Phil Brown

Being a vampire must be an awful drag, eternal life in an undead fashion. I have just seen the brilliant new Swedish vampire flick Let The Right One In and the 12 year old vampire in it (she’s not really twelve) reeks of world-weariness. If only she could get some rest - eternal rest, that is. See this film if you can because it is cool, the way everything Scandinavian seems to be. (Jazz, furniture etc) It’s a coming-of-age story as well as an exploration of existential angst and it is scary. This vampire does have two fangs and bites - which is as it should be. It’s not as funny as Mel Brooks’ classic Dracula: Dead and Loving It … in fact it’s not really funny at all. But it is good, looks great - a snow-bound 1982 Stockholm suburb its - and has a very atmospheric soundtrack. Now I have to read the book of the same name that the film was based on by author John Ajvide Lindqvist. It’s apparently equally creepy, equally brilliant.  Once that’s done I may have to leave my night light on for the rest of the year! Gulp.

Being in the presence of the man many are now calling Australia’s greatest living writer is always an honour. It’s also a pleasant experience since David Malouf is a humble, gracious person and a pleasure to be with. It’s a bit daunting being his designated driver, however. Twice I have had the honour of ferrying him across Brisbane after interviews for Brisbane News. The first time, a year or so ago, I was halfway across the Story Bridge when I began to panic. What if I had a car accident and he bumped his head and suffered concussion or even, god forbid, amnesia? Would I be held responsible for damaging a literary lion and Queensland icon? Luckily we got to our destination safely. Likewise, recently, I had the honour of driving David to his next appointment. I drove slowly as we chatted away, terrified that we might have a bingle and that the great man could be injured. Needless to say we arrived safely and the legend lives on. Our interview on that occasion was about his new book, Ransom, a brilliant and evocative tale of Troy, told in Malouf’s spare but poetic prose. It’s about King Priam in particular, seeking to get back his son, Hector’s, defiled body from Achilles, the Greek warrior. David Malouf has put flesh on the bones of these Homeric characters and this book is already being regarded as a classic. It’s brilliant stuff by a writer who is rightly regarded as a modern master. He’s also very good company and I’m looking forward to ferrying him across old Brisbane town again in the not too distant future.

You’re standing in a queue, groaning. “I’m dying over here, I’m losing the will to live!” Did I say that or just think it? People are looking at me strangely. Oops, the inner monologue has become outer again. Is this one of the signs of middle age? When the interior monologue spills over into reality. In  a supermarket it can express itself thus: “Okay guys, where the fuck have you hidden the sultanas? Oh I’m sorry, madam, I don’t mean you!” Someone pushes in front of you at the post office. “That’s alright mate, go right ahead, what am I, chopped liver?” Even in the surf nowadays, fighting the longboarders for some waves. “Don’t worry about me, you fat old longboarders just help yourselves to all the waves, don’t worry about me!” Dirty looks. But there’s something emancipating about letting the inner monologue spill over into the real world. What do you think?