As usual, it starts even before the nominees are announced. In mid-January, someone in The Sun Herald reviewed Young Adult. “As if the 2012 Oscars race wasn’t close enough already,” wrote this guy, “in leaps Charlize Theron to shake things up.”

Huh? At the time, it seemed like the least “close” Oscars race between actresses in living memory. The nominations hadn’t been announced, but if Meryl Streep didn’t win, we could have assumed that reality had been warped, New Zealand would sink into the ocean, Saudi Arabia would elect a female president, and Christopher Pyne would run across the stage at ABC Studios wearing a pink tutu. (Sorry if I’ve just instilled a disturbing image into your minds, but Meryl Streep did seem like a dead certainty.) Sure, it’s a great year for Hollywood actresses, but with everything in Streep’s favour, it was like Michael Phelps in a swimming race against the cast of Hi-5.

Now, we’re supposed to believe, Viola Davis is edging her out. These things I can’t understand.

But even so, what was all this talk of Charlize Theron “shaking things up”? She wouldn’t even be nominated, and no sensible person assumed that this would happen. Does this reviewer love her madly, or is he merely delusional?

Strangely, the commentary didn’t improve after the actual nominations were announced. A doofus in USA Today went through the best film nominees, and decided that The Artist had one major thing against it: history. “The last silent film to take top Oscar honours was William Wellman’s World War I drama, Wings, in 1929,” wrote this guy.

Huh? Sorry to be a nuisance, but exactly how many silent movies have been made since 1929? (Answer: not many.) Next he’s going to predict that Hugo won’t win because it didn’t win last year.

As always, the nominations had different headlines in Australian newspapers. The Canberra Times had the headline: “Mia misses out on Oscars nomination”. To any film buff with a vague sense of reality, this was like announcing “Tony Abbott opposes Government policy” or “Lindsay Lohan gets in trouble”. But every year, when the Oscar finalists are announced, the big news in Australia is about which Australian actors were not nominated, even if nobody outside the country expected them to be. In this case, the Canberra angle made it even more inevitable.

“Despite an endorsement from Hollywood legend Meryl Streep at the Golden Globe awards recently,” went the report, “Canberra-born Mia Wasikowska failed to pick up a nomination for her starring role in Jane Eyre.”

When Streep won her utterly predictable Golden Globe Award, she singled out Our Mia as one of the year’s great performances (along with another seven actresses, but who’s counting?). This wasn’t unusual; Streep tends to be gracious like that, which makes her very likeable (another reason why she’ll probably win the Oscar). But sorry, Streep’s generosity doesn’t get you an Oscar nomination. It’s a terrific honour for Our Mia to be praised by a living legend. That’s good, because it’s about the highest honor she’s going to receive this year. You know how many good performances by lead actresses there were this year? Plenty. Even more than five.

Of course, everyone’s interested in the Golden Globes because they’re the main “predictor” of the Oscars. Then again, the Screen Actors Guild Awards are ALSO the main “predictor” of the Oscars, so presumably “The Help” will be named best film. In fact, just about everything that has happened in the past two months has been the main “predictor” of the Oscars, from the New York Film Critics Awards to the Australian Open.

In truth, the Globes, the SAGs and the others occasionally agree with the Oscars, which makes them pretty useless as predictors. (The Australian Open, however, is always reliable. It’s safe to say that, once again, Sharapova won’t win.)

Still, if everyone insists on predicting awards, my predictions are: The Artist, Martin Scorsese, George Clooney, and Rachael Taylor (no, Meryl Streep actually, or haven’t you been listening?). How many of those predictions are wrong? Possibly all of them. Oh, except Streep. But though I was the first person I know to predict her victory (almost a year ago, in this very column), and that would give me boasting rights, I almost hope that she loses, because that would be just so wonderfully bizarre.

Besides, Viola Davis won a SAG Award for The Help. As we all know, that’s how to predict the Oscars.

As I’ve mentioned before, “cute” is one of those words that is best defined through examples. Pandas, koalas, turtles. Smiley faces in people’s signatures. Renee Zellweger dressed as a bunny. Emails in broken English from sweet Austrian travel agents. (That’s another story.)

Every nation has its cute stuff. Even Australia has marsupials, the Minogue family, and that strange, baby-like habit of abbreviating words so that they end with an “ee” sound. (Remember that next time you have eggy bread for brekkie.)

