<p>“Look, I’d say it’s deeper than a critique of capitalism, which admittedly is a pretty mainstream understanding of the film—see, it’s a criticism of our understanding of self and the superficial nature of the relationships that we foster due to our inherent egotism… Anyway, do you like The Cure? Hey, are you awake?”—Oliver Russel, 23, […]</p>
“Look, I’d say it’s deeper than a critique of capitalism, which admittedly is a pretty mainstream understanding of the film—see, it’s a criticism of our understanding of self and the superficial nature of the relationships that we foster due to our inherent egotism… Anyway, do you like The Cure? Hey, are you awake?”—Oliver Russel, 23, student at Victorian College of the Arts (VCA).
It’s 11:23pm, and you’ve come to this gig hoping to finally understand the cloying allure of Australian garage music. But sadly, you’ve been dragged into a crowded backroom billowing with clouds of Marlboro Reds. And look at that. One Oliver Russel, a Film and Television student at VCA, is walking right towards you with the air of Jay Gatsby at one of his famous parties—if he sold ketamine and was a “really nice guy”.
According to the yelling in your ear, Oliver is the foremost expert on David Fincher’s indulgent feature Fight Club. He doesn’t even think that Brad Pitt is that hot! So, he has no aesthetic bias—which is, according to Oliver, integral for professional film analysis.
He’s also straight! Anyway, look, you need to know that he’s not like those other guys who like Fight Club. No way! Because they don’t follow through on its ethos. But Oliver does, and he’s straight, and he’s willing to talk about it at length, and you should be thankful! We sure were back at the Farrago office: Oliver insisted we visit him at his home, an abandoned apartment that he doesn’t pay rent for. Just what Fincher would want!
There have also been whispers that Oliver has access to the backstage area—he knows the band from VCA, it’s no big deal—and has propositioned you. But don’t worry, he’s not a “base creature like other men”. No, he just wants to discuss his thoughts further with you: “Your insight is so insightful for a Melbourne Uni student!”
You haven’t even said a word! How generous of him.
As tempting as this is, you try to let him down gently; you’re tired, your friends left ages ago to go throw rocks at a statue of Matthew Flinders, and you don’t really want to talk about a movie—
“Movie!” Oliver chortles. “Honey, it’s a film.”
What a sweet thing to do, making sure you’ve got the facts! He then generously insists on getting your number, since you’re about to leave him all alone in the backroom, which is not at all a repurposed bathroom without the graffitied stalls. You just can’t wait for the inevitable long text messages that will be oddly reminiscent of lyrics written by The Jesus Mary and Mary Chain!
“He’s kind of pushy. Like, if you don’t listen to him, he might sacrifice your childhood toy to his Fincher shrine in the darkroom,” says Marcella Ferrara, one of Oliver’s classmates. “It’s got little candles and everything. I think he even sketched that guy; you know the one? That one from Mindhunter and who was also in Hamilton? But I’m down for just going along with it, I’m running on beta-blockers and iced coffee… wait who are you again?”
Well, we here at Farrago think he’s just passionate and we’d be willing to fight you on that one—if only there was some sort of club to facilitate such a thing…