Lesley Truffle's Blog, page 13

Rites of Spring

Rites of Spring

The advent of spring initiates a whole new wave of city madness. At the very first glimmer of sunshine Melbourne folk tear off their puffa jackets, scarves and beanies and recklessly bare their skin.

Melbourne’s denizens believe that first of September tells us that spring has arrived. And that the last few months of epic rainfall and chill factor is over. Despite all evidence to the contrary, we cling to our childish belief that it’s time to get prepped for summer.

On the trams you get to sit next to optimistic girls in short shorts and thongs. They’re shivering and covered in goose bumps. There’s also a posse of blokes baring their thighs and tattooed biceps while trying to stay hip. Difficult when hair and bushy beards are still soggy from an unexpected downpour.

The tram is awash with rain streaming from wet umbrellas and the odd spilt café latte. You really have to watch where you plant your bag on the flooring.

Once the doors slam shut chilled passengers in summer clothes cheer right up – for the heating is pumped up to maximum. The rest of us are sweating like piglets in our coats, trying to catch every blast of cold air from the opening and closing doors.

I remember one spring day, when a red-haired woman ran for the tram in Collins Street. She was in a bit of a flap as she fought her way past two blokes who were diligently blocking the doorway. There’s usually at least one serial door blocker on every tram.

The redhead’s eyes were unfocused and she kept losing control of her handbag, jacket and laptop. The tram was chockers. Kid’s pushers and senior’s Zimmer frames had created an obstacle course.

We lurched around the corner into Spring Street and I swayed into a businessman. He was very understanding. The tram driver was a madman who sped up as he approached a tram stop and then braked suddenly. The redhaired woman squeezed in next to me and grabbed a swinging strap.

With her other hand she raked through her large totebag like a fiend, relaxing when she’d found her i-phone. She beamed at me and announced she was losing everything. Everything. And did I know where the tram was going? She thought she might be on the wrong tram. Going the wrong way. We got it sorted.

I idly wondered if she’d been indulging in a champagne luncheon at the posh hotel opposite – but I’d got it all wrong. She leant in a bit closer and confided ever so quietly that she was losing her mind. I’m losing my mind! You have no idea, I’m like a madwoman. A madwoman!

Apparently, a few weeks earlier she’d met a charming man. She’d given up on men. But he was different. A special man. Kind, loyal, honest and generous. With a sense of humour.

She further revealed, I never thought it would happen at my age. In spring too! Just think, if I’d arrived three minutes later our paths would never have crossed. Never!

We laughed like drains at the audacity and randomness of fate, of life, of spring. Passengers glanced around trying to locate the source of mirth. There’s not much to laugh about on an overcrowded tram. Especially when the tram driver is a speed fiend and everybody’s flailing around trying to grab hold of the furniture.

The woman nearly missed her stop. Then she regrouped, lunged for the stop cord, dropped her totebag, and sorted herself out – before getting stuck in the closing doors. But she did manage to get off in time. Intact.

As she made the curb, she turned to wave at me. I waved back and silently wished her well.

by Lesley Truffle

Photo: Venus and Primavera (Spring on the right) from:  La Primavera (Spring) , circa 1482 by Sandro Botticelli. From the collection of the Uffizi Gallery.   There have been many interpretations but it is generally thought to be a mythological allegory about fertility and Spring.  Art historians found a disguised message in Primavera’s floral patterned gown.

Sandro Botticelli [Public Domain], via Wikipedia Commons.

 

 

 

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Wuthering Heights

 

 ‘He is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’

Catherine defining her obsession with Heathcliff. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

 

I’ve been sneaking back to the classics on those chilly nights when all you want to do after dinner is curl up with a terrific book. To hell with the gym and let’s pop the cork of whatever is lurking in the kitchen. Last week I reread Ada by Nabokov and this week it’s Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.

Emily’s extraordinary novel, Wuthering Heights was first published in 1847 under the pseudonym of ‘Ellis Bell’. It has since become a cult classic. Emily’s sister, Charlotte Bronte then edited the manuscript. It was published in a second edition in 1850, shortly after Emily died at the age of thirty. It’s believed she died of tuberculosis, shortly after catching the chills at her brother’s funeral.

Early reviews of Wuthering Heights were mixed but its power was recognized even by those who didn’t understand it or maybe didn’t appreciate the novel. Wuthering Heights became known as a love story, rather than as an extraordinary feat of imagination. It’s a wild, untamed tale of an irrational obsessive love leading to hatred, misery and revenge.