Yet the nation that has worked cuteness into its national character with the most aplomb is easily Japan. OK, Kurosawa samurai flicks aren’t cute. Awesome, but not cute. Whale-hunting is neither cute nor awesome. But nearly everything else in Japan is very cute. Here is the nation that gave us the Sony Walkman and various other ways to turn cold, electronic gadgets into friendly, miniature devices. English roses and Dutch tulips might be beautiful, but Japanese hibiscus blossoms are cute.

At the moment, it is very chilly in Tokyo, and people walk the streets wearing masks. “Influenza is very popular right now,” explains our guide. I explain that it has a cult following in Australia, but hasn’t made the big time just yet. (Actually, I say nothing of the sort. That would be rude.)

We catch a train to the north of Honshu, where the streets are covered in snow. It is not so far from the scene of last year’s earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disaster, so most of the ski slopes vanished mysteriously from this year’s Lonely Planet. Happily, they still exist on Earth. Indeed, the Tohoku region of Japan is still a terrific place to ski (or in my case, learn to ski).

I understand that cute (kawaii) design, which gave us Hello Kitty and generations of big-eyed anime characters, is a form of youth rebellion in Japan, like rock’n’roll. Presumably, an attitude based on sweet and adorable things was a way to revolt against Hirohito’s controlled, austere society. Or maybe all that Hello Kitty stuff just drove parents crazy. That would make perfect sense.

Like rock’n’roll, it never died. Pokemon is cute. Dragonball is cute. Sushi is cute. In fact, the food-packaging in general is cute, wrapped in cute little bundles and lined up cutely in cute little containers. Vending machines where you can order hot coffee in a can, which somehow becomes even hotter if you shake it, are cute (especially if, like me, you don’t understand the science and assume that it’s all magic). Even the mighty bullet train, moving around Honshu as quickly as 300 kilometres an hour, is the cutest-looking form of transportation since the Volkwagen Beetle. The biggest, toughest sportsmen in Japan are the sumo wrestlers, who look cuddly and roly-poly (though if you try to share a hug with one of them, I imagine the inability of your arms to wrap around them would be the only thing to save your ribs from being broken).

Here in Japan, even superheroes are cute. American superheroes like Superman and Spider-Man are cool, but they were never cute. Even Batman, despite basing his image on a little furry animal, is not even remotely cute. But in Japan they have Tetsuwan-Atom (Astro Boy to you, and to me too when I’m not showing off). He is mighty and super-tough, but he is small, has big, adorable eyes and looks like a baby.

With apologies to Zooey Deschanel, Astro Boy is the archetypal cute celebrity. I was once told that “cute” had certain definitions, which included large, round eyes a large head in proportion to the rest of the body. This doesn’t really describe the lovable singer/songwriter and sitcom star, but it describes teddy bears, babies and Astro Boy (though admittedly, a name like “Zooey” is considerably cuter than “Tetsuwan”).

Tohoku also has plenty of natural hot springs, conveniently formed under hotels, but the Japanese arrange them differently to everyone else. The women’s and men’s sections are separated, and patrons strip completely naked, briskly scrub themselves clean, and descend into the pools, avoiding eye contact with each other so that they don’t see anything in Japan that isn’t so cute. You then bathe in very hot thermal pools, to be cured of something-or-other. A friend of mine was cured of his desire to visit the thermal pools, and left fairly quickly. I, however, stuck around a bit longer and eventually found myself really enjoying myself, surrounded by snow-covered hyacinths and snow-covered ground. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring my camera, so I can’t show you any photos.

Apart from the hot springs, I am surrounded by cute, which is not such a bad thing. There’s a place for beautiful and sexy, but with all the cynicism around, I think there’s also a place for the sweet, innocent world of cute.

Michael Douglas gives a political press conference (but not really). Photo courtesy of Domain Barnyard (Lori Tingey).

The smoke is still clearing on the scandal that might yet bring down the Australian Government, as the nation reels from the revelations that senior minister Anthony Albanese, in one of his speeches, lifted lines almost directly from one of Michael Douglas’s speeches in the 1995 movie The American President. Truly, Albanese should be thoroughly ashamed. Why is he quoting from The American President rather than one of the true Hollywood classics? Surely, something from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang would be more appropriate in these trying times.

Though some people are saying that it isn’t as important as the economy or climate change (and, umm, they might have a point), Albanese’s speechwriters have tackled this shameful exposé in his next major speech, which is excerpted below.

