Click on the following links to read the following reviews for The Castle. It's interesting to observe an overseas perspective on a typically (dare I say "stereotypically") Australian film.
The New York Times review (1999)
imdb.com
Now, following the basic structure of a review, write your own. (min. 1 page)
Background Information
Plot Summary
Judgement
mg
umm... i'm not sure where im supposed to post my story on injustice so i'll just do it here.
ReplyDeleteSamael
-"This one," said Metatron, addressing Moses, "is Samael, who takes the soul away from man."
Samael the fallen stood alone in the darkness, around him, monuments and monoliths stood whispered tales of greatness. He had become accustomed to the darkness, a part of him still longed for the light, but it was becoming more and more difficult to remember it. Anyhow, at the rate parts of him were dying, he didn’t expect it to last much longer.
Samael the thief stole through the night. He could smell it as he approached the first door; the death. However he proceeded to run his hand over the wood, still slick with blood. He was thankful that it wasn’t human; one never could be sure what people would smear over their door to keep a thief out.
Samael the unwanted continued with blood stained hands. Every door he had passed to this point had been marked, but a line had been crossed. A line which separated the workers from the worked for; slaves from citizens. The smell of death had thinned to a memory which clung desperately to the cold night air. And here on the threshold of the first unmarked door, the unwanted prepared to make an unwelcome intrusion.
Sameal the loyal did as he was bid; even when it hurt. In the heart of a comfortable home, a man lay asleep, arm thrown protectively around his first born, oblivious to the unwanted presence of a thief fallen from grace. But Sameal had not come for this man.
Sameal the broken stood alone in the darkness, encompassed by tattered wings. He passed by the man, silent and unseen, and turned to the child. He was awake and frightened, eyes boring accusations through his chest. Children were the hardest, they still saw the truth; still saw him. As a crescent moon reached its zenith the thief stole a life.
And all the while Simeal the angel of death, wept.
the spacing was a lot different than in word so its hard to tell, but the first line "Samael" is the tile, and the second line ""This one," said Metatron, addressing Moses, "is Samael, who takes the soul away from man."" is a quote from "The Ascension of Moses" By Louis Ginzberg
ReplyDelete‘The Castle” released for Australian audiences in 1997 is the debut film of director Rob Sitch. The film follows the typically Australian Kerrigan family through an epic battle against a looming evil.
ReplyDeleteDarryl Kerrigan (Michael Caton) is taking every spectacularly ordinary day as it comes, enjoying the groundbreaking meals that his wife Sal (Anne Tenney) prepares. Their three sons, the human excavator Dale (Stephen Curry), the innovative ‘ideas man’ Steve (Anthony Simcoe) and the imprisoned but ever-present Wayne (Wayne Hope) are clear visions of Australian youths’ in all their glory. However, the recently married, jet-setting daughter Tracy (Sophie Lee) is the apple of her fathers’ eye. The well represented characters are all played in a serious manner that is all the more appealing to the audience.
The family home is placed in jeopardy when faceless men threaten to compulsorily acquire all the homes in the street. However, with a legal team like no other, Darryl takes matters into his own hands and stands up for the little guys.
Although this very Australian film is no Hollywood blockbuster, its satirical, light hearted comedy is refreshing. On the other hand, it highlights some serious matters like the importance of families, no matter how daggy. The portrayal of middle class Australian families is giggle inducing and, I’m sure, familiar to all.
Spacing is very different on word.
ReplyDeleteI find things confusing now.
There was an overwhelming noise that filled the air and reverberated, touching everything. A crippling blow, and then nothing.
ReplyDeleteI am awake, but I cant wake up. There is still so much that I can do, but so much that I can’t. I feel the presence of a body, but it does not feel like mine. I feel as though we are disconnected. I can hear everything, feel the emotions, I taste the bitterness and anger that corrupt the once pure air. I can hear them speaking, imagine their faces and expressions. I feel the tension, like a barrier, a wall. It is contagious and everyone around me is infected by it. I can follow every argument, every diagnosis. I hear the machines but I cant decide if they are a blessing or a curse. I can hear them helping me but I don’t know whether to be grateful or to despise them.