Strangely enough, the Brontes social life on the Yorkshire Moors wasn’t at all exciting and often bleak. Most of the time Emily, Anne and Charlotte were cooped up at their father’s parsonage, working as governesses or fiendishly writing their remarkable novels.

Meantime their brother, Branwell Bronte, was free to socialize in pubs, hang out with local artists and sip wine with bookish intellectuals. Clearly the damp, windy Yorkshire moors are conducive to creative endeavours. The three sisters developed very active inner lives and the scope of their writing took them well beyond the Haworth Village parsonage.

While trying to discover where Emily got her inspiration from for the diabolical Heathcliff, several critics and historians suggested either Lord Byron or Emily’s brother, Branwell Bronte.

Branwell produced two short written works but his ambitions of being a successful poet and a painter were never fully realized. His jobs tended to end badly. It’s believed that he was sacked from his last tutoring position, following an indiscreet affair with the lady of the house.

Subsequently the last three years of his life were spent back at the parsonage with his sisters. Branwell was deeply troubled and at one stage set his own bed alight. Apparently his sisters didn’t like to tell him about their writing successes because they didn’t want to depress him further. Branwell died in 1848 of tuberculosis and possible complications bought on by alcohol, laudanum and opium.

Nearly two hundred years later, readers and critics analyse the novel by today’s standards, instead of placing it in the literary context of the era in which it was written. One critic recently stated that he found Wuthering Heights intolerable because it gloried in inter generational abuse and chronic violence. I think such criticisms ignore that Wuthering Heights is a fusion of Gothic and Romantic traditions.

Edgar Allen Poe and Lord Byron seem to have influenced the Bronte sisters. In Emily’s Wuthering Heights setting of the Yorkshire moors, we have Romanticism at its wicked best. Think supernatural elements, Mother Nature going wild, hysteria, heightened emotions, the constant spectre of the Grim Reaper and polar opposites clashing mightily.

Gothic elements are also at large: passionate, uncontrollable heroes and villains, mysterious strangers, hidden meanings, taboo subjects, grotesque deaths, strange illnesses, craziness, mental illness, vengeance, extremities of nature and inherited curses nourished by omens that will cause acute suffering.

It’s a heady mixture and the result is a book in which the main characters swing between dark, deep sorrow and psychotic madness. Accompanied by the sound of torrential rain on the leaking roofs and lightning and thunder. Mother Nature is hell bent on keeping everyone hyper alert and drenched as they tear around the moors bewailing their fate.

What’s not to like? One of my favourite scenes is when Cathy has a first-rate tantrum in bed and she tears the pillow open with her teeth and shreds the feathers. Most of the main characters in Wuthering Heights – apart from the docile Lintons – are incapable of doing things in an orderly, conventional manner.

When Heathcliff learns that Cathy has died, he bloodies his head on a tree trunk and screams,

‘Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living … Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!’

 

by Lesley Truffle

Photo: Book cover of Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon from ‘Wuthering Heights’ movie directed by William Wyler 1939.

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Devils of Tasmania

Devils of Tasmania

The Tasmanian Devil knows how to rub its enemies up the wrong way. When confronted by transgressors, devils have been observed to yawn. A big wide yawn exposing all its sharp teeth and strong muscular jaws. They’re strictly carnivorous and go for snakes, birds, fish, insects and carrion.

Tasmania is the only place where Tasmanian Devils can now be found in the wild. In the past they were prevalent all over Australia. Devils are about the size of small dog and weigh about 9-26 pounds. They can climb trees, swim rivers and move surprisingly quickly when pursued. The devils are muscular and their temperament is decidedly grumpy.

Devils descend into maniacal behaviour when threatened, competing for a mate or even when protecting their kill. They have a pungent body stench when stressed and their screeching is loud and fearsome. It was Australia’s colonists who named them ‘devils.’

Tasmanian Devils don’t have the security and protection that pack animals such as wolves, dogs, elephants and sheep have. And once they’ve been weaned, devils tend to be solitary.

They’re nocturnal and mostly spend their days alone in hollow logs, dark places and burrows. But when they emerge at night, they often feast communally. Especially if there is a large carcass on offer. It’s usually a rowdy meal with everyone getting snappy and snarly while chomping heartily on bones, fur and organs. A devil can eat up to 40% of its body weight in a day.

