The Dave-inci Code
For centuries, the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci have been harboring a remarkable secret. There's more to "The Last Supper" than meets the eye.

At the left of Jesus is the mysterious disciple known to historians as "Spit of Tarsus". Where did he come from? Who paid for his bus fare?

On Jesus' right sits Audrey Magdalene. Some scholars believe she is the "Holy Shot Glass" celebrated in song and legend.

And what's that on the table in front of Jesus? Lamingtons? Has the Eucharist been getting it wrong all these years?

Need further proof? Notice how the composition of the central group of figures forms the letter "W". As in Wenham.

Faramir Facts
Mood:  spacey

Did you know?

All of Faramir's genes are dominant.

Faramir refers to himself in the fourth person.

Faramir can collect $200 without passing GO.

The chief export of Faramir is handsomeness.

Faramir is allowed to talk about Fight Club.

GEICO saved 15% by switching to Faramir.

LOTR Garden
Mood:  lyrical
Now Playing: with matches
Several days ago, some friends and I were discussing the idea of designing a "Lord of the Rings" garden, like those Shakespeare gardens that contain one of every plant mentioned in his plays. Tolkien was quite specific in his descriptions of trees, flowers, herbs, and other flora of Middle Earth. It would be possible to create a lengthy plant list from the pages of Lord of the Rings.

So, what might a Lord of the Rings garden contain?

There are, of course, all the "real" plants (willows, mushrooms, pipeweed a.k.a. nicotiana), but I think an interesting challenge would be to come up with real-life counterparts to fictional plants like athelas, simbelmyne, elanor, lebethron, and mallorn trees. And what about the Ents - can they be simulated? Let's go down the list one by one.

Athelas: Lavender or thyme. The leaves give off a soothing fragrance when crushed, and it's typically steeped in hot water, suggesting volatile oils.

Simbelmyne: Wood anemone.

Mallorn trees: Beech. It has silver bark, a silvery gray nut, and golden leaves in the autumn. I don't know whether the branches can support flets, but the trunks are handy for carving "Me + Haldir 4EVR".

Lebethron: This is a dark, dense hardwood used to make the staves Faramir gave Sam and Frodo when they left Henneth Annun (in the book). The closest match would be hornbeam, lignum vitae, or oak.

Ents: "Quickbeam" is a synonym for the Rowan tree, which has a long, sacred, magical history in Europe. It's the preferred wood for making wands and runes. In fact, rowan is related to the Old Norse word rune. Ancient legends claim it offers protection against evil spirits, and that witches have no power inside a Rowan forest.

Thus, our landscape plan calls for a nice grove of rowans over in the shady corner of the garden. Next to the swingset and barbecue grill.

For a genuine Fangorn experience, I suggest wiring the Rowans up with speakers and piping Barry White through the sound system. "Hooom!!... Bradaboooom!!!.... Take off that brassiere, my dear!"

The White Tree: This is a bit of a puzzler. The only tree I know of that naturally has white bark is birch, which is far too thin, multistemmed, and peely to have the physical presence required of a Potent Symbol Of Monarchy. Another alternative is to install a dead sycamore tree and douse it with bleach. (That would be great for the soil.)

The Party Tree: Another potential focal point for the garden. I'd put in one of those enormous, gnarly, 200-year-old baobabs or live oaks. And a wet bar underneath.

Miscellaneous: The LOTR garden plan also includes a verge (running beneath the window, for trimming and eavesdropping), a couple of those shiny palantir globes, some giant pumpkins, a corn field, and a Dead Marsh.

In conclusion, this would be one strange-looking garden.

King Pong
Mood:  smelly
Now Playing: Jerry Douglas - Slide Rule
Some time ago, during one of those Q&A interviews, David mentioned how, during the stage run of "The Boys", a lot of sweat was shed, and Brett drank real beer onstage every night. The interviewer joked that the play was in Smell-O-Vision, causing much laughter.

Laugh no more. A Japanese film distributor, Shochiku, has developed a computerized fragrance system that will allow audiences to experience cinematic smells.

Fragrant films are a heaven-scent opportunity for Japanese citizens

The first film to get the "fragrant treatment" will be The New World, the upcoming Colin Farrell flick about the colonization of New England.

I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I want to inhale Eau de Pilgrim.

