Somehow no one rumbled that I snuck onto a Killings columnist roster that otherwise contained nothing but champs. Me and the champs round out the year with our picks for 2015’s best. Dig in.
My final column for Kill Your Darlings is an interview with the inestimable Alexandra Heller-Nicholas. Her fine critical intelligence and quick infectious wit will be familiar to anyone who listens to the fab film podcast Plato’s Cave. It was a real pleasure to talk to Alex about the strange enduring pleasure that is Dario Argento’s masterpiece Suspiria.
I’d also like to express my gratitude and love for the team at Killings, especially Veronica Sullivan.
Ronnie is an editor of great preciseness, compassion and patience – all of which were needed in great abundance in my case.
My take on Miles Allinson’s impressive but significantly flawed novel
My take on Fiona Wright’s Small Acts Disappearance is now up at Killings.
My take on Maggie Nelson’s genre-busting memoir The Argonauts, in which I argue for the overthrow of the narrative. Incoherently, of course.
My Emerging Writers Festival criticism paper has been published by the good people at The Lifted Brow.
There are very few journals as committed to working with new and diverse voices as the Brow so it’s a real honour to be published by them for the first time.
Just back from the inaugural presentation of the Russell prize for humorous writing at the NSW State Library.
It was a tremendous honour to be asked to help judge this new award with Kathryn Heyman and Paula Tierney (no relation).
Our decision to award the prize to Bernard Cohen’s The Antibiography of Robert F. Menzies was a unanimous one and I was again lucky enough to be asked to write the citation.
‘Pomo with punch lines, Bernard Cohen’s The Antibiography of Robert F. Menzies is a novel in the most elegant state of disassembly. At times a reader might be encountering a novel, a biography, a political satire or the wittiest PhD exegesis there’s ever been. Two of its characters are described at a certain point as ‘Smiling like two schoolboys not busted for anything.’ and the biting wit of this novel busts Australia big time. It busts us as a people so concerned with telling each other how relaxed we are (‘Smile, love – it might never happen!’), that we are revealed as at heart anxious. How we, at the arse end of the globe, are always the last to know. How we tell jokes to take each other down a peg or as an act of self-depreciation to misdirect from a social unease. These small acts of nervy restlessness are indicative of our larger domestic history and how it is forever unsettled with its own self-described ‘eventlessness’. A novel this bursting out with this many surely choreographed elements is impossible to summarise in a single line but if it is about one thing it is about how the brutalities of the past are reduced to a sort of comfort by the virtue of being ‘over’.
The Antibiography of Robert F(ucking) Menzies is the most elegant kick in the teeth we didn’t know we needed.’