Two Degrees of Desperation

According to the popular press, the greatest existential threats to Western Civilisation are climate change and Islamic fundamentalism.

To BabbelOn’s eye, this means that the West is locked in a battle with the two great religions of our time.

On one side, zealots with a cause and on the other side the Taliban.

The consensus scientific opinion is that the planet is warming and it’s all the fault of the pesky humans (plus a few farting ruminants).   Notwithstanding this, on the other side of the melting glacier are the sceptics, inconveniently bleating that the sky is not falling and brandishing their own infallible research papers.

If the experts are right, a two degree rise in temperature will cause species extinction and irreparable damage to the food chain.  In other, less inflammatory language – Armageddon.

At a recent environmental enlightenment encounter attended by your correspondent, an emissions expert (species carbonus flatulus) emitted the following factoid:

Australia’s average annual greenhouse gas emissions are about 27 tonnes per capita.  In order to avoid a two degree global temperature rise, those emissions would need to be reduced to 3 tonnes per capita.

That’s right, Australia’s average emissions would need to be cut by a factor of 9.

BabbelOn does not want to appear unduly alarmist (not yet anyway) but to put this into perspective, countries with CO2 emissions at 3 tonnes per capita right now include Egypt, Albania and the Cook Islands.

Now it’s time to become alarmist.  There is no way that Australia is going to achieve this target.

Faced with the looming end of days, any rational reader would turn to religion.  The intriguing question du jour for BabbelOn is – just what religion should one choose?

The environmental zealots will have no trouble embracing the challenge by recycling their waste, growing their own food and living out their green survivalist fantasies, knowing that Mother Earth will rebirth in the end after purging the cancer (species homo consumptus).

The climate change sceptics will go down fighting, defiant to the end, brandishing their own bible. 

For the rest of us, inhabiting the rather large but rapidly melting middle ground, there is an answer.  

The only thing that can save us from Armageddon is a slashed carbon footprint.  BabbelOn has done the research and found the solution which addresses both the scientific and religious dilemmas.  Like all radical ideas it won’t please everyone and will require some short term pain.

Our saviour could be, not Muhamed exactly, but the Taliban.

Imagine it – a climate change caliphate – arcing like a green scimitar across the world.  No TV, radio or cinema.  No ipods or plasma.  No large air conditioned buildings like schools or hospitals or offices.  No air travel.  No CNN or MTV.  And a kicking afterlife filled with grain-fed virgins.

You can say what you like about the Taliban but they do run a low carbon economy.  Australia could quickly have the the economic output of, say, Afghanistan.

So, get on board the Taliban train.  But make your conversion quick. These guys make the Spanish inquisition look like a Monty Python sketch.

The Perils and Joys of Public Transport #2

In the week before Mother’s Day, BabbelOn presents readers with the following public transport vignette. 

One morning, a boy boards the 203 bus to Wynyard and buys a ticket, with his mother and two younger boys (possibly his brothers) waiting behind him.

As he walks to the back of the bus, his mother helpfully observes, in a voice that all can hear:

“He’s in training, he’s going to high school next year.”

Ah, mothers.   

Unfortunately for the lad, his humiliation is only beginning.

Our young hero sits near the back, in an area that would normally be considered cool.  His mother plants herself next to him, instantly raising the temperature from cool to smothered.  

The younger boys sit in front.  Not quite far enough away as it turns out. 

Now begins the running commentary.  BabbelOn gives up all hope of reading his novel.

“You need to sit near a window so you can memorise all of this.” 

Ironically, our hero is probably trying to forget as much as possible.  He nevertheless stares out the window, like a condemned man planning a desperate escape. 

He makes a few quiet “boom boom” noises.  This raises Mum’s ire. 

“Now I’ve got a problem.”

(You certainly appear to, your correspondent notes uncharitably.)

“Give up the beatbox sounds.  Maybe you do need the special needs high school after all.  You are extremely bright, athletically gifted, you know a lot about sailing, you’re a really good swimmer, there is just this one thing to work on.”