Still, this could lead to some interesting possibilities if the technology is ever applied to David Wenham movies:

1. A whiff of Edam to accompany the cheese argument in Three Dollars

2. Pop in Stiff. Instantly, your living room is filled with the soothing aroma of fish sticks, insulation, and lice shampoo.

3. "Why does it smell like wet dog in here?" asks Carl. Well, there's a good reason.

My Theory, by Ann Elk
Mood:  suave
Why is David Wenham such a brilliant actor?

Because Australia is one day ahead of us.

David knows more than we do. He's from the future.

Review of "The Proposition"
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: wax paper-and-comb harmonica
Well, I can't say The Proposition is an easy movie to watch. Eden Fletcher is far and away the nastiest character David has ever played. Brett Sprague may have been an amoral street punk with a jail record, but at least he wasn't a slimy maggot feeding on the decaying flesh of colonialism. David approaches the role with a certain, shall we say, relish.

Without much preamble, the action plunks the viewer down smack in the middle of a gunfight. An Irish outlaw gang, led by three brothers named Burns, have been terrorizing an outback township, and are thought to be responsible for the savage murder of a local family. As the movie begins, two of the brothers are holed up in a tin hut that is gradually being turned to Swiss cheese by an onslaught of bullets (you can hear each individual bullet rip sickeningly through the flimsy walls). The brothers, Charlie and Mikey, are captured and taken to the local lawman, Captain Stanley, who has been brought over from England by David Wenham to “civilize” the place (a la Tom Sawyer's Aunt Sally). Captain Stanley makes Charlie an offer: if he hunts down and kills the eldest brother, Arthur Burns, then Mikey will be spared. If he refuses, Mikey will be hung in nine days. Charlie is turned loose with a gun and a horse, while Mikey, bewildered and delirious, is left to languish in a jail cell.

This moral dilemma forms the core of the film, and it’s only one of many moral complexities that each character wrestles with. This isn’t a traditional Western, with black-hatted bad guys and white-hatted good guys. In fact, there really are no clear good guys. In the Hobbesian struggle for survival in the 19th century outback, traditional laws and refined customs are a luxury nobody can afford. Nick Cave revisits territory familiar from Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now: the ease with which the veneer of white European civilization crumbles in the face of a wild, untameable landscape. Captain Stanley’s lace curtains, English rose garden, and roast turkey Christmas dinner (in 112-degree heat) seem like futile and misplaced gestures amidst the unforgiving, sun-baked terrain of Queensland. Intoxicated by his own power as a local landowner and string-puller, David Wenham’s character, Eden Fletcher, has mutated into something of a Colonel Kurtz (except that there’s no Martin Sheen coming to terminate him). Beneath the prim derby hat, snooty accent, and fine wool suit beats a dark, bestial heart. Under pressure from the townspeople to avenge the murders, Fletcher sees no reason to honor Stanley’s deal with Charlie Burns, and orders Mikey to be flogged with 100 lashes. It is, essentially, a death sentence, and Fletcher knows it.

The whipping scene is the most difficult, stomach-churning part of the movie, and I almost couldn’t sit through it. Mikey is dragged out of his cell, begging and crying, to a wooden crossbar in the town square. All of the townspeople turn out to watch while Eden Fletcher supervises, wearing a supercilious smirk on his face. The flogging is filmed in agonizing slow motion, intercut with delicate angelic singing by one of Arthur’s right-hand henchmen, in a technique very reminiscent of Pippin’s a cappella song during the Gondor suicide charge in Return of the King. After what seems like four hours, the bailiff stops to squeeze about half a gallon of blood out of the whip, but the joke is that the punishment is only a third of the way through. The most horrifying aspect of the scene is the sixteen billion flies that settle on the backs of the onlookers and Eden Fletcher, like vultures anticipating a kill.

In fact, the flies really should have gotten their own credit as a major presence in the film, along with the mud, the heat, and the parched landscape. The outback cinematography is stunning: stark rock ranges, ghost gums, patient and forgiving sunsets that spread across the desert sky. Out of this harsh environment, violence and casual savagery arise organically and relentlessly: Charlie gets a spear through the lung, an aborigine warrior gets his head blown apart, etc. Most of the townies sport gnarled physiognomies that attest to years of brutal labor, Saturday night knife fights, and a total lack of sunscreen.

