Abigail's Party (1977)

Its no surprise to me that Mike Leigh's early film for TV Abigail's Party (1977) was rated 11th in the 100 Greatest British Television Programmes. I saw it recently, and it truly is a magnificent precursor to that excruciating but hilarious genre (self-important-type-makes-constant-arse-of-self-in-public) that later spawned classics like The Office.

I also think its a toss-up as to whether Prunella Scales of Fawlty Towers or Alison Steadman's potrayal of Beverly is the origin of that classic UK aspirational lower middle-class female character that ends every sentence on a patronising "okaayyyy?".

In any case, I can only agree with the Channel 4 reviewer who said that Abigail's Party "still ranks as the most painful hundred minutes in British comedy-drama." Its compelling, peek-through-your-fingers-while-you-cringe viewing. Also interesting are the class dynamics between the five characters, flung together by post-1960s suburbanism and Britain's rising lower middle class.

100th Post Commemorative Yabber

You know, when first my Caravel navigated these bloggy waters, armed with nothing but an Astrolabe, orders from the Leal Senado in Macau, and a rough Portolan of the last known voyage of Eredia (handed me by a marooned Marineiro in Solor), it was impossible to tell what adventures might lay at the end of the cartographer's wind-rose.

So many forts in Asia, so many lattes, and so many forts in Asia later, and... sadly... os meus amigos, its time to hang up ye old blogging mouse, and sail into the unknown waters of Luca Antara.

Hoho, just kidding! What a classic blog cliche, the threatened departure! As if. You and I both know the Portuguese forts in Asia scene has never been hotter. And I didn't come this far to yield the parapets and hoist my lateen sail for Lisbon, just because of some pesky lack of widespread interest in my deliberately obscure blog. You didn't see the Forte São João Baptista administrators abandon their post, just because they controlled less than 100 sq foot of territory, and no one sent them a letter for 200 odd years, did you?

No, and likewise, we're made of sterner stuff here at BmL.

Instead, let's dwell briefly on life as a small blog. Here's some random stats, in lieu on any actual desire on my part to analyse it properly.

Days since first post: 588. That's a post every 6 days. So don't tell me I never get ya nuthin!
Number of visitors: 4279. That's a massive average 7.3 per day! Those stats don't include me either - only genuine vistors. Somebody call google ads, we've got a live one!
Number of comments: 460. Subtracting the 40% that are mine (which is how it tends to go) that's a monster 2.7 punter comments per post. Mother, hire a letter-opener!
Record number of post comments: 24. Twice! Renegotiate the 1856 border, Capitão, this enclave ain't big enough!
Number of CPLP Countries on my counter: 4 full members (Portugal, Brazil, Mozambique, East Timor); 1 associate member (Macau); and 1 associate observer (Senegal).

Aos novos fortalezas! Até a vitória sempre!

Man, 41, seeks new word for partner

I don't know about you, but I reckon its high time we thought of a better word for one's main squeeze, when you aren't the marrying kind.

Now, if you're married, no problemo. 'Husband' and 'wife' are fine old terms if you ask me. Stood the test of time.

But for those of us who aren't into marriage (and let's face it, that's now a bunch of us - possibly a working majority for all I know) the options are poor.

I'm sorry, but I find the contemporary frontrunner 'partner' so completely lameass, I cringe every time I even think of it.

'Howdy, partner! Soooo-eeee!'

'Defacto' tends to run in second, but that sounds like you're making do until something better and more formal comes along; presumably a de jure occupant of your bed.

Recently, I've gone back to 'girlfriend', after dropping it some time back in the early 90s. Its mainly for a laugh, in explicit rejection of you-know-what, but secretly, I quite like it. It makes me feel youthful as well, and has done wonders for my complexion.

But really, I can't keep trotting that out for the mother of my child.

....OR CAN I??!!!

Alternatives welcome.

Roger East's Final Communique from Dili, December 1975

I saw Robert Connolly's film Balibo last Monday at the Melbourne International Film Festival. Its a magnificent work of Australian cinema - the best I have seen in many years. Both historically sound (respected East Timor academic and justice campaigner Clinton Fernandes was the historical consultant) and dramatically set at perfect pitch. The treatment is neither overplayed nor overwrought, the dialogue remains tight and realistic throughout. As a result, the impact of the dramatic climax stays with you long after the film.