It has been suggested by some doofus in the Opposition that I’ve been using lines from movies in my serious political speeches. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Ronald Reagan used to use entire storylines from old movies in his speeches. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

There are more important things out there. Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death. But not Australians. Look at the shape of the economy, one of the world’s strongest. We’re kings of the world! Don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars. There’s no place like home. As God is my witness, we’ll never be hungry again.

A strong economy means never having to say you’re sorry. Yet people don’t seem to understand. Despite our great figures, they still say: “Show me the money!” What we’ve got here is failure to communicate. Well I’m talking here! I’m talking here! I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this any more!

 This reminds me of something that happened early yesterday morning when I shot an elephant in my pyjamas. How an elephant got into my pyjamas I’ll never know. But it served as a stark reminder that sometimes you can’t predict what will happen. The world economy will continue to struggle. Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night. But we won’t let it slow us down. I feel the need – the need for speed!

How fast can we run? As fast as a leopard. How fast are we going to run? As fast as a leopard! Australia’s greatest natural resource… is people. Australia’s true strength… is people. Soylent Green… is people! We need to spend, to keep our economy strong. Greed, for lack of a better word, is good. And though we can’t control the world economy, we can always close our eyes and wish for everything to work out. (sings) When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, when you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.

But who knows what the future holds? My mother always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get. Climate change will continue to be a problem. The Opposition is denying it, but I say to them: “You can’t handle the truth.”

It is true that the member for Denison, Andrew Wilkie, has withdrawn some of his support for the Government. But I think I can solve that one. I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Mr Wilkie, why don’t you come up and see me some time?

On the subject of leadership speculation, I promise that I fully support the Prime Minister in every way. I’ll have what she’s having. Yes, it’s true that she deposed Kevin Rudd, another Prime Minister I fully supported every step of the way. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

As for the ongoing refugee crisis, the Opposition sees political opportunism. Me? I see dead people. This is unacceptable. Why can’t we just invite them? Surely, there couldn’t be enough of them to invade Australia. You’re gonna need a bigger boat. But where else could we take them? (sings) Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high.

So many important problems to solve. Yet Christopher Pyne thinks it’s more important to attack me for quoting movie lines. Mr Pyne, are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? You’ve got to ask yourself one question: “Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk?

Wait a minute, wait a minute – you ain’t heard nothin’ yet! We can do this together. Carpe diem. Seize the day. Make your lives extraordinary. Here’s looking at you, kid. My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, my sister thanks you, and I thank you. Tell ‘em to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper.

And if we lose the next election, well, naturally I’ll be disappointed. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum. Hasta la vista, baby.

But not forever. I’ll be back. After all, tomorrow is another day!

But this new, revised 24 will work. Believe me, my idea is brilliant! No, really it is. How about 24 without the mistakes? I mean, perhaps it’s time the terrorists targeted another world-class city, just to be fair. With this in mind, I’ve been writing an episode-by-episode synopsis for the new, improved series, with a new locale and – this is important – more realism. It goes something like this…

            08:00 – 09:00: Having retired to a town just outside Baltimore, Jack gets a special call from the U.S. President, saying that terrorists are about to attack the National Aquarium. Jack drops everything to drive to Baltimore… and queues up at toll-booths for the rest of the hour.

            09:00 – 10:00: He drives for another hour through Baltimore traffic. Has angst-ridden conversations with himself about how he should have taken the train.

            10:00 – 11:00: While trying to negotiate his way through the inner-city traffic, Jack sees a bad guy waiting at a café. He tries to leap out and save the day, but there’s nowhere to park. He longs for the easy LA traffic and parking of the last series.

            11:00 – 12:00: Jack finally finds a space in a multi-storey carpark, then goes to the bad guy, who is fortunately still waiting for his coffee to be served.

Script Notes: At this point, I realised that, in the real world, “real time” is rather dull. I decided to change direction, cramming in as much as possible so that each episode can be as eventful as an episode of NCIS.

12:00 – 13:00: Jack defeats the bad guy, defuses the bomb and saves the world, but two popular characters are killed tragically.

13:00 – 14:00: Jack saves a girl, they fall in love, and she helps him find the really bad guy. Jack prepares to torture the really bad guy for information, but he reveals everything. Jack tortures him anyway because he’s gone to all the trouble of putting together his torturing kit.

