From its dignified bluestone pavement to its antiquated nineteenth century buildings, Bank Pl is perhaps Melbourne’s most handsome laneway. In fact, it’s so impressive, so beautiful, that’d you be forgiven for thinking you’ve just rounded the corner into Europe.

There’s the lamp posts - standing in a neat row, forged from elegant iron and entwined with peeling gold laurels - the beautiful Charter House - its title engraved carefully above the majestic building’s entrance - and plenty of places to sit underneath whispering plane trees as you watch the business crowd pour in for after-work drinks.

Undoubtedly, Bank Pl’s most spectacular feature is its pub - the Mitre Tavern. Situated on Mitre La - one of Bank Pl’s many cul-de-sacs - it’s a tidy, double-story, English-style drinking hole that sits underneath the looming resplendence of Collins Street’s prominent buildings.

The date of its construction is unclear, though it was at least prior to 1850, apparently. Officially, the pub was coined ‘The Mitre Tavern’ in 1867, and has been serving beer and food ever since. According to its menu, it’s the oldest building in Melbourne - which makes drinking in the large beer garden a reflective affair, as one imagines what the pub has seen as Melbourne rose from the ground around it.

Up the lane, there’re some apartments (the residents of which have decorated the steel stairs appended with splashes of green plants), an underground bar called Marakech, and a decent café on the corner that’s worth it just for the chance to have a coffee in the lane outside.

For true Melbourne grandeur, nothing beats Bank Pl.

Reviewed: December 2008.

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Gone are the disjointed, eccentric facades that typify so many of Melbourne’s alleys - this is Equitable Pl: sleek, modern, and alluring.

Situated near the corner of Collins and Elizabeth, the laneway is sandwiched between two corporate monoliths. Its entrance has been refashioned to smother its incongruity, and, as such, you’d be forgiven for presuming this alley was now the foyer into the large headquarters that surround it.

Once you pass through the corridor - windows into Henry Bucks and other upscale stores - you’ll notice how much you feel you’re in the city. The Commonwealth Bank building looms ahead of you, you’re surrounded by coats and scarves - it’s as though you’re walking through the pipeline of Melbourne’s corporate machine. Equitable Pl is a laneway that means business.

The proliferation of functional alleys can’t really bad a bad thing, however, as business has paved the way (literally) for a laneway that does host some surprises.

There are a dozen shops - boutiques, eateries, and more - that cater to mixed clientele. Equitable Pl thrives on its lunch business, proving a tempting distraction to businessmen and women that descend from above Melbourne’s skyline. Cheap eats are surprisingly easy to come across, however, and the cuisine varied.

There’s Monster Burger - as advertised by the hapless costumed pamphlet-bearing employee on Elizabeth’s corner; and Spudbar - the healthy baked potato dispenser growing a good reputation.

As surrounded as you are by formalist aesthetics - Equitable Pl’s dignified lines are smooth but not extravagant - there’s comfort in that mismatched flight of fire escape stairs that climb the buildings above, and reassurance in the littered blind alley that your eye isn’t supposed to see. You can sanitize a Melbourne laneway all you like, but you can’t completely extinguish its charm.

Equitable Pl is, at its core, an enjoyable exercise in measured interference.

Reviewed: September 2008

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Rock n Roll Nerd
Melbourne International Film Festival (full coverage here)
July 27, July 30 and August 8, 2008

His face is made-up. His voice primed. Eyes lined. Hair: wild and flailing. The shirt, unbuttoned. But unbuttoned perfectly.

He is Tim Minchin, hero of Rhian Skirving’s feature documentary Rock n Roll Nerd.

This colourful film follows his rags-to-riches journey - from struggling in cabaret clubs in front of a handful of guests to his transformation into softly spoken, strangely dressed musical-comedy revelation.

Rock n Roll Nerd opens with said metamorphosis - the payoff immediate and profound. Minchin loses the curls in favour of chemically straightened hair, an idea that rests on a shaky ethos that “people pay more attention to weirdos”.

Of course, the experiment works. Accompanied by a new wardrobe and his wife’s loving support, Minchin polishes the act, and embarks on what becomes his last, best hope at making it big. In this case, he starts small - a vacant stage on the outskirts of Melbourne’s Internal Comedy Festival.

