empire Falls, Hud, Stand By Me, Mississippi Burning, Footloose, My Cousin Vinny, American Graffiti and possibly All My Friends Are Leaving Brisbane (which I have not seen).