Every conversation between nurses, every doubt and difficulty that confronts every doctor. Every uncertainty of every person. Nothing is censored, all possibilities and plans are laid out on the table. They argue my future, they discuss the quality of life I will have. They exhaust every kind of therapy and treatment, they speak of me as though I am no longer a person, I am a body but not a human being. If only they knew exactly how wrong they were.
I hear the outcome of the court case, the judge finding the criminal innocent. I am not invited to share in the disappointment and frustration of my fellow defendants I can not help but wallow in my own personal sorrow and burn with a staggering sense of hostility. Even if the doctors were not constantly monitoring and recording my downward progression, I can feel my body becoming more and more reliant on the machines.
I hear the sobs, I know their pain. This small party of once optimistic friends and family has been robbed of their hope and faith. I listen to someone’s disenchanting prayer, it does nothing but fill the silence with an eerie irony. People leave, unable to bear what is about to take place. People are trying to reassure me, I hear them and their attempts to comfort and console each other. I sense the bodies backing away; the air is filled with a new sensation. There is acceptance tinged with distress and grief. As the machines slow to a halt and the only sound I can hear is the constant hum of the monitor, I feel distant.
Cody and Phillipa... wow! Powerful stories! Firstly, Cody, a highly stylised and dark tale. Beautifully written and structured. I began to fear for the child as I read on. To achieve this reaction in a reader in only a few paragraphs is commendable. You are a very good writer, and will continue to be so. You may wish to read the works of Poppy Z. Brite.
ReplyDeleteSecondly, Phillipa, you write with such power. "I listen to someone's disenchanting prayer. It does nothing but fill the silence with an eerie irony." An exceptional image and confronting personal emotion! You capture the essence of frustration and bitter futility perfectly.
I am so proud of both of you for producing these works. I can't wait to read more!
Ok, well just wanted to point out that I spent the last half hour or so typing out Rhiannon's story because I'm such a nice person. And as I go to put it on blogger...
ReplyDelete"Your HTML cannot be accepted: Must be at most 4,096 characters"
That's kinda unjust.
PART ONE
ReplyDelete“So, why are you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean; we’re not all here because we’re shitty with life from time to time.”
Sarah was suddenly very absorbed with the black glob of what surely once was someone’s chewing gum, but after years of trampling underfoot, appeared only as a liquorice coloured solid dome, trampled into the cement. Mundane as chewing gum could be, at that point in time it was fascinating, the way it stubbornly clung to the cement, refusing to be scrapped up or washed away. But then, anything could become fascinating when the alternative was a conversation she definitely did not want to get into.
However, the scrawny boy that could hardly be considered an adolescent, despite wispy stubble stating the contrary, was unfortunately too much like the chewing gum. He was the kind of person where his presence wouldn’t be known, trodden underfoot by the people going to better places and yet, he was stubborn as hell.
No matter how Sarah feared the path her thought were taking, this boy had managed to send her thoughts to a place she didn’t want to go, a place so tragic, so horrific, her body would reflect the turmoil in her head. Sudden, shuddering gasps of air wracked her body, as the terror of her memories permeated her brain.
Either oblivious or completely ignoring her distress, the boy would not let up the topic drop. It was so obvious why this boy was stuck in a pysch ward. Sarah didn’t have the escape route she wanted by bouncing his question back at him. The angry purple scars criss-crossing his wrists answered that for her. Not only did this boy not want to be in the psych ward, he didn’t want to be anywhere. Obviously this boy was as indestructible as the chewing gum, because the old and new scars told a clear story on how this boy had obviously survived numerous, serious attempts to ‘not be here.’
Sarah wished her parents were as resilient as the chewing gum, refusing to be smote from the world. Then again, Sarah wished many thing that weren’t possible, like she wished she hadn’t come home from that party that night, to witness a horror that would determine the rest of her life.
The boy’s question had stirred memories Sarah had become so good and suppressing, and now she was locked in her own mental prison, forced to watch the video of her memories as they flashed across her mind. Her senses where overwhelmed as she entered her home. The stench of blood filled her nose, and blood smears on the walls greeted her eyes. In response Sarah broke out in a cold sweat, and her hands seemed to be shaking of their own accord.
