Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #104: Purple Rain (1984).

Before he made the Joker boogie in 1989, changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol in defiance against the music industry oppression in 1993 and long before he tragically died in 2016, Prince, with his first backing band the Revolution, cemented his superstar status with his 1984 film debut Purple Rain and its celebrated soundtrack which has sold over 13 million copies worldwide. The film actually grossed nearly $80 million worldwide but has gathered a devoted cult following, naturally consisting largely of strong Prince fans like myself.

In this semi-autobiographical tale, His Royal Badness plays the Kid, an upstart club musician in Minneapolis, Minnesota who's equally alienated and talented. Stuck living at home with his warring, abusive parents (Olga Karlatos and Clarence Williams III), the Kid also has to control his mounting frustration. His only solace is in his burgeoning affair with the smoky Apollonia Kotera (lead singer of Apollonia 6, the real-life girl group Prince assembled). After playing a few shows at the First Avenue nightclub (the real Minneapolis venue where Prince's career began), rival bandleader Morris Day (as himself) of the Time lobbies the club's owner Billy (Billy Sparks) to replace the Revolution with Apollonia 6, looking to win Kotera's heart. She soons joins Morris' plan and when the Kid learns of this, fireworks erupt. After then trashing his whole house, the Kid finds what could be his saviour: a collection of ripper lyrics his father wrote. Once he puts those to music, he takes the stage again at the club, wins Apollonia back and leaves everybody awestruck.

I mustn't lie to you: this flick's appeal will always be the strongest with Prince fans like me, just as all rock music films appeal the most to fans of the artists it stars. But what helps Purple Rain surpass that is the very human narrative at its core. As we see the Kid escape from his awful family life through his passion for music, it reinforces how all art and entertainment forms can offer such a refuge. And yes, Prince mightn't have been a great actor but hey, the part was fashioned after himself and when he gets on stage to rock, it's abundantly clear just how much he really loved giving an audience a visual and auditory extravaganza.

Purple Rain was directed and co-written by Albert Magnoli, who'd previously made a short about jazz musicians called Jazz. His direction is pretty conventional but he manages to work the concert sequences and the dramatic narrative pretty cohesively together, and his own passion for music is evident throughout. Also worth noting is that one of the producers was Rob Cavallo, an executive with Prince's record label Warner Bros. who later discovered and signed Green Day.

RIP Your Royal Badness, Prince. Wherever you are now, we only want to see you laughing in the purple rain.

Serena and that cartoon.

The whole fiasco has people divided as much as the net on the court where it began separates players annually. Serena Williams excoriated the umpire at the U. S. Open women's singles final for penalising her multiple times. And then Aussie cartoonist Mark Knight produced a parody of her which she and many others have condemned as racist and sexist. Now, I'm on the fence about her meltdown; I found her manner excessive and she clearly broke at least one game rule but several of the points she raised seemed accurate to me. Regarding the cartoon, all I have to say is that cartoonists, particularly newspaper ones like Knight, are meant to push buttons even if only to help their papers sell, and button-pushing is brave whatever content is involved. (I honestly can understand where both sides are coming from on this cartoon.)

But who I sympathise most with here is Naomi Osaka. 20 years old, multiracial, winning her first Grand Slam title and yet, everybody will remember that win of hers because of Williams' behaviour and Knight's ensuing cartoon. In fairness to Serena she did nothing wrong to Osaka and later congratulated her for winning, but Williams nonetheless stole the attention away from Osaka's achievement, although inadvertently.

Admittedly, I don't actually watch tennis regularly, much less play it, so I apologise if I therefore shouldn't be commenting here. But I'm a news junkie and this is one of those scandals where sport has bled into politics, which as you know by now I do follow keenly. That's why this entry has come about, and again I wanted to do what I can to shine the limelight back on Naomi Osaka and her breakthrough achievement.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #103: Carnage (2011).

Two schoolboys, Zachary and Ethan, are playing together at school when an argument starts, culminating in Zachary assaulting Ethan with a stick. After the boys get in trouble for fighting, Ethan's parents, Penelope and Michael Longstreet (Jodie Foster and John C. Reilly), invite Zachary's parents, Nancy and Alan Cowan (Kate Winslet and Christoph Waltz) over to their house to try and establish why it happened and hopefully resolve their differences. But pretty soon, just why their sons got stuck into each other is abundantly clear. On top of their contrasting tastes and social statuses, both couples just don't see eye to eye on anything, with especially bad fireworks developing between Nancy and Penelope. But as the afternoon unfolds, all four will show how parents can still act very childishly, and none will avoid the carnage.

