The young, as you know, are to be avoided and are generally only useful as a sort of late capitalist chum. That is, they tend to feed themselves freely to the sharks of the free market and this, I find, always helps me make better use of my own income. If they are torn to shreds by, for example, the iPod nano or recent antidepressant product line, then we elderly are duly warned.
But, why must they shriek for attention so throughout the feeding frenzy?
The dodgiest of all Awards will, this year, honour the young. Keira Knightley, it seems, is up for everything at the Golden Globes. And so is a raft of smug young directors whose faux-meaningful excursions make Wedding Crashers read like Eisenstein by contrast.
One nomination is Focus Films’ Atonement. Based on the McEwan book, the film, incidentally, is quite good. Its producer, by contrast, is a pillock in his jejune defence of the yoof-heavy noms. “If you are old enough to pick up a gun and go to Iraq and kill someone, you should have the resources to express yourself in the grandest possible way,” said James Schamus, even though he shouldn’t.
Perhaps he meant it in a sensitive spirit. Who gives a roger, really? The Golden Globes are the shonkiest thing around. Circa 90 journalists who work for publications like, I dunno, Country Life or Knocked Up and H-rny, enjoy their six minutes of free massage and significance each year. Which is nice.
There was something about Britney and something about Paris also. But, truly, I can’t summon the energy for even a listless mouse click. The obit, however, of Karlheinz Stockhausen is worth this minor gesture. Utterly unlistenable but staggering, his musical forays were the foundation for much that is good. And Philip Glass. Who makes my clock radio alarm sound tuneful.
Finally, Ms Maxine McKew merits scrutiny in any discussion of trash. I’ve examined the Canberra Times shot and can aver, along with editor Mark Baker (who, btw, always seemed like a nice sort. I say this chiefly because he used to pay me a really good per word rate at The Age): there is no visible pudenda.
I’m certain the Miss Bennelong 2007 doesn’t mind. She is one of those rare birds a la Hillary Clinton whose fullest physical flourish occurs midlife. She’s got great gams and, after all, why should she not feel inclined to give us a glimpse. Veteran broadcasters know how to dress for camera and MM is no ingénue with the viewfinder. Good on her. She’s hot. I only wish I’d looked quite so fetching when an inner Sydney queer paper published a shot of my own frock indiscretion.
‘There is no visible pudenda’ (that should be ‘are’, actually). You can see the crotch seam of her tights, and it’s very suggestive. Would you be happy to be portrayed that way on the front page of a major rag? I’d die of humiliation, personally.
The issue is not just her underwear. It’s how a woman is portrayed on the front page when she has just taken on the most powerful man in the country, and won. And how she has to be demeaned as a result.