Don Juan in Australia is an altogether sad and fatigued character. A man of consummate taste, he nonetheless has to rely for what successes he has on the tastelessness of his quarry. When he imperiously draws them unto himself, he regularly gets charged with assault. When he chats them up or intimates in any way that his other name is Giovanni, they tell him he’s a bit of a faggot. When he makes eyes at the young ones, they keep mouthing “F*ck the pain away” and adjust their Ipods. When he does the same to the old ones, they try talking him into coming home with them to have tea with their gay sons. . . In Melbourne he finds that even when they don’t lack depth they lack superficiality and can’t separate flirtation from pre-marital horse-trading. Sydney-siders are of a sunny disposition that borders on the clichéd repetition of obscenities. Brisbane is like a homey porno-mag and forces him to realize that it’s experience he’s after, not just sex, and by this stage he’s in an existential crisis, packs his bags and flies back to Europe, or retires to Tasmania, collects sculpture and makes pathetic attempts to read German philosophy.
5 February, 2010
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