Besides the opening fight, Carnage takes place fully in the Longstreet house, so it's as self-contained as stories come. I don't normally find that really compelling, but with Roman Polanski (love or hate him personally) in the director's chair it very much it is. Despite its Brooklyn setting, Carnage was filmed in Paris due to Polanski's fugitive status in the U.S. but again as only one scene is set outdoors, he gets away with that. He co-wrote the screenplay with Yasmina Reza based on her play, and the result is a merciless and very funny comedy which could be taken as an antidote to many of those very conventional and PC family dramas like Terms of Endearment and countless such TV shows (good though many of those are). As a director he wisely remains neutral in exploring the couples' feud and doesn't judge any of their atrocious behaviours (he raped a teenage girl, after all). His direction ultimately proves that alongside Chinatown, Rosemary's Baby and The Pianist, he can also achieve something memorable with material far lighter in tone, if not content.

But surely the top reason to watch this one is the dynamite cast. Foster, who I consider the finest actress of our time, and Winslet both clearly had an absolute ball bringing their on-screen warring to life and their performances are more entertaining as their characters' contempt for each other grows more sincere, and Reilly keeps everything decently balanced as the foursome's would-be peacemaker. The weak link is Waltz; there's nothing wrong with his performance here, but quite frankly he could've played Alan in a coma. Collectively, though, they achieve the intention of making their characters' actions very familiar.

If you've ever had tensions with a fellow parent, or prefer your comedies with claws, this is the sort of Carnage you'll enjoy witnessing.

Comparing freaks to outcasts, linguistically.

Let's talk marginalisation (in general) and semantics. We have numerous terms for the former: weirdo, oddball, pariah, et al and tons of reclaimed words for each specific minority. But I want to focus here on just two: "freak," and "outcast." These are often used interchangeably, like they're synonyms. But as I myself could be called either one I tend to often consider how and why they're used overall, and recently it's thus occurred to me that they're not actually identical in meaning. Not to me, anyway.

"Freak" can primarily be applied to somebody who can socialise and assimilate well enough, but also wields extraordinary skills in certain fields, namely academia or sports. The 1932 film Freaks, about a troupe of circus performers with various physical disabilities, first popularised the term and remains among the most controversial movies ever made.

"Outcast," on the other hand, I think applies primarily to somebody who (for whatever reason) just lacks an adequate sense of social identity and/or confidence and thus leads a very quiet, private existence. For a real-life example, I imagine there's one in at least every suburb; I know one myself but I don't want to violate his privacy or capitalise on his situation.

Of course, both words' meanings can still overlap, and everybody to whom either applies deserves allegiance and support. But all things considered, I really think "freaks" and "outcasts" have distinguishing elements. "Envy" and "jealousy," "speak" and "talk," those are fully synonymous with each other. Not this duo.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #102: The Money Pit (1986).

Newlyweds Walter Fielding (Tom Hanks) and Anna Crowley (Shelley Long) have just been unceremoniously evicted from their Manhattan apartment. But they quickly find a silver lining - they think - when they see their dream house in the suburbs and manage to buy it for a steal... but there's a great reason for that. For no sooner have they unpacked than they discover its appeal is only skin-deep. Their new landlady (Maureen Stapleton) failed - or maybe refused - to tell them every part of it that could be faulty is. Naturally, they then try to renovate it, but that just exacerbates it, particularly after they hire some very dodgy tradespeople and Anna's ex-husband (Alexander Godunov) resurfaces to try and win her back over. As they try to repair their fucked new pad, their marriage is thrown in jeopardy, meaning Walter and Anna must manage to reconcile while salvaging something from their poor real estate choice.

Before he really cemented his career in the '90s, Tom Hanks made some '80s comedies that he should keep well off his CV, but despite some shonky production values this one is hilarious. He pulls all the physical gags off with aplomb (especially a wheelbarrow scene) and also channels Walter's mounting frustrations very well, and Long (who was simultaneously working the bar on TV's Cheers) makes a suitably stoic and compassionate straight-woman. Writer David Giler (best known for co-producing Alien, which is as far away from this as you can get) fleshes the protagonists out with sympathy but clearly enjoyed putting them both through endless DIY hell, and he gives them both plenty of snappy but realistic dialogue. His script also helps to counter Richard Benjamin's uninspired direction the rather dated score..

Like the setting it's not perfect, but as a cautionary tale of a comedy, and as a romance, The Money Pit is nonetheless genuinely entertaining and relatable. The moral here: if you're tempted to buy a low-priced house, get a second opinion.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #101: 3rd Rock from the Sun (1996-2001).