As she entered the kitchen the smell became overpowering and Sarah had to clap a hand over her mouth and hold her breath to keep from dry retching. As a result Sarah took a moment before she could comprehend the massacre in front of her. Her parents were beyond saving.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeletePART TWO
ReplyDeleteBlood seemed to come from more places then where there was skin intact. Their eyes were glassy as they lay on the floor in a tangled mess. But as if that weren’t enough torment, there sat her uncle calmly wiping the knife clean of fingerprints, whilst Sarah’s baby sat precariously in his lap, too young to understand what had just occurred, or the danger he was in.
As Sarah took all this in, the torment threatened to take her to pieces, then and there, but she struggled with composure, so she could deal with the madman she knew too well, and snatched her sister from the grasping tendrils of danger.
Her uncle read the question in Sarah’s eyes.
“Your family thought they could keep me from you, they kept me isolated and depressed, far from the comfort of my own family.” This time, he ignored the confusion in Sarah’s eyes, the story made perfect sense in his mind.
“It was easy to prove them wrong about keeping me away, but I’m going one step further. You’re going to be the one to never see your family. You’re going to be the one they call crazy. You’re going to take the blame for this mess in front of you, and you’re going to do it because that is what will persuade me to keep this little to right here alive.”
Sarah knew she had no choice. The judge, psychiatrists and jury were all happy to believe her story; it was far easier to lock up a crazy little girl than undergo a full investigation.
At last her eyes refocused on the gum at her feet, her mind finally returned to the present.
“I’m not crazy,” she whispered.
Review of The Castle
ReplyDeleteIf there was any movie to sum up everyday Australian families it would it would definitely be The Castle. Maybe because bogan like lifestyle, or maybe because of the fighting, never give up attitude. The film being an audience favourite at the 1998 Sundance Film Festival but because of Miramax devoting their money, time and effort into the classic movie Shakespeare In Love means movies like The Castle are only causalities in the Box Office Wars.
The feature debut of director Rob Stitch has ensured the movie will be loved by all Australians as they can relate to the Kerrigans lifestyle. The film probably won’t generate many laughs but it does include some hysterical scenes which are sure to bring a smile to the face. The Castle represents a pleasant blend of gentle satire and feel-good comedy.
Dale (Stephen Curry) is one of three sons of Darryl Kerrigan (Michael Caton) with Wayne (Wayne Hope) a prisoner and Steve (Anthony Simcoe) the Ideas man of the family being the others. Dale is the narrator of the film and takes you through a journey within his families interesting life. Darryl is a contented, mildly eccentric family man with an easy laugh and a quick compliment for his wife's cooking.
While living with his wife Sal (Anne Tenney), and his four children live in domestic bliss in a ramshackle yet proud domicile neighbouring the airport his serenity is threatened when the government issues a compulsory acquisition order, which means the Kerrigans must vacate their home to make way for an airport expansion project. Even though he makes a hobby of buying useless junk as long as he gets it for bargain price, no amount of compensation money will convince Darryl to relinquish his "castle," which stores the family's collective memories and symbolizes their unique character. Darryl organizes the other affected neighbours, hires a bumbling attorney/family friend, and pursues his battle in court. However, he soon discovers he needs more than gumption and spitfire earnestness to support a case in front of the magistrates of Australia's high courts.
The film is filled with themes and serious ideas. The main theme being size doesn’t matter as a High court forces them to move out. When they see Darryl fighting the acquisition they feel this will be an easy court case but thanks to Darryl’s never give up attitude he turns that all around. He also explains it’s not his house it’s his home shows that a house is just another building on the block. He believes this is the whole package, it’s where he lives. The Castle may be a humorous, joking attitude but it makes a very valid point.
Kittens, puppies and non-murderous depressing things
ReplyDeleteOnce upon a time in a happy non-suicidal, non-incest, abortionless land where everyone is happy, there was a cute little pikachu minding his own buisness among the non-murderous flowers. One day a man (created by megans mind) tried to ruin everything in this very happy land with his incesty ways along with his partners in crime- the abortionist and the angel of death. But of course in this happy land these kind of people would not be tolerated. So the citizens of happy-ville with the power of their non-lusty love, they lined them up and shot them. The end.
