In a radical departure for this column, Video Watch switches channels to the world of TV advertising. And where better to sample the delights of said ads, than the ultimate showcase of TV advertising — the NFL Super Bowl. It’s at half time of the Super Bowl where some of the best, most innovative, most
Eurgh. There’s no way to intriguingly weave a review of Hurricane that will leave you guessing and tantalised. Quite simply, Hurricane is the worst music video ever produced. It’s one of the most tortuous 13 minutes you’re likely to spend. If you thought Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut was breathtakingly up-itself, then you ain’t seen nothing
Polo. Please help me to understand. From where I’m sitting, polo is a horse picnic. It’s a day at the races without the bogans. So why does it have hoity-toity connotations? People have ridden horses for eons. Dozens of civilizations around the world play a version of polo. Head to the high steppes of Central
I’ve been putting this moment off for months now, but no more. The Video Watch spotlight wheels around to be confronted by something even brighter: the incandescent visage of a cherubic Justin Bieber. Why the change of heart? Well, clearly there will soon come a time when Justin’s voice will break and things will be
Filthy Strumpet. Stroppy Cow. It’s really quite amazing what people choose to stick to the back window of their cars. Leaving aside the Bundy ute phenomenon for a minute (“I’d rather be passed out in a puddle of me own spew at the Chunderdoo B&S Ball”) which probably deserves its own thesis, increasingly it’s the
Back when we launched venue around five years ago a 42-inch screen would set you back $5000+. And I’m not talking about a household name you can trust, I’m talking about a Soney or a Firrips, straight-off-the-back-of-a-Chinese-truck flat panel… probably held together with egg white and sticky tape. Still, we revered the ‘big’ screen like
Thrash metal and war? It’s a perfect match made in hell. As natural a fit as Pavarotti and super-slow-mo sports footage, or Dwight Yokoam and Nascar racing. If you’re scudding along the Airport Road out of the Green Zone, what better soundtrack than the mayhem of chainsaw guitars and a voice that’s gargling razor blades.
I may be very much mistaken, but I don’t think the Las Vegas Heritage Trust is particularly active. I recently travelled to Vegas with a companion who yearned for a taste of the golden age. It was his first time in Sin City and he had romantic visions of Sinatra strolling the strip in a
Gabriella Cilmi (pronounced Chill-me, not Kill-me) has a new album. With the totally ubiquitous Nothing Sweet About Me behind her, Gab has new and very different fish to fry.
I recently returned from a family holiday in Tasmania. Nothing glamourous, just a self-catering week in the interior — tall trees, waterfalls, leeches. We set off one afternoon from our cabin on an hour-long walk, ostensibly to spot wedge-tailed eagles. With two kids under the age of 10 I was bringing up the rear of