Presumably the beatbox.

The kid yawns.  Gutsy.

“And don’t yawn like that.  Only a one year old yawns like that.  You’re 11.”

The younger boys don’t escape her hawk-like eye:

“Why can’t they just sit on the seats.  They’re going to hit their heads on the aluminium bar.” 

And, in a voice that stuns all on the bus: 

“Nicholas, put your head up!” 

Nicholas gives himself whiplash.   

Back to the eldest victim. 

“If there’s an accident, stay on the bus unless you’re a witness.”

On reflection, this statement doesn’t even make sense.  If you’re a witness, get off the bus?  Meanwhile, the kid is probably praying for an accident, any accident. 

“When you do the silly noise [BabbelOn didn't hear it] I’m just going to tap you on the arm to remind you.”  

She begins tapping on his arm.  Jesus.  How much more can the kid take?  These are the cases that don’t get reported to DOCS. 

(Or maybe they do and that is why nearly 20% of all NSW school kids are “known” to DOCS.  The government’s response to these appalling figures was to raise the threshhold for mandatory reporting to only cover children at risk of ”significant harm”.) 

But BabbelOn digresses. 

“We’re pretty close to your stop now Tom.”

The kid bangs the window softly with his head, like a bear in a cage.  Nearly there, not much longer.  Mum is not finished yet though.  And she saves the best for last. 

“Is this autonomic, like spasticity?”

BabbelOn is not making this up, she actually used the words autonomic and spasticity in the same sentence, in the context of her offspring, in public, in earshot of, well, everyone within earshot.    

“There’s the library.  If you want to meet someone after school, like a girl, the library would be a good place, it’s on the way home.”

At last!  A spark of humanity!  The harpy has a heart!   

Perhaps there is hope for the boy, assuming he can overcome his spasticity and his beatboxing. 

The Perils and Joys of Public Transport #1

BabbelOn recently had cause to take a commuter train into the city.

Settling down with a good book, your travelling correspondent soaked in the vista as the train shunted its way down the green Blue Mountains.

At one of the last stops before the (Emu) plains, the adjacent seat was taken by an aged chap sporting a parka, pulled down cap and a backpack.  His long grey hair was pinned back loosely and his longer beard was scraggly. 

After squeezing in and stuffing his backpack between his legs, he unzipped it and pulled out a notebook (Dell) and a portable DVD player (make unknown) and joined them up on his knee.  He then plugged in some earphones, dipped into his pocket for a snack (type unknown) and scrunched down to watch his DVD.

BabbelOn was begrudgingly impressed with his companion’s techno-savvy but could not help observing (the seats were rather limited ergonomically) that his neighbour’s choice of audiovisual material did appear to be on the nubile side.  Fresh-faced American teens dancing about in pyjamas.

This did seem rather spicy for the 7.34 to Central.  As the remainder of the carriage was filled with kids and mums off to the Easter show, the contrast was almost alarming.

At one point, the material appeared to overcome BabbelOn’s travelling companion and he whispered what sounded to BabbelOn like

“… into the fire”

What flames were consuming him?  Not those of forbidden (and most certainly illegal) desire, surely?  And then, again, this time louder

“… into the fire”

The situation was becoming distinctly uncomfortable for your correspondent, trapped next to a possible sex offender in the process of, literally, firing up. 

BabbelOn became more attentive, in as unobtrusive a manner as possible given the circumstances.

The principal character in the audio-visual entertainment bore a resemblance to a young Sarah Michelle Gellar.  This calmed BabbelOn somewhat, reassured in the knowledge that an actor of such stature would never appear in anything less than tasteful.

A small bell then rang in your correspondent’s Monday morning mind.

Buffy.  Of course.  

Pedophile terror alert downgraded to beige. 

Subsequent post-detraining BabbelOnian research reveals that the episode in question was Once More With Feeling, something of a classic, not only rated 9.6/10 by discerning IMDB patrons but the 12th best musical of all time by Channel 4 viewers (just behind My Fair Lady).