14:00 – 15:00: Jack and the girl thwart the really bad guy’s scheme to destroy freedom or whatever he’s doing. Jack proposes to the girl. She accepts, provided they get married urgently within the next hour.

15:00 – 16:00: At the wedding, the terrorists invade, kidnapping Jack’s daughter Kim and taking her to the really, REALLY Bad Guy. Two popular characters are killed tragically.

16:00 – 17:00: On their honeymoon, Jack and his new wife go after the really, REALLY Bad Guy. Jack’s wife is killed tragically. Jack kills the really, REALLY Bad Guy, only to discover that he was working for the really, REALLY, REEEEEALLY Bad Guy.

17:00 – 18:00: At Jack’s wife’s funeral, a bunch of terrorists kidnap Jack’s daughter Kim, taking her to the really, REALLY, REEEEEALLY Bad Guy. In a rage, Jack kills two popular characters.

18:00 – 19:00: There is only one popular character left, so Jack asks her for the time. She won’t tell him, so he tortures her to get the information. He then boards a plane to LA to get some replacement popular characters.

19:00 – 20:00: Jack arrives in LA (where, due to time differences, he didn’t lose any time), and gathers another group of popular characters. They are all killed by the really, REALLY, REEEEEALLY Bad Guy.

Script Notes: OK, so now I realised that I was getting away from the realism. I started being gritty again.

20:00 – 21:00: After an exhausting day, Jack collapses due to lack of food.

22:00 – 23:00: Jack decides that he should go eat something. He can’t remember where he left his car keys, so he tortures himself to get the information. Meanwhile, the really, REALLY, REEEEEALLY Bad Guy… gets some sleep.

And on and on and on it goes…

Because so many editors want to run author pics, I had a few photos snapped by Hot Shots Photography in Canberra. At least that's something to put on my Facebook page...

After avoiding it for years, I have finally joined Facebook. Yes, I’ve dragged myself, kicking and screaming, into 2008. Joining Facebook was one of my New Year’s Resolutions, which might seem strange to you. As far as resolutions are concerned, it’s up there with resolving to smoke more cigarettes. I had always assumed that Facebook would be a colossal waste of time, so I stayed clear. Sure, I’m on Twitter, but how long does it take to write (and read) 140-character message? Facebook is more daunting.

I rarely make New Year’s Resolutions any more, maybe because my usual one (“Become rich and famous by the end of the year”) never worked. This year, however, I had two resolutions. The first one was to cut down my coffee intake to two cups a day. Or maybe three. Less than eight, at least. A friend suggested on New Year’s Eve that I cut down, reading a list of medical conditions that could be blamed on too much coffee. I can’t remember the full list, but I’m pretty sure it included Ebola, smallpox and limb amputation. So far this year, I’ve stayed under the limit, but she now informs me that the conversation turned her into a caffeine addict. These things I can’t explain.

As for Facebook, many people suggested to me that it was good for business. I was already on LinkedIn, but that’s a bit like a lunch break during a business conference. Facebook is like a party, though without the booze. (There should really be a social networking site for drunken louts, where they can all rave at each other and the rest of us wouldn’t have to hear them.)

I registered for Facebook some time ago, but left it alone. When I opened my dormant account, a week ago as I write this, I found that I already had five “friend” requests from the past several months. Most of them were people I knew. The other one was someone I’d never heard of, but I was touched that she wanted to be my friend, so I accepted her invitation. Though I joined Facebook for the networking, the word “friend” is emotive. If someone says “Can you be my friend?”, I wouldn’t have the heart to say no.

Soon I discovered that this lady had read my latest book, and enjoyed it so much that she wanted to “friend” me. (Since when was “friend” a verb. Whatever happened to “befriend”?) Happily, I’m not yet at the level of some big-shot writers, who feel they can be scathing to their readers. Indeed, I’m sure that I still don’t even have a tenth as many Facebook friends as the average 20-year-old. If any reader wants to be my friend, I’ll welcome them with open (online) arms.

Now that I had five ready-made friends, I looked up other people. Within minutes, several people accepted my requests, leading to the question: “Do I have a bunch of friends who spend their whole lives on Facebook?” The messages were wonderful: “You and Jim are now friends.” That was great news, as Jim and I have been on good terms since we were kids in 1988 and I was always hoping that we could make our friendship official through a website. Then I looked up another old acquaintance. “You and Nigel are not friends,” said the message. This was a crushing blow, as I didn’t realise we’d had a falling-out. Fortunately, we made up, no questions asked.

