Some equally dangerous Aussie creatures, not found in nature books.

Let me try to guide you through a crazy jungle. Not one with endless rain, mud everywhere, poisonous wildlife or indigenous tribes wary of outsiders, mind you. One slightly closer to home: Australian politics in 2017.

Its floor (both parliamentary and metaphorical) consists of numerous plotters on both sides who've orchestrated four changes of prime minister this decade; one of which saw a previous one returned to that office. Another referred to her backstabbers as faceless men. Here, they'll be faceless snakes, slithering with stealth to make their kill. At this rate, if that continues Australia will soon have as many living former PMs as koalas left in the wild (we currently have seven).

Its understory is two of those former PMs, who've stopped at nothing ever since being deposed to publicly undermine their successors, like apes in a tree fighting for a bunch of bananas. Well, like your leaderships terms, those bananas have expired. Move the fuck on.

And at the canopy: all these MPs embroiled either in dual citizenship or political donation scandals. You're meant to sell policies, you idiots, not newspapers! Barnaby Joyce, who's been revealed to have dual citizenship with New Zealand, has now withdrawn from parliament which is bittersweet because we now have a hung parliament, and Employment Minister Michaelia Cash, doing her best impression of an Easter Island statue, has fronted up this week to two days of hearings about her totally un-ironic involvement with donations against the Australian Workers Union. Need I continue?

In any case, I apologise. To any animals who may have found this offensive, I mean.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #59: Blood Brother (2013).

Rocky Braat was just another directionless, disenchanted young American who set out to see the world, when he took a job as a helper in an orphanage in India for children with HIV/AIDS. Almost immediately, he found this had become his calling. He bonded, unexpectedly and inseparably, with the whole brood there, and even fell in love with an Indian woman whom he later married. After a year, he returned to America to reconnect with his close friend, filmmaker Steve Hoover, and to tell him all about his life-changing experience. Hoover was so intrigued and happy for him, he decided to join Rocky on his return to India. Hence, the documentary Blood Brother was born.

Just thinking about this film disturbs and moves me, but it one hundred percent pays dividends. After covering Braat's troubled childhood (his mother battled addiction and his stepfather abused him), Hoover takes a fly-on-the-wall approach to showing Rocky going about his work with the children, whether it's playing either traditional Indian or Western games with them, disciplining them or attending to their medical needs (including an excruciatingly graphic but tenderly handled surgery scene). Now, you might think as Braat's close mate, Hoover would be incapable of objectivity and impartiality here but in the numerous interviews, he takes a takes a backseat and lets Rocky be almost disarmingly honest (among other things, he admits beforehand he didn't even like kids) and ultimately, his movie reveals how Rocky and the kids have helped each other grow, learn and flourish equally. It also manages this without forcing the one-person-can-make-a-difference message down our throats.

Blood Brother is about a journey; two, actually, as its effect on Hoover also ultimately becomes clear. And it will take you, shaken but thoroughly enriched, with it every step of the way.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #58: The Piano (1993).

Mute Scottish widow Ada McGrath (Holly Hunter), her nine-year-old daughter Flora (Anna Paquin) and her piano, which she plays to express herself, arrive to an arranged marriage in the wilds of 19th-century New Zealand. Her husband Stewart (Sam Neill) refuses to transport the piano, however, and so it's left behind on the beach. Unable to handle it being destroyed, Ada makes a deal with George Baines (Harvey Keitel), an illiterate Englishman living with the local Maoris. She may reacquire her piano if she lets him do certain things while she plays - one black key per lesson. Soon, all three become entwined in a passionate but unstable romantic triangle.

Jane Campion is a writer-director like no other. I can count on one hand - two, tops - the number of period romantic dramas I have ever enjoyed, but The Piano is truly a masterpiece. Winner of the 1993 Cannes Film Festival Palme d'Or and nominated for eight Oscars including Best Picture (which it lost to a little competition called Schindler's List) and winning three, for Hunter, Paquin and Campion's screenplay, it is just intoxicating. Campion's direction is so assured as she deftly invokes the powerful natural New Zealand landscapes as a backdrop and metaphor for her characters' unusual and increasingly risky relationships, and her script is totally consistent with the era and place. Adding to this is Stuart Dryburgh's lush cinematography and Michael Nyman's haunting score.

But if all those elements are the heart of The Piano, the cast must surely be its soul. In one of the hardest roles ever conceived for a woman, Holly Hunter is unforgettable. With not a word of dialogue spoken on-screen, she makes Ada an absolutely indomitable figure: resolute, imperious, carnal, merry but also fragile. Paquin became the second-youngest competitive Oscar winner ever at age 11, solidly handling Flora's trajectory from a very sweet little girl conspiring with her mother to one who will betray her, and with a fluent Scottish accent. Sam Neill shows quite a different side than usual with a frightening turn as the abusive Stewart, and Keitel is brilliantly nuanced.

In the documentary Inside The Piano, found on the DVD, Campion claims her goal with this movie was to make the audience feel like they'd been on a journey. Goal achieved.

That (literal) wanker Weinstein.