I wish we had facebook because Id definitely like that one, Connor.
ReplyDeleteConnor, I thouroughly enjoyed your story. Beautifly written. A true masterpiece. Megans mind *bothers* me. Oh I love Potter Puppet Pals! Horray!
ReplyDeleteI have no clue as to how the hell to post things outside of a comment, so you Mr Goodwin can suffer and track down my story in here. To everybody who reads, it is extremely dodgy - be warned. Also, the setting out business on this is wierd! Damnnn you blogger!
ReplyDeletePART 1
Scarred
Eyes stared down on me like piercing daggers, digging away at my dignity and self worth. Cutting away the layers of innocence and truth, leaving nothing but scars and misery. They say knowledge is power, but in this case, knowledge was a trial and an unfair persecution.
The cops are the ones we are primarily supposed to turn to in times of horror; in times of brutality and violence. But who are you meant to turn to, when the cops themselves turn on you? As I stared out at the jury, at all the scornful and skeptical faces, their thoughts were obvious. It was as though all their thoughts were joined together, into a giant sea of profound hate, of judgment and ill manner. Their unmerciful waves of hate crashed down on me, drowning me. Despite the lack of hard evidence, their faces mirrored each others, projecting that one view; that simple two syllable word that would have me thrown into a world of iron and chains. That I was guilty.
When the enforcers of law turn their back on you, so do human rights. When money is valued more than the being of a person, a quick trial matters more than a fair one. And when a publicized case like a murder rape case hits media, the seagulls strike. Picking at every little detail and hyping it to attract viewer’s attention. A typical example of money making the world go round. To amplify the case further, when a cop himself becomes a suspect, the rumors fly and the lies begin. And when an average civilian like myself comes into the picture, being found at the scene of the crime, all heads point in my direction. After all, the police are the ones stopping this behavior, not inflicting it themselves.
Whether I truly was guilty or not, someone had to be persecuted. And it was better to send an average man like myself to the dogs, than I highly thought of deputy of the local police. Sending a pig to jail would hit headlines more profoundly than the case has already in the past weeks. It would internally wound the police force, and I suppose the court saw this. And when a cop, the guilty mind uses his power to turn all evidence around on me to save himself, what hope is there? I was a chew toy, a simple bone for the court to knaw on. An easy escape. When everyone had already jumped to conclusions, and evidence looked in favour of my persecution, there was no need to push evidence further, to waste more money on delivering harder proof of my crime. Innocent until proven guilty had somehow been lost in battle, and here I sat, in a ticking time bomb. It was certain of the catastrophe to strike, the room itself was trailed by a rope with flickering flames. I knew my fate was decided, in the smug look of the murderer himself, sitting on the opponents stand. The curly tailed grimy squealing scumbag could smell victory. The battle had been won.
Screaming and pleading for mercy, I was dragged from court to a world behind bars. And as time dragged out and days turned to months and months to years, I was able to ponder what was truly worse than going to jail, guilty of murder and a lifetime of crime. Going to jail guilty of being innocent, with a lifetime of moral excellence behind you...
No matter how long you lived in cells, you could never grow used to it. They claim that after eating a food several times, your tastebuds adapt and grow to enjoy the taste. As I bit down on my 3650th dinner within these walls however, the taste was none the more pleasurable. Ten years on from my trial, and here I sat in the dining hall alongside some of the most brutal and sadistic of beasts. You had to keep your guard up at all times in these walls. Turn your back for a second, and a fist will come plummeting in your direction. Or glass. Or a giant slab of concrete. Possibly worse.
PART 2
ReplyDeleteI was all out on the friend’s idea in this place. I refused to befriend such sick, vial people. I barely speak at all; I keep my distance from everyone. I have my morals, and my own views. And I refused to be kind to such vicious criminals. They deserved to be here. I didn’t. I was innocent. To this day, the deputy was walking free, sitting on his high horse; earning money, raising a family. Possibly preying on more innocent women and pushing the blame onto another innocent bystander. I wouldn’t know. All I do know is that my cell wall is windowless, and my cell has twenty five bars blocking my exit. I know I have my own room, due to being a victim of rape myself courteously of my last bunk buddy. I know the guards themselves said I deserved it after what I did to that poor girl. I know that pig cost me my life. I know...