Celebrity chefs are very keen on ‘nose to tail eating’ but they don’t advocate fine cuisine involving for fur, hair or chunky bones. The devils are devotees of nose to tail eating, their bite is immensely powerful and they can decimate and digest hard bones. You probably wouldn’t want to be the delinquent devil who gets caught out gobbling up more than your fair share of a carcass.

To attract a female mate, the male devils fight each other. I picture it as being like an old style cowboy Western; the males in a violent frenzy with the females coolly looking on to see who emerges intact.

The devil’s newborns are petite, about the size of a raison. After being birthed they crawl up into their mother’s pouch and don’t emerge until about four months later. The young are known as imps, pups or joeys.

In the past devils were hunted by colonists for their meat and fur and this drove them to the brink of extinction. In the 1940’s they became a protected species. They are now an endangered species with a decreasing population.

Devils live up to about five years in the wild but are under threat from Devil Facial Tumour Disease. Another threat is that the carnivorous devils are partial to roadkill and they’re frequently run over in the dark while feeding. But when they chub up from plentiful food, their tails swell up with stored fat.

Scientists are seeking solutions to the facial cancer and recently there’s been a few breakthroughs.  The Government of Tasmania, Australia Zoo, University of Tasmania and other organizations are all trying to save the Tasmanian Devils.

I’m really hoping the scientists succeed and that the Tasmanian Tiger not only survives in the wild but increases in number.

by Lesley Truffle

Photo: “Taz!” by Justy.C is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

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Wicked Women

Wicked Women

 

Famous historical figures are frequently sensationalized to provide fodder for films, plays, operas and books. Facts are wilfully ignored because wickedness, orgies, incest, violence, psychological abuse and criminal activity will always find an audience.

Cleopatra was frequently represented as an objectified woman. Everyone from Cicero to Shakespeare used her to their own ends and in the stoush Cleopatra was defamed, reinvented, abused, sanctified, venerated and scorned in equal measure.

Cleopatra took a thrashing from poets, politicians, historians and writers. To Lucan she was a woman who ‘whores to gain Rome.’ And to many historians she was simply ‘a Royal whore’. It was in the Arab world that she was given a fairer viewing. And there she’s described as: a philosopher, scholar, physician, scientist and Egypt’s mightiest queen.

Lucrezia Borgia – who was born in 1480, on the cusp of the High Renaissance – was fictionalized by French writer Victor Hugo and many other storytellers. She was the illegitimate daughter of Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, who later became Pope Alexander VI.

Hugo’s 1883 stage play, Lucrèce Borgia was later made into an opera by Donizetti. It went down a treat as she was cast as a femme fatale who not only poisons five men – for insulting her family the Borgias – but she also organizes five coffins well in advance. Was this melodrama at work or was it meant to imply that Lucrezia always cleaned up after murdering her victims? Hugo’s and Donizetti’s fictionalization of Lucrezia Borgia seems almost quaint given what came after.

For over 500 years it has been put about that Lucrezia committed incest with her father Pope Alexander V1 and also her brother Cesare. Her other brother, Juan was found dead in the Tiber so he didn’t feature in the grubby rumours and sordid allegations.

Lucrezia has frequently been depicted as a cold-hearted murderess who was in the habit of bumping off those who displeased her. Poisoning was supposedly her forte and it was rumoured she wore a ring that contained poison – which she allegedly used to kill her prey.

Poisoning, scams, cruelty, murder, treachery, duplicity and blackmail was standard fare for Lucrezia’s father and brothers. But historians believe that it was their infamy that sullied Lucrezia’s reputation.

Had tales of her sexual promiscuity been true, Lucrezia would barely have had enough time to brush her hair; let alone give birth to seven, eight or possibly ten children. There’s not much consensus over how many children she had.

What does appear to be historical fact is that Pope Alexandra and his devious son Cesare were power hungry and they had no compunction in marrying off Lucrezia – three times – to further their own dodgy political and financial gains.

As the Borgias agendas changed, Lucrezia’s first two husbands were disposed of. However, several leading Italian families still saw Lucrezia as a catch as they desperately wanted to marry into the powerful Pope’s family.

Lucrezia was betrothed at 10 and first married at 13. Her first marriage ended when Giovanni Sforza was bullied into agreeing to an annulment on the grounds of impotence. The deal was sweetened by him being allowed to keep her dowry as a bribe. This then freed up the Borgias to warehouse her in a nunnery before marrying her off to the son of the King of Naples. But Alfonso of Aragon was strangled in his bed, to make way for husband number three, Alfonso d’Este.