As you may have figured, I've quite closely been following this latest Hollywood sex scandal. Firstly, I would like to say something possibly contentious about sex scandals in general, if I may. When a man makes unwanted advances towards women, he's condemned as a sexist pig. When a woman turns the tables, she's praised as a go-getter. Now, I know misogyny is much more widespread and ingrained than misandry and that men generally are more interested in sex, but neither side is right, and double standards no more so.

Regardless, I have never had any time for Harvey Weinstein. He may have helped bring many great films to fruition, but personally he is a fucking vile slug. Corrupt, arrogant, superficial and bullying. I've read that when Shakespeare in Love won the 1998 Best Picture Academy Award over Saving Private Ryan, at one of the after-parties he even shoved his Oscar in Steven Spielberg's face. Isn't that gracious and sportsmanlike! Undoubtedly, at next year's show he'll be the elephant in the room. I objectively wasn't surprised a shred when these brave women started breaking their silence finally, and I hope justice is served. But I hope even more that women everywhere will soon no longer have to suffer silently for so longer (or suffer at all, for that matter), and that more men will openly stand against such treatment.

Finally, when public figures are exposed like this, the industries they belong to and their employees are also harmed. Overnight, Weinstein's daughter reportedly had him hospitalised, fearing he would commit suicide. I don't know if I want him to do that, but I won't be upset if he does. And if you don't want to fall from grace, just fucking behave yourself.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #57: The French Kissers (2009).

Herve (Vincent Lacoste) is 14. He lives in a Parisian apartment with his mother (Valeria Golino) and his pubescent hormones are peaking. Worse for him, his social skills are just a notch above those of Damien from The Omen. At school his best mate is mulleted Arab Camel (Anthony Sonigo), who loves playing electric guitar. So when Herve somehow wins the attention of hip girl Aurore (Alice Tremolieres), he's instantly thrust into the confusing world of teenage romance and sex. But now his first girlfriend, his massive sex drive and his best friend are all set to clash, presenting him with an ultimatum.

The French Kissers reminds us that nobody knows romance better than the French. In his directorial debut, graphic novel author Riad Sattouf offers his own American Pie-esque coming-of-age tale with a refreshingly European spin. Obviously echoing the tradition of the French kiss, Sattouf keenly explores youth sexual exploration from the eyes of two ill-mannered but relatable klutzes, along with nailing their emotional and intellectual development (Herve's idea of a school history class report is one on 50 Cent). His and Marc Syrigas' screenplay also provides some witty one-liners and realistic characters, which the young cast all bring very smoothly to life.

Throw a fun soundtrack, well-judged photography and solid comic timing in, and you have a genuine shot in the arm for teen sex comedies. Even as a fellow male, these French Kissers are ones I'll happily pucker up for.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #56: Jitters (2010).

Gabriel (Alti Oskar Fjalarsson) is 16 and at the peak of adolescent confusion. After a class trip to England, where he's had his first kiss with rebellious Markus (Haraldur Ari Stefansson), his inner circle notice a change in his temperament. At home he's an only child, and to his clear frustration his mother insists on holding family meetings about his behaviour, and then both his parents go through his things while he is (almost always) out. Socially, tragedy strikes when his best friend Stella (Ilva Holmes) commits suicide at a party. Now, Gabriel must stop his and his other friends' lives from snowballing uncontrollably, while evaluating and accepting his emerging sexuality.

Imagine a film version of Skins set in Iceland, and you're pretty close. But Jitters (2010) still cuts its own swathe through the coming-of-age drama genre with confidence and authenticity. Director/co-writer Baldvin Zophoniasson imbues each scene with vibrancy and gentleness, a pulsating indie rock soundtrack, relaxed photography and dialogue that never feels too smart for teen characters. The cast also deliver uniformly natural, understated turns and their characters are all likeable but realistic: they drink, swear and fuck pretty often.

Where far too many teen flicks either try too hard to be groundbreaking, or not hard enough, Jitters very refreshingly and cleverly balances the scales just right.

America, you've outdone yourselves again...

Well, when Elvis Presley sang Viva Las Vegas, he obviously didn't picture a gun massacre. That, as you must already know, is what struck the world's partying capital on Sunday night, at a country music festival. It's now the deadliest gun massacre in American history. Fucking barbaric.

But it's just one in a very long line, and that emphasizes a very insidious, underlying danger. If they ever become so commonplace as for us to consider them inevitable, rather than doing however much we can to make a real difference, that is arguably when we ourselves become a big part of the problem.

I also think global media yet again has mostly been appalling in its coverage of this tragedy and particularly the investigation into the culprit, Stephen Paddock. A 64-year-old with no known history of mental illness, terrorism connections or criminal history besides a traffic violation. After the massacre he took his own life, which in this case was pure cowardice because it meant he wouldn't have to face conviction. And by running his story as much as they have been, the media are making a martyr of him. Oliver Stone directed the film Natural Born Killers, which condemned mass media obsession with serial and spree-killers, which was massively controversial upon release in 1994. But how vindicated must he feel now?

I feel no less angry. I'm just beyond glad we have no Second Amendment or National Rifle Association in Australia, which is home to some of the tightest gun laws on Earth. My heart fully goes out to all the casualties, the injured and their loved ones. This week, we are all Las Vegans.