As my list of friends grew, comprised mainly of people who had been friends anyway, a few faces kept appearing. I didn’t know most of these people, but I was told that we had several mutual friends, so I asked to be friends. They all accepted. I also noticed a post on one group from someone I hadn’t seen for a while, so I offered my hand in friendship. She quickly accepted, and I noticed that she was someone I’d never seen, who merely shared her name with someone I used to know. Still, she wanted to be friends. Maybe we can go out for coffee some time.

Before long, my inbox was overflowing with dozens of messages. This was a worry, as I still had only 40 friends. Imagine how unwieldy it would be if I had 400. It soon became clear that most of these messages came from the same guy. Hopefully he’ll find a job soon.

After two days, I posted a query on a freelance journalists’ chat room, asking for ideas on how I could use Facebook for work. Thanks to my colleagues’ helpful advice, I now have 50 ways to make Facebook useful (as opposed to my list of 50 ways to waste time on Facebook, which I worked out all by myself, thank you very much).

I once read that the average person can sustain 250 friendships. The average Facebook member has 150 friends, but most of my Facebook friends seem to have a lot more. Conclusion: These people are so friendly that they’ll be friends with anyone.

That explains a lot.

Photo by Jinx! (Kelly Teague)

If not the greatest-ever Christmas song, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” was certainly one of the most worthy. It raised millions for starving children, of course, but what most amazes me about this song is that, even though it was back in 1984, and even though they were pop stars, every one of the 40-odd artists who recorded the song is still alive. Good karma, right? You can’t help thinking that people like Robert Palmer, Kirsty MacColl and George Harrison (who, irony of ironies, invented the whole rock-for-starving-children concept) might still be with us if they’d made it to the recording studio. Whatever its long-term effect, that song was very special.

The eighties were my decade for following music. In the nineties, I was still easily young enough, but I had become an old fuddy-duddy early in life, preferring Vivaldi and Irving Berlin.

Fortunately, I hadn’t quite reached the standard of dagginess that my Dad (and most other Dads) had effortlessly managed when I was still in school. Despite having two teenage kids, he didn’t have a clue about modern music. I recall him seeing the gender-bending performer Marilyn (real name: Peter Robinson) on Countdown, singing his hit “Calling Your Name”. “Ooh, she’s got nice legs,” Dad said naughtily. When Sade, the smooth British soul singer, made the cover of Time magazine (the Australian edition at least), he said that “some Chinese woman” had been declared the week’s big story.

He reminisced about his own youth, telling me about such classics as “Sadie the Cleaning Lady”, which he seriously believed was top of the Hit Parade for about two years. This was truly embarrassing. Even in the eighties, nobody talked about “the Hit Parade” any more. And whatever you called it, nobody’s song ever made the top for two years (though in the case of “Sadie”, it might have seemed that way). While I no longer keep up with the music scene quite as diligently as I used to, I am determined never to be that clueless.

When people talk about music nowadays, they usually talk about how bad it is. They have always done that, of course, but now everything is the “worst ever”. Even 18-year-olds describe “Friday” as the “Worst. Song. Ever.” Presumably this means either a) they haven’t had time, in their young years, to hear such eighties chart-busters as Mel & Kim’s “FLM” or Paul Lekakis’ “Boom Boom”; or b) it really is that bad. Just as our athletes are faster and our computers are more powerful in 2012, our music has surpassed all previous levels of badness

Poor young Rebecca Black’s song, of course, is notorious for the inanity of the lyrics, as she sings about a normal day, so dull that she even thinks about where she is sitting in the car: “kicking in the front seat, sitting in the back seat.”

Dumb as this sounds, I recall going to a world music concert in New York some years ago, in which Brian Wilson (the greatest talent of the Beach Boys) was presented with a special award for his songs, which “reflected the hopes and aspirations of America’s youth”. Wonderful, of course, except that those hopes and aspirations were no more lofty than having “fun fun fun ’til her daddy takes the T-Bird away” and everybody going “surfing, surfing USA”. (Those, incidentally, were among the songs singled out in his tribute.)

Rebecca Black now sings of the banality of our current age, echoing the pain and suffering of modern youth (and anyone else who hears her sing). Inspired by this, I’ve decided to listen to some recent hits. Hopefully my comments won’t make me seem like I’m not cool.