Leaving Rome and the Borgias behind and moving to d’Este’s court at Ferrara, gave Lucrezia some autonomy. It also meant she wasn’t dragged down by the death of her father Pope Alexandra V1, which resulted in her brother Cesare losing power and fleeing to Spain.

Lucrezia was held in high esteem in Ferrar and she bought to the court Renaissance artists and Renaissance ideals. Having been schooled in the foundations of high culture: Latin, Greek, Italian, French, music, singing and drawing Lucrezia was well suited to court life. She also had a reputation as a fair and just governor, having been trusted to govern in both her father’s and Alfonso d’Este’s absences.

Contemporary poets and writers of the time noted her charm, grace and beauty. Bernard Zambotto dwelt at length on her ‘adorable eyes, full of life and joy.’ He also noted, ‘She has great tact, is prudent, very intelligent, lively and most pleasant.’

Such accolades were not normally bestowed on the Borgias.

Unfortunately after Lucrezia died, at the age of 39, enemies of the Borgias blackened her reputation with allegations of sexual promiscuity, incest and murder. And despite these ugly allegations remaining unproven, the myths have persisted. Whether Lucrezia Borgia was merely a pawn, a clever manipulative woman or a survivor is still being debated.

by Lesley Truffle

Photo: Detail from ‘Idealized Portrait of a Courtesan as Flora’ by Bartolomeo Veneto 1520, is believed to be a portrait of Lucrezia Borgia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Leopard

 

THE LEOPARD

One of the most astonishing things about the novel, The Leopard  is that it was initially rejected by major publishing houses. Yet when it was finally published in 1958, it was acknowledged to be a masterpiece.

Unfortunately by this time the author, Giuseppe di Lampedusa had died at the age of sixty from lung cancer. Having found out that he only had a short time to live, he’d rushed to get the novel finished in the last few months of his life.

The Leopard went on to become one of the most loved and bestselling Italian novels of the twentieth century with about 3.2 million copies being sold initially. The story resonated with many generations and has been translated into several languages.

Although the novel was written in the mid twentieth century it reads as though it’s an exquisitely written nineteenth century novel. The tale is based upon Prince Lampedusa, the author’s great-grandfather Giulio Fabrizio.

Sadly The Leopard was Lampedusa’s first and last novel. However, Lampedusa also wrote extensively about English and European literature and created a novella. His private letters were published just a few years ago.

The author was born into a distinguished Sicilian aristocratic family in 1896. He fought in World War One and he was held prisoner before escaping a Hungarian POW camp. He suffered a serious nervous breakdown in his twenties and was extremely shy. Lampedusa later married Alexandra von Wolff-Stomersee, a leading psychoanalyst, and they remained child free. Upon realising he was destined to be the last Prince of Lampedusa, he decided to would write a novel about his vanishing world.

I keep sneaking back to the classics and I’ve reread The Leopard several times.  It’s essentially a tale about Sicilian aristocrats and the decline of the Prince of Salina’s noble house. The Prince (known also as Don Fabrizio and the Leopard) divides his time between coming to terms with Italy’s constant upheaval and his nephew’s political machinations. Tancredi Falconeri informs the Prince, ‘Everything must change so that everything can stay the same’.

There are exquisite scenes of Don Fabrizio dining with his large family and assorted visitors and interlopers. The author was a gourmet and in private letters which were later published (Letters from London and Europe) he writes about fine food. While visiting York in 1927, Lampedusa dwells ecstatically on ‘large thick slices of rosy ham, lying on beds of soft real bread’.

The author was very taken with English cuisine, especially toast and English cheeses. He loved ‘sinking a greedy spoon into the supplies of the lordly cheeses of Chester, rosy as onyx, or Stilton, green as aquamarine, or Cheddar, transparent and amber-coloured’.

Film director, Luchino Visconti, loved Lampedusa’s novel so much that in 1963 he made it into a marvellous film titled, Ill Gattopardo (The Leopard). The film starred Burt Lancaster in the title role, with Alain Delon in his prime as his nephew and Claudia Cardinale as the sleazy Mayor’s beautiful but cunning daughter.

No expense was spared in the production of Visconti’s film. It’s magnificent to look at, especially in the Director’s Cut version. Burt Lancaster mentioned that Visconti filled the Prince’s chests with the ‘finest broadcloth and silk shirts’. Even though these items were never seen by the camera, they were a known presence to actors and crew.