As readers of this blog might recall, I once visited Balibo, and its a beautiful, quiet town on a mountain, with a long view down to the border between Batugade and Indonesian Mota'ain. The Balibo House Trust - funded by the Victorian Government - now owns he Chinese house and runs it as a community learning centre. Also involved are the Australian Friendship Group, the Friends of Balibo.

I reproduce here Roger East's final communique from Dili in December 1975. He was murdered on the Pertamina Wharf in Dili - along with scores of East Timorese independence leaders and supporters, including Nicolau Lobato's wife - by invading Indonesian forces on December 7, 1975.

Australia's nearest neighbour, tiny East Timor, has cast the die. It's 'Independence or Death', a western cliche, but here a daily salutation - and the Timorese people mean it.

The mortar that binds the East Timorese is the thoughts of Independence after 400 years of colonial rule. They will settle for nothing less.

Fretilin's army is basically anti-colonial, strongly Catholic-tinted and, not surprisingly, has many vehement anti-Communists in its midst.

Djakarta has elected to win support from its nervous neighbours by attaching the Red label to Fretilin.

However, Fretilin's initial planning is a blending of socialistic and cooperative policies which would appear natural for a colony bereft of secondary industry and winning only a subsistence existence from the soil.

Membership of Fretilin by Australian standards would include thinkers from the centre to the extreme left - the latter in a fringe grouping in the Central Committee.

Secretary of the East Timor Department of Foreign Affairs, Jose Ramos Horta, admits the committee's views vary on many issues, the sole exception being independence.

"I expect to see a multi-party set up in East Timor after we cross the present hurdle.

"We are a tolerant people who have waited a long time for the democratic process. We'll share it when it comes."

Fretilin believes the Governor, Colonel Lemos Pires, now living on the Island of Atauro, the St Helens of his choice, aided and abetted the UDT to stage its ill-fated August coup.

Fretilin had been told of the coup plot and a request to the governor to disarm the plotters is said to have been turned down.

Fretilin was defenceless when the fighting started and its members hounded, jailed and some murdered. UDT lost when the Portuguese-trained soldiers defected in favour of Fretilin.

UDT's leadership is now split three ways. Some are languishing in Timorese jails and others in the more comfortable surrounds of Australian cities.

The remaining standard bearers are in Indonesia, hosted and promised a triumphant return, albeit in the wake of mortar bombs.

Their platform of independence, which over a year ago saw them in a political alliance with Fretilin, is now abandoned. They are opting for Indonesia after 450 years of Portuguese domination.

Apodeti, the party pressing for union with Indonesia, is a bad bar-room joke. Its political rallies could be staged in the proverbial ten by four room which includes a table.

Founder and President, Arnold Araujo, 62, a respected horse thief, is currently being detained at Fretilin's pleasure.

The Portuguese jailed him for nine years for war crimes committed against the Timorese during the Japanese occupation.

This leaves only Fretilin which wants to embrace an offer of a United Nations supervised plebiscite.

East Timor's problems grow daily. Its primary ricebowl in the Maliana Valley is now a battlefield. Other crops have been destroyed or neglected in the turmoil of the fighting. Hunger is a reality and starvation a growing threat.

Pijin blong Solomon

Here's a few pics of signs and ads in the national language of Solomon Islands Pijin. I must confess I didn't pick up very much after one week in Honiara - only Lukim yu (see you later) and Tanggio tumas (thanks very much). Oh, and Solomon Islanders say "set" a lot - to indicate that everything is good or fine.
























I'm told that Solomons Pijin, Tok Pisin of PNG and Bislama of Vanuatu are all mutually intelligible - effectively creating a pan-Melanesian lingua franca.















Oh, and mind where you chew your betelnut, tanggio tumas.

Back at Work

And can't be arsed!

I've had a great couple of weeks in the Asia-Pacific region on various work missions, followed by a short holiday in Rio de Brisbaneiro - which was just long enough to get the flu, basically.

Back at work now, and not doing a very good job of impersonating someone who cares about semester two, and its looming deadlines. Sniffle. Groan.

I guess I'll sleep my way out of this slump over the coming days. Any tips on how to appear engaged?

Anyway - check it out! On my spare day, I snorkeled on this wrecked WW2 Japanese landing craft at Ironbottom Sound near Honiara, Guadalcanal, in the Solomon Islands. Full of coral, rainbow fish, and the rusting detritus of Imperial visions.

Ironbottom Sound, as you may know, is so named after the sheer number of US, Japanese (and one Australian) vessels sunk there in the Battle of Guadalcanal in 1942 - widely regarded a major turning point in the Pacific War, and the first major allied victory over the Japanese. There's an impressive US memorial on the hill above Honiara, which commemorates the major sea and land battle to capture Henderson airport and other Japanese-held areas of Guadalcanal.

