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With Furiosa
May. 4th, 2020 12:02 pmI was watching a documentary about Australian film last night, and George Miller appeared on the screen, and I was overcome with emotion all over again. I made Matthias pause the show, because I had to give words to what I was feeling: this overflow of relief and gratitude and astonishment that this white, boomer male filmmaker had understood, and depicted — mainly without words — how angry so many women are all the time,* and why we are angry.
(Incidentally, I met George Miller, decades ago when I was a teenager at some New Year's Eve party in Sydney hosted by one of my mother's friends. And there were moments of connection like that throughout the documentary, whenever various talking heads appeared: Sigrid Thornton, who once overheard my mother, sister and me talking loudly in English, with Australian accents, in a clothes shop in Paris, and advised me as to which winter coat I should buy out of the two over which I'd been deliberating. Gillian Armstrong, whose daughter? stepdaughter? was at school with my sister. Paul Mercurio, who danced with my aunt back when she was a professional dancer. Said aunt is now an economics lecturer. I don't move in particularly exalted circles. It's just that the arts/media/journalism circle in Australia is extremely small, and was even smaller and more incestuous when my parents and their generation were establishing their careers.)
*I mean, when I say 'all the time,' I don't mean I'm brimming with rage constantly, but it's buried there, and can be summoned at a moment's notice by a news item, an interaction, an anecdote by one of my younger sisters, friends, or a stranger, and back it comes.
(Incidentally, I met George Miller, decades ago when I was a teenager at some New Year's Eve party in Sydney hosted by one of my mother's friends. And there were moments of connection like that throughout the documentary, whenever various talking heads appeared: Sigrid Thornton, who once overheard my mother, sister and me talking loudly in English, with Australian accents, in a clothes shop in Paris, and advised me as to which winter coat I should buy out of the two over which I'd been deliberating. Gillian Armstrong, whose daughter? stepdaughter? was at school with my sister. Paul Mercurio, who danced with my aunt back when she was a professional dancer. Said aunt is now an economics lecturer. I don't move in particularly exalted circles. It's just that the arts/media/journalism circle in Australia is extremely small, and was even smaller and more incestuous when my parents and their generation were establishing their careers.)
*I mean, when I say 'all the time,' I don't mean I'm brimming with rage constantly, but it's buried there, and can be summoned at a moment's notice by a news item, an interaction, an anecdote by one of my younger sisters, friends, or a stranger, and back it comes.