 

by Lesley Truffle

photo: detail from the 1963 hardcover copy of ‘The Leopard’ by Guiseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa. First published in Milan in1958.

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Is Big Better

Is Big Better?

Recently I visited the Art Gallery of New South Wales, to loiter in the 19th Century European collection. There are many luscious paintings – including some massive heroic oil paintings – and a few sculptures of the era.

Sitting plum in the middle of these works was a massive, glittering, stainless steel sculpture The English Channel. It’s a 2015 sculpture by New Zealand artist Michael Parekowhai (photo above). At first I thought it might be Mozart or another musician but it’s actually British explorer Captain James Cook.

James Cook sits on an artist’s bench, reflective and pensive. It’s not a heroic representation, his feet dangle and his gaze is downcast.  Much has been made of Cook’s vile temper and his brutal reactions to incidents involving indigenous populations. When viewing the piece I thought about the British colonization of Australia and Cook’s involvement.

At the same time I was distracted. Cook dominates the surrounding work just by his sheer size. He’s just so damned big and gleaming, reflecting back those who gaze upon him.

The NSW gallery assumes that their clientele understand they can look but not touch. James Cook has some black tape on the floor showing where you can stand and ogle. A grandmother was encouraging her grandson to touch the work. The child was eager to climb the piece and he grabbed hold of Cook’s muscular leg and his buckled shoe.

What happened next was electric and comedic. The gallery attendant rushed over making cease-and-desist noises but grandma didn’t pay any attention to him. She was busy. By the time order was restored, every visitor in the joint was transfixed. Everyone notices big and shiny. You can’t help it.

Many tourist locations worldwide have Big Things on display for tourists. There are big pineapples, monstrous hot dogs, humongous sharks, mountainous Buddhas and giant bananas. But until Jeff Koons came along the moneyed classes tended to look down their noses at the big-is-better school of art appreciation.

American Pop artist Jeff Koons rose to prominence in the 1980’s. He stated he wanted to ‘communicate with the masses’  utilizing entertainment, advertising and marketing visuals.

His early work featured porcelain ornaments – that Koons did not create – which he then paid artisans to copy and pump up to BIG. Koons also suspended basket balls in aquariums and exhibited photographs of himself coupling with his former wife, La Cicciolina (Ilona Staller).

La Cicciolina came to prominence as a porn star/adult film star and later made it into the Italian parliament as a politician. In 1991 she made headlines worldwide for offering to have sex with Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein in return for peace in the Persian Gulf region. He didn’t take her up on her exceptionally generous offer.

Koons firmly believes that big is better. In 2013 his massive orange steel sculpture, Balloon Dog sold for a huge $58.4 million.

Whereas Koons has always been eager to intellectualize his art practice, Parekowhai tends towards silence and lets the work speak for itself.

Parekowhai is of Maori and Pakeha (European) descent. His sculpture of James Cook featured in an earlier work, The Lighthouse. It was ambiguous, open to interpretation and created quite a stir when first exhibited. Art critics fell over themselves trying to explain it.

But as Parekowhai said of his James Cook, ‘maybe he’s trying to figure out what to do next.’

 

by Lesley Truffle                                

Photo: The English Channel by Michael Parekowhai 2015.  Stainless steel ed. 2/3, at the Art Gallery of NSW, Sydney.

 

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The Elixir of Youth

The Elixir of Youth

 

‘Nature gives you the face you have at twenty. Life shapes the face you have at thirty. But at fifty you get the face you deserve’.

French fashion designer Coco Chanel

 

Many of us believe that in today’s era of Botox and extreme cosmetic surgery, Chanel’s statement no longer applies. A scan of Hollywood’s red carpet affairs, shows actors for whom time has stopped. Often the effect is bizarre because their faces look cyborg frozen rather than tantalisingly youthful.

Iris Apfel – interior designer, model and fashionista – is 97 and utterly fabulous (photo above). Iris became a superstar at 83 and is wickedly outspoken.

‘If you’re 75, nobody’s going to think you’re 32. People who lie about their age are dopey. And getting carved up and trying to make your face look years younger is so stupid. Your hands are a dead giveaway.’

Many cultures have sought the secret to eternal youth. For centuries alchemists tried to find the formula, and numerous conmen claimed they’d actually found it.