And “into the fire” is a lyric from one of the songs.

Public transport lessons learned; #1 the 7.37 from Wentworth Falls to Central takes exactly two hours, and #2  anything else is speculation. 

Handy Homeless Hints

Homelessness is one of the few growing sectors of the economy, if not the actual workforce.

Having made something of a study of the habitats and habits of the homeless, BabbelOn humbly offers some tips for those who find themselves at the mercy of the street.

Location

Anywhere with steady passing traffic is desirable.  Corners with wide footpaths, designer shops, fast food outlets and pedestrian malls are ideal.

Pick somewhere undercover, preferably set back slightly so as not to appear too pushy.

Competition for spots is growing all the time, so get out early and stake your ground.  Do not be afraid to assert yourself if another HP attempts to move in on your space.  However, marking out your territory big cat style is unnecessary.

Marketing

Make yourself visible but not offensive.  Give your customers plenty of time to see you so they can fumble in their pockets for change without having to stop or even slow down.

Silly hats can lighten the mood but can also look pathetic.  A droopy jester’s hat is always a mistake.  An occasional change of clothes can work wonders.  Try a fresh t-shirt (cast-offs from the charity backpackers are always a possibility).

Stay tidy, try to wash as often as possible.

A pet can be useful; particularly one with big eyes and a gammy leg.

For your begging receptacle, choose a wide flat cardboard box with a generous landing area, big enough to be an easy target for a moving commuter.  Try raising it to an accessible level, even taping it to a pole at hip height.

A cardboard sign is an effective way to advertise your position.  Make it legible and simple.  Try to come up with an original slogan.  Aim for correct spelling and grammar; don’t give the pedants a reason to skip you.

Do not under any circumstances play loud music.  Your tastes are unlikely to be congruent with those of your clients.

The Pitch

Avoid eye contact unless a customer looks at you.  Do not speak to your clients unless they speak to you first.

On the other hand, if a potential customer hesitates or makes eye contact, it is a good idea to say something; the right word can seal the deal.  Try not to mention medical conditions or addictions.  A friendly grunt or even a “Hello, I need your help” can do the trick.  Always say thank you.

Flirting with secretaries is risky, especially if you have yoghurt stains on your tracksuit pants.

Be careful with the dramatics, they can be repellant.  Do not hold out your hand or lie on the ground like a leper.

Finally, whatever you do, try to keep your dignity.  Remember this is Australia, not some third world country.

Press ganged

The presence of anarchists at the G20 summit has been blamed for an outbreak of media in London.  According to police sources, a large and unruly mob of press photographers gathered at the scene of a violent protest and began to behave in a manner which endangered public safety. 

A member of the press corps, who wished to be identified, stated that in his opinion the presence of the anarchists was a provocation that the journalists were unable to resist. 

“If they hadn’t been protesting in a public place, many of the photographs simply would not have been taken.  I’m not saying that it’s their fault I’m just saying that the situation became a lot worse than it would have been if they hadn’t been there, practically in our faces.”  

Police had warned of the possibility of media violence but the anarchists and other protesters nevertheless went ahead.  

“It’s just irresponsible of the protesters to stir the press up like this” a police spokesman said.  “We knew that something like this could happen.  As soon as the spray-cans or banners come out, the journalists appear from nowhere.  Smashing the windows at the Royal Bank of Scotland was more than they could bear.  It just gets out of hand very quickly and before you know it the anarchists and radicals are being elbowed out of the way in the name of press freedom. ” 

“We tried to keep them within the designated media area but they had us out numbered.  Nowadays every idiot with a mobile phone thinks he works for CNN.  It’s getting harder and harder to stage a peaceful, violent, orderly, anarchical protest these days.”

Watching the detectives

Stephen Conroy appears on the ABC programme Q&A to discuss his controversial internet filtering plan.   More than 2000 questions are received via email, SMS and from audience members, and virtually every one of them is opposed to the filtering proposal.