Now, hear me out. I know this was a well-received and fairly top-rating sitcom during its primetime run. But amidst all the other hit '90s sitcoms (Friends, Seinfeld and Frasier being the three biggest), today 3rd Rock from the Sun seems really the most forgotten and, both retrospectively and from a contemporary perspective, the most niche. That, to me, qualifies it for cult status.

I was raised on this remorselessly funny and unexpectedly wise show; practically every Sunday night when it aired in Australia, my whole family watched and enjoyed it together, and I proudly now own the entire series box set. It follows four aliens who've been sent to Earth to conduct a study of human life and culture for their supreme leader, the Big Giant Head. To pull this off, they disguise themselves as a regular human family, the Solomons: there's Dick (John Lithgow in the role he was born to play), the imperious but immature High Commander; Sally (Kristen Johnston) the ferocious military expert who must adjust to being a woman on Earth; Tommy (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), the elderly intelligence specialist who's now a teenage boy; and Harry (French Stewart), the bizarre messenger who only came along because their ship had a spare seat. They assume residence in the small town of Rutherford, Ohio, where Dick works as a physics professor at Rutherford University, but this jeopardizes their mission because he instantly falls heads over heels in love with his ambitious but neurotic colleague Mary Albright (Jane Curtin). Meanwhile, all the Solomons have to learn to integrate with their chainsmoking, horny landlady Mamie Dubcek (Elmarie Wendel); Dick's professorial arch-nemesis Vincent Strudwick (Ron West), whose daughter Alyssa (Larissa Oleynik) Tommy dates, no less; his invariably sassy assistant Nina (Simbi Khali); and Sally's cop boyfriend Don Orville (Wayne Knight), among others.

3rd Rock from the Sun won eight Emmys (including five combined for Lithgow and Johnston) and two Golden Globes over its six seasons, and today it has aged barely, if at all. I can understand if it's not for everybody; it's as unsubtle as sitcoms come. But that's just why I've always adored it; I prefer comedy that goes for in-your-face territory, and I don't think that style can't be genuinely witty or multi-layered, either. Like most TV shows its quality does slip near the end, but it never jumped the shark. Creators Bonnie and Terry Turner and their fellow writers collectively do a very sharp job of drawing this premise out and managing the science of joke-telling, but 3rd Rock simply wouldn't have been the same without its immaculate cast. Over all six seasons their chemistry, comic timing and enthusiasm for the project never falters once. But from re-watching it as an adult, what now strikes me as most unusual about it is its wisdom. The Solomons quickly fit in so well with their surroundings because overall they're actually just as normal and sane, if not more so, than the human characters. That's a very profound and important sentiment to convey, in these times of deep conflict and disunity.

All in all, 3rd Rock from the Sun is a timelessly entertaining and insightful cult slice of television history.

Another one exits through Canberra's revolving door.

When will it fucking stop? After two leadership spills in just a week, yesterday Malcolm Turnbull resigned as Australia's PM, with Scott Mor(ris)on winning the ballot to succeed him. That now makes it five prime ministers we've had in a decade! Six if you count Kevin Rudd twice! (Although I don't.) Morrison, the former Treasurer (and ScoMo, as he's affectionately (?) known) may have just inherited the anchor of a sinking ship - and I don't just mean his own party or their government.

Scott Morrison in his quite unfortunate Wikipedia photo.

I wish him good luck, sincerely. As Treasurer I doubted he could deliver a fucking newspaper, never mind a surplus. This last Liberal Party leadership ballot came down to him, Peter Dutton, a man whose stint as Immigration Minister became like a roll-call of judgment gaffes and human rights violations (and whose head resembles an unwashed potato), and Julie Bishop, best known for her death stare. I was actually backing Bishop, who I've always found quite aloof but who's nonetheless more in-touch and hard-working than Dutton and Morrison combined. 

Another key player in this running gag's reoccurrence this week was Mattias Cormann.

A Belgian immigrant to Oz, I wouldn't be surprised if one of Cormann's grandparents participated in Belgium's invasion of the Congo. And I would say he should return to Belgium, but that'd really just be moving the problem elsewhere.

This on-going trend of Australia's prime ministers being overthrown from within almost - almost - makes me actually miss John Howard, who was PM for what I still consider 11 dreadful years. If it continues, I'll be waiting for the Greens (Australia's environmentalism party, obviously, for you non-Aussie readers) to cut a tree down, make it into a doorstop and try to jam the revolving leadership door once and for all. That would increase one problem but at least help another.