He’s noticed by an experienced producer-manager, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Meanwhile, this propulsion is documented by his close friend Rhian Skirving. She is restrained and sensitive, and Minchin is evidently comfortable with her presence; there are moments when it feels as though we’re chatting with an old friend. This level of access is what makes the documentary a success: we laugh as Minchin purports that his naiveté is a method of extracting information, we cry as we learn his wife has miscarried, and we’re on the edge of our seats as he confronts a 300-seat Edinburgh stage for the first time.

The film is interspersed with clips of Minchin’s act, providing much needed context; we realise that even as events shift his life in new directions, there’s a crowd at a sold-out show completely oblivious.

Fundamentally, Rock n Roll Nerd is an interesting portrait of a man - idiosyncratic, naturally smart, occasionally self-centred - who is forced to deal with his own success.

His ruminations surrounding the subject are humourous, often insightful, and sometimes heartbreaking. This is the voice of a man whose ambition is largely fulfilled, yet he yearns for balance between the purity of his art and that of his increasingly commercial nature.

All the while are the reviews and reviewers - faceless writers who control Minchin’s destiny. The good ones are treated with restrained elation; the bad ones precede borderline depression.

These implosions are absorbed by his loving wife, Sarah - whip-smart, self-effacing and completely devoted. Although she supports Minchin throughout his humble cabaret days, her true value is in her ability to halt his self-destruction and to ground his self-absorption. Theirs is a relationship in documentary against which there are few equals - and is so refreshingly frank in its portrayal that without it, the film may have fallen short.

Ultimately, comedy prevails, as Minchin tackles larger spectacles and more risqué content. His is a unique voice; insular, self-deprecative and disarmingly intelligent. Yet he learns how far he can go within his act, forging boundaries that perhaps never existed within the realm of musical-comedy. It is these experiences that help us gain insight into a comedian’s thought process - and prove to be some of the film’s most interesting moments.

Rock n Roll Nerd suffers from third act issues, however, relying on the usually effective baby-to-be-born climax. Oddly, this rightfully momentous event feels a little hollow; perhaps an overly sentimental finale for a man known for his brutal, eloquent truths.

These qualms are minor, though, as Rock n Roll Nerd remains an hilarious, moving and insightful tribute to the performer and the pursuance of a dream. And from Minchin’s humble beginnings to his ultimate personal success, his story is one that makes us ponder our own lives and marvel at the courage of a man whose success is self-made, gratifying, and ultimately, inspiring.

Click here for Laneway’s full coverage of the Melbourne International Film Festival.

It’s weird, darkly funny, and intensely personal. Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg is a curious beast; a twisted cacophony of documentary, narrative and travelogue.

The film follows Maddin’s attempted extrication from his hometown, a place now so embroiled in his psyche that it’s reached a boiling point: either he goes or his mind does.

This separation - so clinically impossible, purportedly - is the film’s impetus for what becomes an enthusiastically unconventional journey throughout Winnipeg’s, and thus Maddin’s, history. He decides, in a dreamy, half-sleep daze, that the only way to truly escape the snow-clad burg is to ‘film his way out of it’.

Maddin assembles a troupe of actors to play his family - an impressively daring experiment that fails, mostly. Forcing them to recap important events in his life, and demanding of himself an intense catharsis, Maddin paints a wonderful black and white picture of his youth, his town, and his problems. It’s assemblage is genuinely startling - a true collage of the filmmakers mind. It’s splintered, fractured, great stuff.

My Winnipeg coalesces fact and fiction in search of reasons for the town’s ‘magnetic pull’; a throughline represented by the tumult of a hurtling train that traverses Maddin’s history. It’s a journey that asks questions of a town that is losing its idiosyncrasies in a misguided attempt to appear modern. What is the cost? What is a town without its history? What is a town without its people?

Maddin asks these questions so wistfully, so subjectively, and so sardonically that he creates his own mythos; a town pared from reality just enough to embody another man’s memories.

It’s an entertaining ride, hyperactively structured and darkly comic, calling to mind more investigative excursions like Bowling for Columbine and Where in the world is Osama Bin Laden? There is, of course, one major disparagement: only half of it’s real.