Conroy:  I’m glad that’s over.  Get me a UDL will you?  Anything with vodka in it. 

What a bunch of lightweights.  Did you see Hunt?  Out of his depth.  Didn’t wear a tie thinking that would make him look cool.  Just made him look like he had borrowed his dad’s suit.  

What’s this about the list still having harmless sites on it??  I told those ACMA idiots to clean it up.

Minister Conroy’s media advisor (who Crikey.com is reliably informed is a nice guy who deserves better):  They did.  Here I can show you. 

I don’t want to see it. 

Why not?

Well, I’m sick of looking at it.  To be honest, it’s starting to affect me.  I can’t imagine what the actual sites are like. 

Do you want to see them?

No, of course not.  Are you kidding me?

It might help you speak with more authority.

What’s wrong with my authority?  Are you questioning my authority?

No, not at all.  I’m just saying that when people ask you what the sites are like you could say something like “They are appalling, I was appalled.  Any right thinking person would be appalled.”  Words to that effect.

That’s why we have the censorship board.  It’s their job to sit in a dark room being appalled for a living.  That’s why we pay them.

But you’re the politician.  It means more coming from you.  Plus you can wedge the libertarians.  Hunt won’t be able to touch you.  He can hardly say that he has checked out the sites – this is refused classification material.  He’d look like a sicko.

I can hardly say that looking at the sites is harmful if I then have to admit that I’ve looked at them.

It’s only harmful to the young and the vulnerable. 

Define “vulnerable”. 

Anyone who might be harmed by looking at it. 

And who might that be?

Well, the young.

And?

Anyone with a sensitivity to this sort of material.

Such as?

I don’t know, I’m not a psychiatrist.

So, someone with a psychiatric problem?

Or a sensitivity.   To this sort of material. 

The weak-minded? 

I suppose.

Self-abusers, that sort of thing? 

I’m being serious. 

So am I.   We are trying to protect people from themselves. 

We are just protecting the people from illegal, dangerous material.  I can’t believe we are having this discussion again.  You can’t back out now. 

The technical guys reckon it will slow internet speeds by 20%.  So much for Kevin’s broadband revolution.  

We’ll blame Telstra.  No-one will know the difference. 

Good point.  Get me another UDL will you?

doodleinacacoon?

BabbelOn loves patronising the arts.  In a respectful way of course. 

Unable to attend the recent Sydney Festival “All Tomorrow’s Parties” spectacular on Cockatoo Island (owing to a bout of anticipatory sea-sickness), BabbelOn nevertheless perused the line-up and did manage to uncover a few musical gems. 

First up – jump to Afrirampo:

Described by All Tomorrow’s Parties mainman Barry Hogan as having one of the two greatest live shows ever to appear at ATP (Lightning Bolt being the other), Afrirampo are in their own words… “Naked rock!!!!! Naked soul!!! Red red strong red dress!! Freeeeeeeeedam.  Paradise rock! Jump! With improvisation.”  Afrirampo is…from Osaka. From Japan. From Space. Comprising one girl, Oni on guitar and another girl Pika on drums. They are, in their own words, “Sooo fantastic & wild performance wowowowowowowowowwoooooooooooowwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  Believe it.

After that, drink in the Sounds of Seduction:

The Sounds exists as an exotic oasis of music and dancing in a world parched by the dusty wind that blows off the desert of popular culture. Where genuine Go-Go girls strut their stuff, exciting the passions, urging the throng to dance more wildly.  Where swirling colours from Miss Death’s collection of vintage psychedelic projectors paint the crowd in paisley hues. Where the DJ tends a sonic jungle of rare species of vinyl from every time and place, spinning the most amazing mixes of funk, 60s pop, bachelor pad lounge, goth, Eurobeat, soundtracks and straight up rock’n’roll that ever teased your ears.