“E.T.” – Katy Perry
My nephew loves Katy Perry and probably wants to marry her (though at seven, he’s too young). Me too (though I’m probably too old). Happily, we both have a chance, because she’s newly single and, as she’s already proven, she’ll marry any clown. As for the song: sorry, but I’m not a big fan of that trend in perfectly good melodies being interspersed Kanye West with rap beats. So glad that guy never teamed up with Dusty Springfield.

“Bad Romance” – Lady Gaga
I believe that this song is now old enough to be officially “ancient”. But I promise you, I enjoyed it when it was new. I really like it, but then I also like “Sugar Baby Love” by the Rubettes.

“Ravers in the UK” – Manian
Unfortunately, this one is painful to listen to. Literally. The only place where I ever hear it is my body pump sessions in the gym, and it’s always used for toughest lunge exercises. Hence, I now equate it with physical pain. A pity, as it’s a catchy number, and I’d enjoy it more if it was used as meditation music (although that wouldn’t really work).

“Friday” – Rebecca Black
Now THIS is good. If I ignore the words, the melody and that annoying, whiny voice, I can really adore this catchy little number. See? I’m really cool, right?

It’s a story I tell frequently, as evidence of my expertise as a movie tipper (mainly because, well, it’s the only time I was ever right). But I don’t mention it now just to remind everyone of my cleverness (though that’s a bonus). I’m leading to another topic: that strange things in newspapers aren’t always the fault of writers. Sometimes you can blame the sub-editor.

Sub-editors, for those who don’t know, are the hard-working professionals with the thankless task of fitting the text on to a page, in the hope that writers won’t moan about it in their blogs. When a journalist follows the word count, it makes things much easier for the sub-editor. I’ve been a sub-editor myself (though not for the Times), so I know how tricky it is, editing a story to fit the page. I always diligently stick to the precise word count, but at times (not on this page, of course), my work has been sub-edited to make way for advertising or late news

With all the pressure of putting out a daily newspaper, you can forgive sub-editors for occasionally slipping. A majority of mistakes in my articles (not that I’ve had too many, as far as I know) have been my own fault, but at times, when people read my work and think, “What the hell is he talking about?”, I have to protest my innocence.

Back to the Shakespeare in Love stories of 2000. When explaining my prediction that Their Gwyneth would take the coveted best actress Oscar over Our Cate, I noted that a good way to win one of those things was for a pretty actress to “uglify” herself. This was a few years before Nicole Kidman wore her big nose and Charlize Theron was covered in monstrous prosthetics, but there were still a few examples, like Grace Kelly doing a whole film without make-up (man, what sacrifices they make)! Now, Gwyneth Paltrow was continuing the tradition by spending half a film disguised as a man. “Gwyneth is also lovely,” I wrote, “and to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, ‘Men seldom make passes at girls with moustaches.’”

Very rarely do I write something and think, “Gosh, I’m so clever.” This was one of those rare occasions. However, due to space restrictions on the day, the sub-editor shortened that sentence to “Gwyneth is also lovely.”

For over a decade, I’ve wanted that whole sentence to finally see publication. It might lift the veil over those readers who, for all those years, have lain awake at night thinking, “What was that moron saying? Was he so obsessed with this woman’s beauty that he forgot what he was writing about?”

More recently, in 2008, I mentioned the notorious US education system. “We all hear those hilarious stories about how dumb American students can’t spot the planet Earth on a map of the world,” I wrote. This was meant to be a joke. Not the best joke ever, perhaps, but it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously

The sub-editor at the time (and I couldn’t name them even, because everyone denied responsibility) obviously thought I’d made a mistake. It was changed to “can’t spot the planet Earth on a map of the solar system”. As far as I know, that was inaccurate without actually being a joke.

Also, the writer of a story usually has no say in its headline. In fact, if I suggest one, it is usually deleted before the story is handed to the sub-editor. Obviously, this column doesn’t have headlines, but most articles do. And who writes them? Usually it’s yet another task for the overworked subbie.

There’s an art to headline-writing. You can win a Walkley Award for writing clever, pithy headlines. I’ve had some perfectly good headlines above my byline, which is just as well, because everyone assumes that I write them.

However, I come not to praise headline writers, but to moan about them. In 2003, I interviewed Jane Campion about her latest film at the time, a rather explicit murder mystery called In the Cut.

The headline: “Female filmmaker takes another risky gamble”.