Faking a youthful appearance is fraught with danger and poisons have been used for centuries to provide the illusion of youth.

Queen Elizabeth 1 and the ladies of her court applied Venetian Ceruse to their face, throats and décolletage. Pale, smooth complexions were all the rage, symbolising youth and fertility.

Unfortunately Venetian Ceruse contained white lead which could cause hair loss or death. The Virgin Queen also used red pigments on her lips that contained poisonous heavy metals and skin cleansers that contained mercury.

Another beauty trick was Belladonna eye drops (from the toxic plant Deadly Nightshade) which caused pupil dilation. These drops became popular with courtesans to feign arousal. Unfortunately excessive use can cause blurred vision or blindness .

The ancient Chinese believed that ingesting precious substances such as jade or gold would provide longevity and eternal youth. Poisons were also taken. A lethal dosage of mercury, supplied by alchemists, is suspected to have caused the death of the Jiajing Emperor in the Ming Dynasty.

In the eighteenth century alchemy, the occult, black magic, necromancy (communicating with the dead) and witchcraft were in favour. Imposters, shysters and conmen infiltrated every level of society.

Giacomo Casanova in his ‘History of My Life’ details his extraordinary conning of a gullible aristocrat in the late 1700’s. Marquise d’Urfe was 63, filthy rich and devoted to the occult. She rewarded Casanova handsomely for claiming he could reincarnate her as a baby.

He somehow convinced the aristocrat that she would give birth to a child who would carry her soul. Casanova cast several bizarre spells and had three bouts of sexual intercourse with the Marquise. Eventually she wised up and Casanova left town quickly.

Queen Elizabeth 1 died in 1603 at the age of 69 and the cause of her death is disputed. Historians suggest it may have been pneumonia, cancer or even blood poisoning. Apparently she’d been steadily losing her hair and was suffering from extreme exhaustion, memory loss and digestive issues. All of which are symptoms of lead poisoning.

As Elizabeth 1 got older she sought to present herself as ageless. She ensured that laws were created which prohibited the circulation of portraits that were not flattering to Her Majesty.

However, this did not mean that realistic portraits of Elizabeth 1 were not painted. Recently a 1595 portrait of Her Majesty was authenticated showing Elizabeth with deep wrinkles, eye bags and a distrustful expression. By that stage of the game Good Queen Bess probably had a lot to be a suspicious about.

Clearly the Renaissance ideal of youthful beauty was a difficult illusion to maintain. Not much has changed.

by Lesley Truffle

Photo: Iris Apfel 2019. Daniella Federici/ Blue Illusion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ma Kelly’s Boy

Ma Kelly’s Boy

 

‘Don’t be frightened. Nothing will happen to you. I have a mother of my own.’

                     Ned Kelly to Anne Calvert while robbing the National Bank at Euroa.

 

On November 11 1880, Edward ‘Ned’ Kelly was hanged for murder at the Melbourne Goal. A reporter at the time claimed that Mrs Kelly’s final words to her youngest son were, ‘Mind that you die like a Kelly, son.’

I’ve just finished Grantlee Kieza’s book, Mrs Kelly and the picture he draws of Ned Kelly, the Kelly clan and his mother is a fascinating read. The Kellys were enemies of the law and Ned developed an obsessive hatred for the police.

Ned was raised on true stories of downtrodden Irish Catholics being burnt out of their homes in Ireland, police brutalization and the extreme cruelties of exploitative English landlords. By 14 Ned was doing armed robberies, at 20 leading a crime gang, and at 25 he was executed as an outlaw.

Ellen Quinn ‘Little Nell’ was born in Ireland. She had twelve children in Australia and seven of them died in her lifetime. Her first husband ‘Red’ Kelly dies an alcoholic, her next lover Bill Frost abandons her while pregnant and her second husband, George King – a Californian horse thief – beats her before leaving her in the lurch. King wasn’t much older than Ned but on her marriage certificate Ellen put her age as 36 instead of 42.

Then just when Ellen thought things might improve, ‘Mad’ James Kelly turns up drunk one night and burns her small wooden home to the ground. She’d been living there with her two sisters and up to seventeen children.

Ellen was incarcerated in the same jail as Ned Kelly at the time he was hung. Having wounded a policeman, Ellen had been sentenced for three years with hard labour. It’s been noted by criminal lawyers past and present that Ellen’s punishment was cruel and unjust.