Be sure to push on to:

F#@k Buttons were conceived by Andrew Hung and Benjamin John Power in the winter of 2004. Initially born as an outlet for their nihilistic-noise tendencies, they quickly realised they could harness the use of noise as a tool to immerse and evoke. No longer afraid of melody or rhythm, the group started fusing all these elements to the point when drone becomes melody becomes rhythm. Tribal beats and subtle beautiful melodies weave amongst contorting Technicolour dronescapes, while preaching distorted-vocals scream for dear hope herself. 

Lastly, get a big whiff of the piece de resistance:

Blue Mountains-based Passenger of Sh*t is a one-man music act, signed to his own label Sh*twank Records. He produces harsh and brutal electronic tracks and is quoted on his MySpace page: “I make dum erotic speedcore happy terrorcore /hardcore gabba / trendy f@#kwit breakcore tamborine core type dance music game core and sad core, screaming vox and harsh sh*t noise and other dum sh*t music.”  Passenger of Sh*t also belongs to the noise trio ‘Rancid Sh*t Wank’ and has released solo noise albums under the name doodleinacacoon.

If you like the sound of the F@#k Buttons, you can hear their actual sound here.  (Warning – you may want to scream for dear hope herself.)

The next ATP event will be held in July in Islamabad. 

Oz failure

BabbelOn has a confession to make.  It is not an easy one to share, even in the relative privacy of this comfy lounge room of a blog. 

BabbelOn enjoyed Australia. 

This over-produced (more than a dozen special effects companies are credited), over-marketed and over-budget film hit just the right note for your correspondent. 

Admittedly it had more cheese than Switzerland but so what?  Melodrama has been a legitimate genre since Gone With The Wind.  

The biggest box office of all time belongs to Titanic (of which screen writing guru Robert McKee said that the characters could not have been more obvious if they had cardboard signs around their necks.)  It took in a staggering US$1.8B. 

In fact, the top 100 is filled with block-busters bursting with hobbits, boy wizards, pirates, jedi knights and other superheroes.  Big stories for the big screen.  (Australia is 357 on the list with global takings of US$206M as at 20/3/09). 

In BabbelOn’s humble opinion, this is what movie theatre is about.  Drama, huge bloody drama.  Watching a romantic comedy in the cinema is like eating takeaway in a restaurant. 

Anyone who complains about having to spend two and a half hours gazing at Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman probably should see a doctor.   Nicole can say more with a close up than anyone who is not Cate Blanchett.   Hugh Jackman makes Daniel Craig and Brad Pitt look like girly men.  He is George Clooney with a spine. 

What has interested BabbelOn about Australia, however, is the need to confess to liking the film. 

The critics have been great in number and united in their thinly-veiled scorn. 

It has become fashionable in certain circles (BabbelOn hesitates to label them but is willing to run with ”liberal elites”) to express a sniggering disdain (the effect of which is slightly diluted by an implied admission of having actually paid to watch the film). 

One example that caught BabbelOn’s eye recently is the Sydney Morning Herald art critic John Macdonald, who deemed it necessary to work into one of his reviews (of the Archibald Prize) that he found Australia “embarrassing”. 

BabbelOn is intrigued by this admission.  Did Macdonald feel it necessary to go out of his way to maintain his liberal elite media credentials by dissing the film (as have seemingly all those who choose to comment on it) or was he actually embarrassed?

Presumably his embarrassment (assuming for the moment that it was real and not feigned) occurred while watching the film and not in admitting that he had seen it? 

One would have thought that an art critic would have a pretty thick skin.  He must have seen worse on the walls of galleries all over Surry Hills.  Or perhaps when it comes to film he is as sensitive as the rest of us.  (Surely no-one would be foolish enough to describe “Australia” as art.  Other than BabbelOn of course but that is putting the cart before the horse.)   We are left with the fearless Mr Macdonald sitting in a dark cinema, shifting uncomfortably as Hugh soaps up while Nicole peeps out from a tent flap. 

Embarrassment as an emotion implies a vested interest in a particular outcome.  So to be fair to Macdonald, he may have simply been feeling his disappointment (is shame too strong a word?) at the film not living up to his expectations. 