It’s a unique blend of fantasy and reality: Yes, Winnipeg was once re-named Himmlerstadt for an elaborately staged Nazi invasion, No, Winnipeg doesn’t have ‘ten times the sleep-walking rate of any other city in the world’. These mistruths are played so beautifully that it’s rare not to crack a smile as the absurdity escalates.

All the while, we’re becoming increasingly aware, as Maddin is, to the one thing that defines a town: its memories. As an old store is demolished, it’s ‘murder’. A hockey stadium makes an ironic stand against its pending destruction. Winnipeg doesn’t want to change - it’s being forced to.

Shot like a silent film, My Winnipeg is disjointed, jarring and beautiful. The visuals are inherently expressionist - flickering, grainy shots, camp interstitials, glaring faux-subliminal messages. At times the editing is so brisk it’s almost offensive, as rising rag-time music plays to some the film’s more spectacular sequences.

Ultimately, though, it’s Maddin himself that is most impressive. His droll, rhythmic narration provides for the film a foundation on which his cinema is free to play. It’s like listening to a freshly written play. It’s razor sharp, acerbic and always entertaining.

My Winnipeg, for all its bravado, is not a perfect film. As the film follows several tangents it’s naturally prone to getting a little distracted - and while some of these distractions are entertaining, some aren’t. The fragrant repetition of phrases can get a little irritating, and some sequence are too dizzyingly concocted.

All in all though, My Winnipeg is interesting, exciting filmmaking. Maddin invites you into his white world that brims with a universal curiosity; who are we, where did we come from, and why are we the way we are?

Click here for Laneway’s full coverage of the Melbourne International Film Festival.

It’s unassuming, bedraggled, and the purest form of cul-de-sac. Carson Pl is one of Melbourne’s more barren alleys, and, to an extent, rightfully overlooked. But like most of Melbourne’s labyrinthine laneways, you can’t define them by their contents alone, and Carson Pl is more than the sum of its parts.

Situated just off Little Collins St, and surrounded by more luminary gallerias like Howey Pl, Carson Pl is relatively innocuous. There’re a few rubbish skips, a collection of colourful milk crates that double as chairs, and the usual assortment of pigeons and rats. The handful of shops that choose to make their home in Carson Pl are so discreetly hidden that almost don’t want to be found; only one, Donuts Deluxe, really bothers attract customers.

Ben, the co-proprietor, has recently opened the shop - a garage-sized roller door compartment that brings to mind those on Degraves - to satisfy the need of Melbourne’s burgeoning independent street-skate industry. His store, previously tenanted by a failed cufflink trader, doubles as a place of business and design studio, cobbled together with a relaxed philosophy of anti-exclusivity.

Next to him is an old barber, with whom Ben and the Donut boys have a good rapport; a loading bay; and the smallest of thoroughfares into the anomalous, commercial resplendence of Australia on Collins. A run of windows from an upscale clothes store play light against the wall as the city winds down, allowing Carson Pl the briefest of moment of romance before the shop closes for the night.

While the littered, graffiti-riddled degeneracy of Carson Pl is a daily reality, it’s as though Donuts Deluxe is leading its artistic revival; supposedly in its heyday the alley played host to several publications that lived above the lockers we see today.

Perhaps we can look forward to further artistic upswings as Melbourne’s laneway explosion rockets forth, but for now, at least, drop into Donuts Deluxe for a chat, or grab a haircut - but it remains a lane to watch.

Reviewed: July 2008

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From its offshoot byway Howey Place, Presgrave Place is little more than a hook shaped alley, littered with rubbish skips. It’s conspicuous in its very nature - if you don’t take the time to look, you won’t be rewarded.

Off the steely, handsome revere of Howey, Presgrave is like walking through the very border of Melbourne’s increasingly widespread social-cataclysm. Pigeons peck at your feet as you look to admire the unusual street art - photo frames that hang fragmentarily alongside the laneway’s left wall. According to local workers, they were affixed one night without any explanation.

Presgrave is all pallid greys splashed with colour; a speck of bright orange here, a slither of green there. An unusual staircase feels oddly fastened to the right wall, perhaps a consequence of an afterthought. It’s uncovered, dangerous and slippery, but has an innate slap-dash charm.