Such is the backdrop against which various empire-building struggles are played out in miniature during the film: English vs. Irish, European vs. aborigine, man vs. nature. In the Victorian world view, aborigines are regarded as little better than animals, barely distinguishable from the ancestral Darwinian monkeys alluded to by Jellon Lamb, the bounty hunter that Charlie encounters on his way to Arthur’s lair. The centuries-old English/Irish conflict has also spilled over to the new frontier. I’m no expert on Australian colonial history, but it seems as though there are certain psychic wounds and racial memories that have not fully healed. Certainly there are obvious parallels with the “taming” of the American west, and the mythologies invented by American filmmakers to justify westward expansion. I’d be interested to know whether The Proposition struck a chord with Australian audiences, given the tendency of Howard’s Liberal government to play the race card during elections.

In summary: Lots of gore, lots of flies, lots of thought-provoking meditations on the limitations of family bonds and the underpinnings of civilization. Not a whole lot of David.

In praise of scruffiness
Now Playing: Paper (4-0-0) vs. Plastic (1-2-1)
An acquaintance called Tuesday night and asked me to submit some pieces for an art show that starts next week. "Oh, don't worry" she assured me, "it's all right that they're not framed. I know it's short notice. Just leave them in my breezeway by 3 pm on Friday".

So off I went with my scruffy, raggedy, unframed artwork, and discovered that everybody else had submitted pieces which were exquisitely framed and matted behind museum-quality glare reduction glass. Each piece was signed, with neatly typed placards bearing the title, date, and medium. They were all expertly wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap, and packed in cardboard boxes with the artist's name and address. In comparison, my canvases suddenly looked small, untidy, and vulnerable. I leaned them against one of the boxes and fled.

This seems to be a recurring theme in my life: showing up absolutely unprepared. (see the previous Acting Audition entry). I was always the kid who showed up at the district band audition with a dented Bundy school saxophone on which half the leather keypads were eaten away by age, and a single ancient, chipped #2 reed (no-name brand), while the other kids were packing sleek golden Selmer Mark IIs and new Rico Royal reeds. My instrument was so out of date, the audition pieces contained notes for which I didn't even have keys. Dreams of being naked in class hold absolutely no terror for me.

That's why I gravitate towards artistic endeavors that are also scruffy and unpolished. David appeals to me because his performances aren't slick, they're natural and slightly rough around the edges. Like an unframed canvas. Yet, each role is backed by a lot of meticulous thought and care. He's not afraid to look ridiculous and for that, I love him dearly.

Book plug
Mood:  lucky
It's spring, again.

To mark the occasion, I bought a daffodil-scented candle. Then I took a shovel and beat the living tar out of the snow and ice on the front steps.

If any of you enjoyed the Shane Maloney series, and are looking for another laugh-out-loud read in a similar vein, I can enthusiastically recommend "Straight Man", by Richard Russo. Its protagonist, William Henry Devereaux Jr., a disheveled English professor at an obscure college in Western Pennsylvania, is Murray Whelan's academic soul mate. Within the first few pages, Devereaux gets his nose mangled by a spiral-bound notebook, is seduced by a curvaceous adjunct armed with peach pits, and threatens to execute a goose on local television. Just about every sentence in the book causes the messy flight of whatever beverage you happen to be drinking at the time.

There is a faint connection to David Wenham here...Richard Russo also wrote Empire Falls, directed by Fred Schepisi, who (rumor has it) is hoping to cast David for his next movie, Last Man Standing.

If "Straight Man" is ever filmed, David should seriously be considered for the lead role.

my brilliant acting career
Mood:  not sure
My writing teacher talked me into going to an open casting call last night at the local university, for five graduate student film productions. Why she thought I had any aptitude for acting is beyond me, but I agreed to go just for the sake of curiosity, and to get some insight into the everyday realities of the craft. I run a website about an actor, so I figured I might as well experience it for myself. Call it "method webpage administration".

When I arrived, the room was full of real actors: drama majors, standup comedians, people who'd done "the circuit" in L.A. and New York, people who'd auditioned for Empire Falls. They were all loafing in chairs eating Wendy's takeout and reading copies of the scripts annotated with highlighter and pencil notes. Everybody seemed to know one another already.