Say what? Jane Campion was already a famous woman, with a Palme d’Or and an Oscar to her name. She needed no introduction, and at no point did my story draw attention her gender (except for words like “she” and “her”, which probably gave it away). She’s not a “female filmmaker”. She’s Jane Bloody Campion! Phrases like “female filmmaker” should be relegated to the days when everyone got all excited about Lillian Gish directing herself. (“Gadzooks! A woman can actually make moving pictures!”)

Fortunately, nobody complained to me about that. In fact, nobody talked to me for days.

Photo taken by Christian Haugen on June 10, 2009 in Lima, Peru.

One of the most amazing moments in world history (and no, I’m not trying to be funny) was Pizarro’s invasion of Peru in 1532. With an army of fewer than 200 men, the Spanish explorer cum warlord conquered the Inca civilisation. This wasn’t just another case of a violent pack of invaders killing off a race of peaceful people who couldn’t fight their way out of a debate over whose turn it is the wash the dishes. The Incas were a fierce, warlike race. How did Pizarro and his armies do it?

Well, one theory is that another group of Spanish explorers had already brought the smallpox virus to Central America. See? You thought that I was going to say something silly, didn’t you? No, this is very serious. This original Spanish expedition died from smallpox, but for all its faults – like its horrible and merciless habit of killing people – the virus wasn’t racist. According to this theory, the Incas were all either dead or severely weakened by the time Pizarro got to them. With help from smallpox, he defeated a civilisation that, depending on which historian you ask, might well have been the size of Portugal.

“Now just a doggone, cotton-pickin’ minute!” a few American historians might say at this point (though they probably wouldn’t sound quite so ridiculous). “That’s just a liberal, leftist, bleeding-heart theory to make Americans feel guilty about their heritage. There is no way there were so many people!”

There’s some argument there. Some historians see the Pizarro incident as proof of how damaging the Europeans were to the natives of the New World. Others think that that it wasn’t so bad. Remind you of anything? Yes, it’s the “black armband” view versus the “whitewash” version of history. As you can see, the history of the Americas does have a few things in common with our own glorious-but-occasionally-hideous past.

Nowhere do we have more parallels than with the USA. Now that our politicians are showing a bit more interest in the history curriculum (heaven help us all), they can do worse than following the lead of American history teachers. We all hear those hilarious stories about how dumb American students can’t spot the planet Earth on a map of the world, or tell Iraq apart from Afghanistan (no, really!), but at least they are more well-versed in their history than we are. When prodded, chances are American kids can name at least three of their Founding Fathers, whereas the average Australian kid probably thinks that Alfred Deakin is just the guy after whom the Deakin Veterinary Hospital was named (so presumably he was an animal-lover).

In fact, thanks to Hollywood movies and Childcraft books, Aussie kids could be more familiar with the heroes, villains and major events of American history than with their own. This should make it easier to explain.

• For example, where it says “the Jesse James gang”, change to “the Ned Kelly Gang”. (This is so obvious it’s barely worth mentioning, except that James was a crook and Kelly, of course, was a true-blue Aussie hero.)
• Where it says “Lewis and Clark”, change to “Burke and Wills”. (OK, I didn’t say this would be a pleasant exercise.)
• Where it says “Charles Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic”, change to “Charles Kingsford Smith crossing the Pacific”.
• Where it says “the Battle of the Alamo”, change to “the Gallipoli campaign”. (See? We’re not the only nation that likes to celebrate its military debacles.)
• Where it says “the Kennedy assassination”, change to “the Whitlam dismissal”.
•  Where it says “Gloria Steinem”, change to “Germaine Greer”.
• Where it says “signing the Declaration of Independence”, change to “winning the America’s Cup”. (Based on the sheer magnitude of the event, it’s highly appropriate.)
• Where it says “the American Revolution”, change to “the Bodyline tour”. (Ditto.)
•  Where it says “the Vietnam conflict”, change to “the underarm bowling incident”.
•  Where it says “Martin Luther King’s civil rights march in Alabama 1965”, change to “Cathy Freeman’s gold-medal winning race in Sydney 2000”.
•  Where it says “Thomas Jefferson”, change to “Sir Donald Bradman”.
•  Where it says “Abraham Lincoln”, change to “Sir Donald Bradman”.
•  Where it says “Walt Disney”, change to “Sir Donald Bradman”.
•  Where it says “Robert E Lee”, “Ulysses S Grant”, “Susan B Anthony”, “Babe Ruth”, or anyone else who is widely admired, change to “Sir Donald Bradman”.
•  Where it says “the Lincoln assassination”, change to “Bradman going out for a duck in his last innings”.