Ellen’s baby, Alice King, spent the first year of her life in the slammer with her mother. She was then removed leaving Ellen bereft in jail. Local police harassed and mistreated Ellen’s other children who remained in the small house and were raised by relatives.

Disappointments, disasters and injustices just kept piling up but Ellen toughed it out and died at ninety-five. Proud that her youngest son Jack Kelly, a master horseman and rodeo rider, had joined the Western Australia police force.

Ellen’s first born son, Ned Kelly,  has always been a divisive figure in Australian history. His admirers view him not as an outlaw who had a price on his head but a magnetic Robin Hood character who was hounded by police and lawmakers.

Ned Kelly had charisma. Several of his female hostages flirted openly with him, including the wife of a bank manager whose bank had just been robbed by Ned.

The photograph of Ned was taken on the day before his execution (above). He had a rare medical condition which meant his eyes changed from hazel to a strange glowing red when he became angry or excited. His black curly hair and eyebrows were a contrast to his reddish beard.

Being a tall man, Kelly was terrifying when clad in his armour and ten kilogram iron helmet. During his last stand, his helmet provided the illusion of a grotesque apparition approaching through the morning mist. Under his amour he wore the bravery sash that he’d been awarded at eleven for saving a boy from drowning.

The police bullets initially bounced off the metal. Ned kept moving even though he was in horrific pain from multiple wounds. His legs were not protected and when bullets tore into his hip and thigh he finally collapsed. The police carted him off barely alive.

Ned Kelly’s life as an infamous outlaw gave rise to a well-known Australian idiom –  As game as Ned Kelly.

by Lesley Truffle

Photo: 1880 Charles Nettleton’s photograph of Ned Kelly at Melbourne Goal, the day before his execution.

 

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The Man in the Moon

 

The Man in the Moon

Half a century ago Neil Armstrong and Edwin ‘Buzz’ Aldrin walked on the moon. On July 20 2019 their moon landing of July 1969 will be celebrated worldwide. Given that there’s no atmosphere on the moon, it’s possible that Armstrong and Aldrin’s footsteps may still visible on the moon’s surface.

Well before man landed on the moon artists, filmmakers, writers and other creatives were busily imagining what the moon looked like. Opium smokers and others who dabbled in out-of-body experiences also wondered if the moon really was made of blue cheese and desperately hoped the Man in the Moon did exist.

The moon has been a source of inspiration for film makers, poets, musicians and writers for centuries. The benevolent moon appears frequently in  Coleridge’s poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and many favourable events occur by moonlight.

Right across the world, La Lune has provided inspiration for myths and legends. Indigenous Australians for over 65,000 years have observed and depicted the heavens, moon and stars in their artworks, myths and ancestral stories.

Released in 1902, Georges Méliès silent film, A Trip to the Moon created a sensation. Méliès was inspired by Jules Verne’s books and also by HG Wells’s, The First Men on the Moon.

Known as Le Voyage Dans La Lune, the film is deliberately theatrical and anti-Imperial. Méliès satirized nineteenth-century French society, ridiculed physics and the pomposity of some scientists and astronomers. Yet the film also dwells on the wonderment and beauty of our mysterious universe.

The French film became popular internationally and was pirated by other film studios. It was ahead of its time in terms of its production values, narrative qualities and special effects. It was an expensive film to make and bootlegged copies and price standardizations meant that Méliè was ruined financially.

I’ve just watched A Trip to the Moon again and I really enjoyed Méliès sly humour. The rocket is fired into space by a cannon amidst a lot of chaotic pomp and circumstance. The ‘marines’ are played by a cheeky bunch of chorus girls in short shorts and sailor’s stripes.

When the rocket lands in the Moon Man’s eye (photo above) six elderly scientists/astronomers disembark, armed only with umbrellas. Wicked moon creatures give them merry hell. Méliès used professional acrobats, gymnasts and dancers and their antics are humorous.

While the scientists sleep, the constellations reveal their wonders; shooting stars, winking stars with human faces and old man Saturn spying on them from a window on his planet.  Lovely Phoebe  – the moon goddess poised on her crescent moon swing – wakes the scientists with a snowstorm.

In 1925 Méliès had been reduced to selling toys and sweets at the Gare Montparnasse in Paris. He didn’t gain full recognition for his work until 1931, when he was awarded the French Legion of Honour.

No doubt many movie lovers deeply regret that in 1917, during World War One, the French military occupied Méliès studios. The army melted down his films, extracted tiny amounts of silver and used the celluloid for manufacturing boot heels. What a tragedy!

