Ice dreams, bush reality

Press, 13 February 1982, Page 13

Ice dreams, bush reality

[Review]

Ken Strongman

Television time can stretch and shrink like Alice with her bottles. An hour on Thursday having dreams woven by Toller Cranston seemed to be an entire evening. Or was it Craller Tonsure? Or Taller Cranberries? Anyway, it wasn’t Norman Gunston, unfortunately. As Toller put himself through impossible contortions on ice, one had to admit that he is impossibly good at it. There was little doubt that he got to the hub of things with his interminable triple axles. The format of the programme was an alternation between Croller displaying his form at many things, various guest stars, and female skating through fog wearing nighties, bead curtains and immobile plastic heads.

One guest played a perspex piano whilst the camera played rigidly on his fingers as they fingered. It prompted little more than the thought

that one can only think “That’s clever” for a short time before it becomes a very boring thought. It's the same with the skating. It is impressive but only for 10 minutes or so. Thereafter one really needs a thundering great slurpy sliding fall which brings down half the scenery to keep up the interest. Whoops, here comes Trailer again, having changed his leotard and, yes, he’s up on his points sliding off into a bit of ice disco to the strains of jazzed up Tchaikovsky. There were two singers. One was standard male hairy and the other statutory female black. She was properly large with hair in correct reggae-medusa, a tooth-gap sufficient to let out some sound and feet apparently nailed to the' stage. But whoops, here comes Crawler again doing yet another midair, toe-touching splits. Avert the eyes. Medi-

cal research has suggested that even to watch such strivings can promote hernias.

Time was shortened again with “Outlook — Still Chasin’ Possums.” It was all an excuse for the National Film Unit to do what it does best and show us some delightful views of the bush and of three fascinating characters.

In a short time, one was made to feel what possum hunting was all about. Check shirts, heavy packs, traps, poison, a multi-purpose axe, inflation and unemployment. Economic scarcity has hit the hunters but not the possums; there’s just more people getting them now. Don’t all rush out though. You, need certain basic qualities for the job, if the three experts are representative. It is a mixture of liking one’s own company, a penchant for the composition of unusually direct doggerel, and a brutally pragmatic attitude to life, helped by a

wallop with the back of an axe. “Not a bad little possum.”

The film was two-thirds gone before the reason for its excellence became clear. There was no commentary. Nothing. Everything, even the hunters, spoke for itself. It was remarkably restful.

In their comments, the hunters were very keen to point out the possum’s cunning. “The possum's got more brains than I have.”

Tempting though it might be to agree, it is difficult to forget that the possums are not yet laying the traps.