The problem with this exercise, it soon becomes clear, is that it doesn’t really reflect our true greatness. At least, not when compared to America’s gushingly inspiring history (in which, Incas or no Incas, millions of indigenous people were patriotically mowed down). In fact, we’ve had it too easy. If we want our history to be less boring, we need to spend more time killing each other!

(Now that was meant to be a joke. You’re not taking that one seriously, right? Right?)

“Oh, I don’t read The Canberra Times on Monday,” he replied, to which I said: “Well perhaps you should.”

He considered this for a few seconds. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, and walked away.

Nonetheless, in case anyone else is interested, here are the films I liked the most in 2011. Not necessary the “best” films, as I’m no longer a critic, so I no longer try to make such arrogant judgments. I haven’t yet seen The Muppets, The Adventures of Tintin, The Iron Lady or numerous other movies, but the year is almost over, so I’ll still name a few of my favourites. These were all new this year. Some have already been released in Australia. Others I was lucky enough to catch at festivals overseas, but they will certainly be worth watching when (and if) they finally arrive on Australian shores.

THE ARTIST (above)
A favourite at Cannes (though it didn’t win), tipped to do well at the Oscars (I’ll believe that when I see it), this French film is a black-and-white, mostly silent film about a Hollywood star coping with the coming of talking pictures in the late 1920s. As you might recall from previous columns, I adore this era of the movies. The star, Jean Dujardin, gives a terrific performance. Sadly, he looks like Gene Kelly, which reminds us that The Artist is only the second-greatest movie about Hollywood in the early days of the talkies. Like Kelly’s character in Singin’ in the Rain, he also has an inflated ego, great worries about his future career, and a budding romance with a chorus girl on the verge of becoming a star. But while it remains whimsical (the New York Film Festival audience, including me, had a great time), some moments are darker than anything in Singin’ in the Rain.

SUPER 8
J.J. Abrams’ science fiction film is not just set in 1981. Like The Artist, it seems like it could have been made in the decade in which it was set. The juvenile heroes, the sinister US military personnel, the appalling schmaltz, the cutesy anti-war message, the sweetly chaste young love, Steven Spielberg’s name in the credits (this time as a producer). Without giving away too much (because there are plenty of surprises), it’s reminiscent of such 1980s gems as E-T, The Goonies, or Aliens if it were done as a kids’ film. Oh, and if Elle Fanning doesn’t win an Oscar, I’ll be shocked. (Actually, I won’t be at all surprised. She’s good, though.)

TURN ME ON, GODDAMMIT!
Sadly, this highlight of the Tribeca Film Festival might never make it to Australian screens. It’s funny, it’s attractive, but it’s also Norwegian. If you have a chance, drop everything and see it before the end of its (no doubt limited) season. Even if you’re in the middle of a hot date, and you see it playing in a cinema across the road, just leave your date fifty bucks for the food and rush over to see the movie. (Some people wonder why I’m not married.) This coming-of-age film, from writer-director Jannicke Systad Jacobsen (a name to remember, just to impress everyone with your memory), it’s about sexual awakening, teen rebellion, and frustration over small-town boredom. No other film has ever covered these topics. Well, not using this title.

ROMANTICS ANONYMOUS
Happily, this is one Tribeca favourite that will be coming to Australian screens in April. It’s a classic romantic comedy, where every major character is likeable. So the conflict comes not from an evil ex-girlfriend, or a wealthy jerk who is somehow engaged to the heroine, but from the loving couple themselves. This is as it should be. Angélique (Isabelle Carré) is so nervous that she frequently faints in public. Jean-René (Benoît Poelvoorde) is so shy that he escapes through a window on their first date. With two dysfunctional twits like this, evil ex-girlfriends don’t really seem necessary.

MIDNIGHT IN PARIS
In my latest blog for The Huffington Post, I pronounced this the most overrated movie of the year. For all the excitement (Woody Allen’s made a decent film again! Yee-haa!), it suffers from Owen Wilson’s usual blandness and the fact that, for the most part, it isn’t that funny. But as I love the 1920s, obviously I have to include any movie about a writer who goes back in time to the decade and meets all his heroes from the era. Besides, like many of Allen’s best movies, it has a good point, which is well made.