Presgrave’s major highlight is Pushka, a cafe/bar so small it can only be spotted by a few 50s-style deco steel chairs that, on winter days, reel against a cold breeze. Inside, Pushka is cramped yet comfortable. The friendly staff are always in the mood for a chat, and the music is neither too loud nor straight-laced. It’s the kind of place that thrives on its regulars - if you frequent the cafe enough you’ll begin to have your orders pre-empted with a wry, knowing smile. These guys enjoy their job.

Most importantly: their coffee is delicious. Pushka has pride in its cup-o-joe; you’re not getting a rushed on-the-clock franchisee with an eye on the handbook here.

The only setback is in procuring a table - with its floor space it’s not hard to see why - though half the fun is donning your coat and scarf and drinking a coffee outside.

The place turns into a cheery bar at night, where, if you’re lucky, you’ll witness a stream of underagers crying with protest as they’re helplessly ejected from the Hi-Fi Bar’s backdoor. Currently, their license extends to 11pm, though things are set to change with new (but understanding) management. It’s in safe hands - Jerome (of St. Jerome’s, Sister Bella fame) has charged himself with the task of improving Pushka without damaging its cutesy-cluttered spirit.

Presgrave is a welcome retreat from the city’s intoxicating hubbub. Within a stones throw of Swanston St - its energy driving and palpable - you’re in quiet sanctuary: the only reminder of the city’s pace is the occasional clutter of dishes in adjacent kitchens.

Reviewed: July 2008

Photo © Al Wilson, 2008

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At least I know I’m not alone. Last year, Australians spent a healthy $895M at the box office. Only 4% of that revenue was generated by Australian films. It’s a sad truth, but one we’re forced to face - we don’t like to watch ourselves. It’s partially a branding issue - we’ve become synonymous with ‘issue-films’. In terms of funding selection criteria we’re promoting ‘cultural awareness’; in reality we’re simply driving lucrative demographics away. The answer is never simple, but we don’t appear to be giving the question any thought.

Sydney, for all its grandiosity, is on the right track. It’s buoyed by foreign money and a galaxy of tax breaks, building world-class studios large enough to accommodate Hollywood’s most extravagant films. It has an international reputation, natural beauty and a funny-looking Opera House. Melbourne’s contributions are a little more inconspicuous. We live in the city that shoots Neighbours and City Homicide, not The Matrix and Star Wars. But we’re different than our flashy northern competitors: quieter, cultured, and more platitudinous.

Brendan Cowell in Noise

Melbourne is multicultural; a cacophony of energy and sound, scarves and coffee and sports. But, the widespread problem that plagues Australian film exists here, too. Just because we’re producing less content than Sydney doesn’t mean what we thrust upon the public is any different. If we’re such a diverse city - and supposedly so forward thinking - then why aren’t we approaching our cinema in the same way? I’m not referring to diversity in the multicultural sense; I’m talking about genre diversity. We’re being pushed too far in one direction, and our industry is increasingly becoming a factory line of ’social-guilt-issue-films’. And while these movies are mostly great - like Noise, Jindabyne and more - they’re essentially the reason why 96% of the time we’re going to watch something American at a cinema. If we’re to remove this movie-line stigma, we’ve got some work to do. We need an Australian industry that’s prepared to step up and fund films that don’t feel like they’re pandering to pretentious academia.

The solution may be in Melbourne. We don’t have the rigidity Sydney’s new-Hollywood money has created - we’re freer. There’s a groundswell of local talent and experience in our city, and, if given the chance to express themselves, they’d always have something interesting to say. Our funding body, Film Victoria, need to define themselves by their ambition instead of their limitations. Sure, finance new media pieces by industry luminaries, but lend some fiscal weight to cater to the average cinema-goer.

This, of course, is a simplistic approach; it’s a tough line to tow between watering down Australian content and embracing your demographics. But it’s an issue of increasing prevalence that needs to be addressed.

It only takes one film to reinstall faith and reinvent a brand. So while we’re producing great issue dramas, let’s produce great romantic comedies, thrillers and mysteries.

So I’m still stuck at a cinema billboard, deciding what to watch. It’s too loud, it’s too bright and full of kids. And faced with a question - what to watch - I already know my answer: Melbourne.