The woman in charge handed me a form to fill out. Under "ACTING EXPERIENCE" I listed "Alcott Elementary School, 2nd Grade Class Play: Elf #8". I didn't want to appear like I was bragging, so I left off my other roles as a tree, and the non-speaking part of "Other Cratchit Child" in a volunteer production of A Christmas Carol for the local nursing home when I was 11. It simply wouldn't have been fair to intimidate the others with my dazzling thespian background.

One of the hopefuls, a soft-spoken African-American guy named Luke, loaned me one of his scripts so I'd have an idea of what I was in for. I opened to the first page and read:

(INTERIOR, night. RAYETTE and BOBBY are at home in their seedy apartment. RAYETTE has just returned from her waitressing job. She is wearing a name tag. BOBBY is lying face-up on the bed.)

(RAYETTE sits onto the bed next to BOBBY, puts her arm around him, and slips her tongue into his ear.)

RAYETTE: Hey, sugar...

(BOBBY grunts.)

(RAYETTE slides her hand onto BOBBY'S crotch and starts slowly massaging it.)

RAYETTE: Got any more crystal meth for me, darlin'?

(BOBBY rolls over and throws up on the floor.)

***

At this point, I stopped reading and started to panic. Was I actually supposed to do all this stuff in the audition? Pretend to sit on a bed and grope some total stranger? Or would we just be reading the dialogue? I looked around the room, trying to decide whose ear I'd least mind sticking my tongue into.

Then my name was called, and I was handed a different script (thank God). In the hallway, I had about four seconds to glance at it. It appeared to be a dinner-table scene between three slightly drunk, angry women.

The audition room was packed with students, professors, A/V technicians, and assistants. In front of the black curtain, there were two stools, a spotlight, and a camera. I was miked up and asked to sit on one of the stools, next to an older woman named Carolyn.

The student director briefly explained the scene to us. I would be playing the part of Shirelle, a hard-bitten, rough-around-the-edges army vet who'd just been discharged from jail and come home with a giant chip on her shoulder. In other words, a female Brett Sprague. In the scene we were about to do, Shirelle and her Aunt June (played by Carolyn) were plotting to kidnap a girl and hold her for ransom.

I don't remember much about the actual scene, which is probably for the best. The people and the camera and the room kind of faded away the moment we started reading. Shirelle had an amusingly Doug-like monologue, something about how people don't care if you're an ex-con or a pervert or a "fucking pedophile", but mention you have mental problems, and they totally avoid you. I got a laugh when I read it, which was probably not the intended effect, but oh well. Carolyn was a terrific actress and it was fascinating reading the scene with her, watching her transform, and reacting to that energy. I can see where acting would be a very addictive profession, if you had any talent for it, which I positively do not.

Afterwards my writing teacher came over, gave me a hug, and said "I hope you weren't too traumatized by that." I told her if there's one thing I learned from the audition, it's that it's infinitely easier to create characters on paper than with one's body, gestures, and voice. I'd much rather be on the making-up-the-story end of the process, and let other people do the vomiting and crotch-fondling.

That said, there are some common aspects to both acting and writing: constant thought, constant observation, constant refinement. You have to be an astute student of humanity to do either one well.

The bottom line: 1) Don't look for me on Broadway anytime soon. 2) I have a new and deeply profound respect for what David Wenham does.

Does the sun rise in the west?
Mood:  bright
Okay, this was just too darn funny. Sorry, Rosie. I had to swipe this from you.

Rosie writes:

"Apparently genuine responses on an Australian website to what they considered dumb questions (well they were right....)

Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia - and I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow. (UK).
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit round watching them die.

Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the raidroad tracks (Sweden)
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles - take lots of water.

Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in Australia? (Sweden)
A: So it's true what they say about Swedes.

Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville, and Hervey? (UK)
A: What did your last slave die of?

Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia (USA)
A: A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Aus-tra-lia is the big island in the middle fo the Pacific which doesn't.....oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is North in Australia? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia? (UK)
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is ... oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross straight after the hippo racing. Come naked.

Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? (UK)
A: You're a British politician, right?

Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney and is milk available all year round (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilisation of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca which is where YOU come from. All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled, and make good pets.

Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind fo bear and lives in trees (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of gum trees and then eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking."


If I were allowed to come up with an obnoxiously dumb question for Australia, I would ask:

Do....you.......speak......english? EN - GLISH?