 

by Lesley Truffle

Photograph: The Man in the Moon from, Le Voyage Dans La Lune (A Trip to the Moon) 1902. Starring, directed, produced and written by Georges M é li è s.

 

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Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

 

 

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

‘Kissing your hand may make you feel very good but a diamond bracelet lasts forever.’

Lorelei Lee

from Anita Loos novella, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

 

One of my favourite books is a hardcover 1926 tenth edition of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. So popular was Anita Loos’ novella that it ran to over 80 editions and was translated into fourteen languages – including Chinese.

On my copy it has a subtitle, ‘ The Illuminating Diary of a Professional Lady ’. Its been ‘ intimately illustrated ’ by Ralph Barton. Barton’s line-drawn illustrations are marvellous; witty, insightful and mocking.

Anita Loos began her novella Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, after observing a female passenger on a train trip from LA to New York. A vacuous blonde actress was effortlessly hogging all the male attention, including that of the handsome actor Douglas Fairbanks. Loos idly wondered if it was because, ‘She was a natural blonde and I was a brunette.’

While still on the train, Loos whipped out her notepad and got to work, creating the blonde character, Lorelei Lee from Little Rock Arkansas. Following on from the ongoing riotous success of Loos’ book, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes became a popular musical comedy Broadway show in 1949 with Carol Channing as Lorelei.

Later it morphed into a film with Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei in 1953. When she got the part, Monroe spent every night at the theatre for an entire month studying Channing’s onstage moves. Monroe already possessed the acting skills to invest her latest character with immense wit and naivety while subtly giving out hints that she was one hell of a clever dame.

In the original novella Lorelei isn’t a showgirl – as depicted by Marilyn Monroe – instead Lorelei is a professional gold-digger, hustler and quite possibly a classy prostitute. She’s a gorgeous, vivacious young platinum blonde who actively seeks out rich gentlemen to fund her fabulous, transatlantic lifestyle.

In Anita Loos novella, what makes Lorelei so damned seductive is that she’s a hell of a lot smarter than she makes out to be and she’s also witty and funny. Lorelei’s wry observations of the people she meets are sharp and observant but never cruel. She always tries to look on the bright side of life; despite the fact that she’s wise to the potential for rape, murder, criminal intent, seduction and whoring in the louche jazz age world she inhabits.

The 1953 film with Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell – made in spanking new Technicolour and directed by the infamous Howard Hawks – is set in a later era and differs from the original novella. Monroe and Russell are showgirls on the make and the darkness that was hinted at in Anita Loos’ book has mostly been sanitized. Monroe’s breathy-voiced Lorelei and exquisite comic timing keeps the audience emotionally engaged. Why shouldn’t the witty, blonde showgirl genuinely care for a filthy rich but very kind-hearted geek?

The film succeeds thanks to the two leading ladies. While Russell’s character (Dorothy Shaw) is athletic, bold and attracted to handsome, penniless, clever men, Monroe plays Lorelei as breathy, seductive and somewhat empty-headed. At the same time Lorelei’s actions prove that she knows exactly what she’s doing and come hell or high water she intends to bag herself a rich man. The scenes on the ship took place on an old Titanic set and the ocean liner they’re on is supposedly the SS lle de France.

The comedic scenes when Dorothy and Lorelei meet the men’s US Olympic team are delicious. All that male sexuality and muscle affects Dorothy deeply, much to Lorelei’s disdain. She believes that because the athletes are not financially loaded, they should be avoided at all costs.

The difference between the two showgirls provides clever comedy. The genuine warmth that exists between them also encourages the audience to be on their side – so instead of perceiving them as charmless hustlers, we view them with delight. We want them to succeed in their respective quests for happiness; be it a love/sex match  or material rewards of the diamond variety.

The friendship between Monroe and Russell existed in real life. Having realized how sensitive, anxious and highly strung Monroe was, Russell made the effort to look after her vulnerable co-star.

As Jane Russell put it, “When we made Gentlemen Prefer Blondes together and I discovered that she was nervous about going on set, I finally went to her dressing room and said: ‘All right, baby, come on set with me now, we’ve only got a few minutes.’ And she said: ‘Ooh’.”

Even the very serious avant-garde German film director, Rainer Werner Fassbinder loved Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and declared it one of the ten best films ever made.

by Lesley Truffle

 

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