Auto-reply: Out of Office

BmL is currently out of the office, and at large in the region. Any urgent matters can be raised via the fort-gate comments & suggestions box, below, and will be attended to by a special intergovernmental taskforce, in due season.

New Favourite Blog!

Here at BmL, we're having a party! Inviting all our friend!
(We've only one, but she's a larf, she lets us all attend).

Namely, our new favourite blog: Strange Maps. Check out this marvellous specimen of Salazarist craziness, for starters.

And while you're at it, ooh, its the E-cyclopedia of Portuguese Expansion.

(Don't wait up honey, I may be some time.)

Head waggling at Reis Magos

Its been too long between forts, O meu Capitão! Hove the lateen sail and noon-point the sextant for the latitude of Reis Magos. First built in the late 1500s, this fort swathed in wild forest overlooks the Mandovi river and the lovely town of Panjim, former capital of the (rather ostentatiously named, given its size) Portuguese Estado da India - now capital of Goa state, India.

Reis Magos (the 'Three Wise Men' in Portuguese) is a small village across the river, consisting of a Church, a small village, and this very old fort which once guarded entry to the capital.

The main thing I recall about it - aside from the pearler of a view - was my arrival inside the walls, after climbing the steep, crumbling stairs. Two local guys were sunning themselves, half asleep, and we all surprised each other at awkwardly close proximity. The thought pattern at that instant was probably much like this:

Me: Shit - two men, isolated spot. Are we friendly?
Them: Shit - look at the size of that Gora. Is he friendly?

It was then that I recalled a favourite passage of Gregory David Roberts' Shantaram, which I was then reading. In it he explains that the classic Indian side to side 'head-waggle' (for want of a better term) is in fact a gesture of general affability and friendliness. So I tried it on. And blimey, it worked! They both relaxed visibly, and one said "hello - you seem nice!".



















Aside from the cross-cultural gesture awareness breakthroughs, it was a great fort too! Some classic cornice sentry boxes, as you'll see. If you're ever in the area, I'd recommend the semi-hidden Reis Magos over the larger and better known Fort Aguada nearby.

'I gits a stretch fer stoushing Johns' - The Sentimental Bloke (1919)

I've just seen the DVD reprint (with soundtrack by Jen Anderson) of Raymond Longford's classic silent film The Sentimental Bloke. Normally bored and already squirming in my chair by the very idea of silent film, I was quite taken with it - it really is an engaging movie, capturing the wonderful vernacular of C.J. Dennis' verse novel.

C.J. himself (who had only published it 4 years earlier) appears at the start of the film. The main female lead (Lottie Lyell) was the de facto partner (and reputed co-director) of the credited director Raymond Longford, who you can see interviewed shortly before his death in 1959 on the extras. When a print of the film was rediscovered in the 1950s and re-released, he was found - then in his 80s - working as nightwatchman on the docks.

There's some great footage of Manly and Wolloomoolloo after the war, including a genuine digger in the background on the ferry as Bill and Doreen go on their first date. I really enjoyed it, and partly, if you'll allow the digression, because I once recorded an album at Jen Anderson's studio back in my musician days. A friend and I - both in other bands at the time - recorded a lowly independent CD there as a two-piece with some spare songs our respective outfits weren't using. He suggested Jen Anderson's studio - then in Northcote - where his band had recorded before. We both lived in Brisbane then, and it was a great week down here recording and louching around with muso friends and acquaintances.

Ten years later and I live a few streets away - though Jen herself has moved elsewhere in Melbourne. Suffice to say, she really was a great producer and sound technician - and I am truly blessed - as a part-timer then, and no longer in the game - to have Jen Anderson's violin solos on a song or two of my own. It really lifted the whole thing to another plane - and made it sound like I knew what I was doing. Which, by and large, I didn't.

Coming from Brisbane, I didn't realise then how BIG her band Weddings, Parties, Anything were in Melbourne. We went to a party and met them all - they were really great people. Top memories - thanks Jen! Whatever you're up to now. Anyway, the point is: I think the sound track is beautiful, and works seamlessly.

Oh yeah - and the title of my post. Watching Underbelly this last year, I got to wondering where this "Jacks" slang for coppers had come from, as I 'd never heard it. And lo! They appear as the "Johns" in C.J. Dennis. Mystery solved?