I remember the speckles of rain pattering the sidewalk. The charcoal sky was brightened by street lights, their dim glow guiding my way down the cobbled stone. Suitcase over head, I trotted down the street, rushing to evade the wet. Shops were closed, and cars were absent. As the wind and wet whipped my face, I escaped down a back alley in search of a dryer route. Turning left behind the police department; I was able to just make out a whimpering sob over the howling wind. I ran onwards in concern, my pupils struggling to decipher my surroundings in the absence of street lamps...
Nothing could ever cloud my memory of the happenings in that alley. The glistening of dark liquid on the cobbled floor and the figure of the girl; her pale frame being visible even in the darkest of night. I was there as life left those tortured eyes, and watched the silhouette of another retreat around the bend. His uniform contradicted the happenings of the alley. I bent over the young girl, attempting to slow the blood flow, trying to return breaths into the lungs of the broken body. As footsteps re-entered the scene, the perpetrator returned, fled by other police men. Drenched in the victim’s blood, I was taken accustom at the time for the happenings, whist the guilty man standing so near was portrayed as the hero.
‘Everyone is entitled in full equality to a fair and public hearing by an independent and impartial tribunal, in the determination of his rights and obligations and of any criminal charge against him.’ There was no recognition of dignity in my trial, let alone entitlement to human rights. Whatever happened to ‘All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection’? An innocent man is now behind cells walls, all recognition of his past life, his morals and his genuine goodness branded with a burning hot cow prod, forever tarnishing; a life lasting, hideous scar.
3 3 3!!!
ReplyDeleteStaring at my cells blank wall, my mind picked and prodded at my beliefs; rearranged them. It came to the simple conclusion that life is unfair. Some live long enjoyable lives, whilst some are punished. Life isn’t respectful of good deeds, nor is it honorable. It is full of uncertainty and chance, an orbit of luck. Life is defined in breathing, in walking this earth. I define living as the happiness I find whilst on this world. My happiness has long run out. I am not living. A life behind metal bars is not life at all. I am dead; an empty soul wandering my cell, no longer having a purpose, no reason to exist. Deaths greedy hands have snatched me, his grasp forever tightening. In all these melodramatic prose, I do believe that Karma will come. The man in the pressed uniform, with the smug expression will suffer. It may not be behind jail bars, but justice will be served. I look forward to the coming of life; the technical death. For then I can finally rid myself of death and his chains and continue in happiness, the way I ordained to be...
________________________________________________
Frame old and brittle, bones trembling under life’s pressure, the old man sat defeated and disheveled on his cell bed. Fifty years in punishment have passed since his trial, and nothing remains certain. Innocent man, now believes himself to be guilty, after living behind someone else’s lie. On the verge of death, the man’s broken memory embraces the very thought, that very escape from his inexcusable actions. He will never forgive himself for his brutal crime. Never. With the utmost respect for that heroic policeman, who served his justice, who sent such a guilty man to court, the aged face smiled. He deserved this, he was guilty. As deaths arms opened wide, the wrinkled figure gave in. Death had come for him, to rescue him from his actions, so he could finally live once more.
So much for short story, what is this? However it is good, and I thoroughly enjoy reading it.
ReplyDeleteDear Connor, I am deeply offended! My mind is full of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, everything that's absolutely wonderful.There is hardly any incesty, murdery, prostituey stuff. Promise.
ReplyDeleteKiera, I know what you did. You're testing me to see if I've read your story. Well, I can say with "an eerie irony" that yes, I have. I will review it soon, too.
ReplyDeleteRest assured, you will not go unpunished for this insubordination!
Kiera, you spelt gaol the American way! Even after Goodwin bagged on about it for hours! OOOOOO get out of English 1!
ReplyDeleteI refuse to convert to gaol! Jail looks so much better!
ReplyDeleteGoodwin; I re-read my story and there is no mention of "eerie irony". You are lying to me. Goodwin you fool! Damnnn you!
ReplyDeleteThat's strike one against you, Campbell. Don't make me blacklist you.
ReplyDeletePfft, you have nothing on me. You didn't even read my story, disgraceful. Shame on you.
ReplyDelete