In this he could be described as a patriot, hoping that the eponymous movie would live up to its grand vision and be a serious, historically important rendering like, say, Gallipoli. 

Unfortunately, in his mind, it didn’t live up to the hype; the canvas was just too big, the colours too bright and the tone was all wrong.  His hopes were dashed and there he sat, uncomfortably, wondering how he could have been sucked in yet again by Baz Luhrmann.       

Disappointment is one thing.  We have all been there (see, for example, Burn After Reading).  Embarrassment, though, is quite another matter.  Why should a hard-heart like Macdonald feel shame at the results of an Australian artist’s considerable efforts?  After all, it is not as if there haven’t been any execrable Australian films in the last few years.  Mick Malloy has made a career out of them (it was his misfortune not to have been born in Illinois and named Rob Schneider). 

In fact, such embarrassment is not a new phenomenon and there is even a term for it.  Good old cultural cringe. 

BabbelOn does find it ironic that an Australian art critic should feel the need to publicly express his cringe. 

In truth, BabbelOn suspects that Mr Macdonald was simply following the lib-el-med herd in having a shot at the film. 

Baz Luhrmann must have the hide of a water buffalo. 

Obamaparty

The Obama Pre-Inauguration Party reminded BabbelOn of a Royal Variety Performance, if the Queen had been 47 not 87.

The contrast with the British, of course, is that the Americans really know how to throw a party, and have the talent to back it up.  No washed-up TV comics doing 90 second stand-ups or Eurovision Song contest winners. 

In fact, the only common factor between the Lincoln Memorial and the Albert Hall was the presence of royalty.  The Americans can out pomp the Poms and have a much younger and more charismatic king.  But groovy readers knew that already. 

The list of performers was impressive, from Aretha and Stevie to Bruce and Beyonce.  However, to your humble correspondent’s eyes there was a noticeable contrast between the artists that was, well, black and white.

What do Usher, Will I Am, Beyonce and Shakira have in common?  In a word, sexappeal.  What do Bruce, John Mellencamp, Jon Bon Jovi, James Taylor and Garth Brooks have in common?  Prostate problems.  The show was like a two hour advertisement for white euthanasia. 

James Taylor looked like a homeless guy, wearing a hat with ear-flaps – surely it wasn’t that cold? 

To be fair, Jon Bon Jovi has still got it.  Unlike the rest of his white brethren, he doesn’t appear to have aged since 1986.  He must have an attic portrait that looks like Bill Nighy.  John Mellencamp on the other hand appears to have been turned into a leprechaun. 

To break up the choir-backed musical numbers, and to remind voters just why the heck they were standing in sub-zero temperatures, there was also an AAA-list of spoken talent.  Denzel Washington and Tom Hanks put on Oscar-winning performances as Lincoln.  Jamie Foxx did an Obama impression that was better than the real thing.

Steve Carrell and Jack Black did somewhat lower the tone.  It makes one wonder about the criteria applied in the casting process.  BabbelOn imagines that Tom Hanks has a powerful agent who simply said: “If you want Tom, and frankly it’s not a show without him, then you have to take Carrell AND Black.  I’ll make sure they suit up and stick to the cue cards.” 

Actors, of course, love a good speech and an audience.  It’s a heady mix.  They all learned their lines, even the tough ones, and delivered with the gravitas one expects from actors who have more experience playing Presidents than Obama himself. 

However, the decision to use such gold standard talent does raise a dilemma.  If politics is spin over substance, employing the world’s greatest actors raises the bar for the actual politicians. 

And, sad to say, in BabbelOn’s opinion, the bar was lifted sufficiently high for Joe Biden to walk right under it. 

Not quite as good looking as Tom or as compelling as Denzel, he sounded like a B-grade actor.  No, that’s unfair to Ronald Reagan.  He sounded like a C-grade actor.  A bit like Fred Thompson might have if he had got the gig.  

So, ironically, the cheesiest line of the day was said, not by the cheesiest actors of a generation, but by the Vice President elect.  

Biden looked the Washington adoring masses in the collective eye and, using a line that Hollywood dropped about the time that Bon Jovi had their last hit, said that every parent in America wants to be able to say:

“Honey, it’s going to be alright.” 

BabbelOn didn’t watch the party all the way to the end to see if Morgan Freeman appeared, God-like, to bless the proceedings.  And perhaps to take the oath himself.  If he had you can bet he wouldn’t have got the words wrong.     

Burn After Watching

Film critics who have been in the business a long time can become guilty of drinking their own bath water.  They love certain directors (”auteurs”) and actors; particular those who have built a career out of making so-called interesting choices, preferably not always to box office acclaim.

Artists who have won the critics’ respect tend to get cut a little more slack.  This is to be expected.  Any serious critic must take a longer view of an artist’s work.  (After all, a blogger who punches out one or two reviews can’t expect to be taken seriously.) 

Art, like life, is about context.  A single piece of work shouldn’t colour an entire career (although in some cases it can sum it up.  See anything produced by Hirst, D).   

On the other hand, critics often go easy on directors and actors who should know better.  One saw it with the critics’ poster boy Sean Penn’s Into the Wild (an excellent review of which can be found here).  

The latest example is the Coen brothers’ Burn After Reading.  

In BabbelOn’s opinion, the Coens have made some fine films; Fargo, The Big Lebowski and most recently No Country For Old Men. 

Burn After Reading is their latest attempt at a screwball comedy.  Their earlier (unfortunately not last) attempt was the aptly named Intolerable Cruelty.  Aptly named for those who had to sit through it. 

All the ingredients for a successful experience are in place here; the familiar actors (Frances McDormand, George Clooney, Brad Pitt), the clever plot turns, the smart dialogue.  So why doesn’t it work? 

For one thing, like Intolerable Cruelty, it’s a story about unpleasant, self-centred people being nasty to one another.  This can work in a thriller (or a horror film if one would ever want to sit through such a thing) but comedy is tiresome unless the characters are interesting enough for one to care about. 

Interesting, dimensional characters are born out of complexity.  Complexity is built out of contradictions.  No Country For Old Men’s Javier Bardem is a psychopath who believes in chance and always keeps his word.  Now that is interesting.   

Burn After Reading’s Clooney, Pitt etc are not complex; they are flat as paint.  McDormand is a vain, scheming gym instructor.  Pitt is her dumb co-worker.  Clooney is a flaky federal marshal with a pants problem.  John Malkovich is just angry. 

However, the bigger problem, in BabbelOn’s humble opinion, is that the ”stars” are too big for their parts.  George Clooney and Brad Pitt in particular have difficulty losing themselves in a role.  The closest Clooney has come lately was in Michael Clayton, where he had to wear a suit and take orders from Sydney Pollack.   He was believable and very good.  In Burn After Reading he is annoyingly self aware. 

Pitt just mugs and eats his way through everything.  He’s like an underwear model with Tourette’s. 

Frances McDormand is a great straight man.  Unfortunately, here she is trying gags that are, well, trying.  It sounds like she wrote her own dialogue.  

Tilda Swinton, who won an Oscar for Michael Clayton and can act her way through most things, in Burn After Reading is possibly the nastiest character she will ever play.   Her bitch/wife Mrs Malkovich makes Narnia’s White Queen look like Doris Day.  But, again, what you see is what you get, a one-dimensional character with an arc that flies from A to A.   

The best thing about the film is Richard Jenkins, who play it so straight he seems to be in the wrong film.  Yet somehow he manages to let a glimmer of humanity shine through the schtick.  Maybe he’s not big enough to write his own lines. 

Where is the wit, the subtlety, the sub-text?  Even plot-driven films need characters one can care about.  Otherwise it’s like watching technicolor pinball.   

But of course the critics loved it (4.5 stars from David Stratton).  

BabbelOn wants his money back.