Sure, not buying a ticket is a shitty thing to do, but…

Here’s an example of an ineffective tactic for tackling fare evasion.

A marketing campaign run by a despised company, trying to get fare evaders to feel guilty about not paying for a crappy service? A service which they actually pay for, through their taxes, apparently without getting value-for-money?

The Age this week reported a Metlink study showing that one in five people on Melbourne trams didn’t have a valid ticket, with trains at 9.8% and buses at 9.2%. (As is typical, the original report wasn’t made available online by The Age, Metlink or the government, which is annoying for nerdy people like me).

The Victorian government responded by criticising the previous government for its soft approach to enforcement. ‘We need to get tough with fare evaders because we need every cent available to go into improvements across the network for the benefit of all passengers,’ they said turgidly. The Age seems to advocate a similarly punitive approach. In an editorial called ‘Fare dodgers owe us all, big time‘, they blamed fare evaders for their abdication of social responsibility, and suggested the government should increase fines as London did.

Sure, it’s a shitty thing to do, not buying a ticket. But with a recently released study showing that ticket inspectors are particularly loathed (again, study not easily available), a hardline approach will compound negative perceptions of public transport, perhaps even encouraging disgruntled passengers to take on the system. And don’t we want people to feel proud of the city and its assets, not fearful and resentful?

Unsurprisingly, it’s difficult to find figures on the rates of ticket inspectors letting passengers off fines, but I’ve heard that it’s hard to talk yourself out of the fine. Most of the apparently ‘softness’ of enforcement seems to be inspectors not having time to check everyone’s tickets So the government’s suggestion of inspectors finally ‘cracking down’ on fare evasion seems a bit lame.

Metlink’s 2009 Revenue Protection Plan outlines the main reasons for fare evasion: inadvertent fare evasion, opportunism, ‘game theory’ (a simple calculation that savings of fare evasion will outweigh the costs of a possible fine) and service dissatisfaction. So while, increase in fines might have some impact on the game theorists, given that fines are already quite high, any benefit would be outweighed by its negative impact on attitudes to using public transport.

The best way to tackle fare evasion is to make it easier for people to buy a ticket, and more difficult for them not to. It’s likely that a significant portion of the reported fare evaders do so inadvertently: passengers may have bought a ticket but not validated, or been thwarted by overcrowding,  faulty cards, broken ticketing machines that don’t accept notes, a confusing fare system, or the lack of note accepters on trams. Inadvertent fare evasion would be reduced by making the ticketing system more reliable and comprehensible, as well as reducing overcrowding.

As for deliberate fare evasion, opportunism is obviously a basic prerequisite—if you knew you’d be checked you’d buy a ticket. This is why the rate of fare evasion for trams is lowest—you have to pass the driver to get on. Having more staff on trams, trains, and train stations would practically eliminate opportunistic fare evasion. But not more ticket inspectors. If public transport is to be a relaxing and enjoyable experience, we need staff on trams, train stations, and trains to help out not just by checking tickets but by giving us information, as well as looking after public safety and helping the less-abled where necessary.

Service dissatisfaction also contributes to the decision to fare evade. Given the often appalling service people receive on trains (late, overcrowded, don’t arrive at all), or trams (packed in like sardines), they’re less likely to feel guilty about fare evading. Why should they, when their pride and trust in the public transport system is at rock bottom? So another way of reducing fare evasion would be to actually get serious about improving the system. Similarly, some people taking short trips feel that their tickets are overpriced;  a way to tackle this would be to reintroduce short trip fares (the previous state government got rid of the city saver), or create a more incremental pricing system.

The government’s statement that they need to get tough on fare evaders so they can throw the money back into the system for our benefit is laughable. The way the system is set up now is far from efficient and mainly serves the interest of private operators. Their monthly fines for poor performance are capped and consistently less than their profits; therefore there is little incentive for improvement.

The operators also know that once they’ve won the franchise, they’ve pretty much got the government under their thumb, because no matter how bad they are, there are severe political costs attached to terminating the contract and risking disruption of an essential public service.

What’s more, under privatisation, separate operators have little stake in coordinating the system so it works better over all. The result is a limited span of hours, and transport ‘black holes’ in outer suburban areas, which also tend also to be less well-off, creating a self-perpetuating circle of transport disadvantage. When a public authority, on the other hand, manages public transport, less profitable routes are able to be subsidised by profits from the popular routes, so the overall system is better networked with more equitable coverage.

The state government’s promised central public transport authority is a start, and may improve planning and coordination. However, without getting rid of privatisation, it’s difficult to imagine a future in which people can go anywhere they want, easily, without using a car.

Jonathan Franzen and sentimentality

Jonathan Franzen, giving the Melbourne Writers Festival keynote address last night at the packed Melbourne Town Hall, told a story about sitting at his mum’s deathbed confessing all his ‘dark secrets’, like how he used to climb out of his window at night and how he always wanted to be a writer. ‘You’re an eccentric,’ she said, seeming to care little about the details of his misadventures. So much to relate to in this story: the desire for your parents to understand who you really are, and the eventual recognition that they won’t – or can’t – know you that way. That’s what I love about Franzen — his insights on the less palatable aspects of our relationships and personal motivations – those confronting little truths that we brush over in search of a more appealing narrative.

What I find most difficult about Franzen’s writing, however, and I believe I’m not alone here, is that while it’s clever and ambitious and sweeping and social, it sometimes seems to lack heart. In one of the most interesting Q & A sessions I’ve seen for ages, a girl said she’d been reading the late David Foster Wallace’s essay E Unibus Pluram, which attacks the culture of excessive irony. Is there a place for sentimentality in your writing, she asked Franzen.

Franzen said he didn’t care for Arcade Fire, because they were like Talking Heads but without the irony. He suggested that if he’d had a chance to talk to DFW about it, then DFW would have redefined his boundaries. He pointed out that there’s a halfway point between absolute irony and sentimentality. He seemed deeply uncomfortable with the idea of pure sentimentality, but also unable to explain why, apart from saying that it’s too easy to satire, a point which seems more about self-protection than the inherent undesirability of sentimentality.

He may have also said it was self indulgent to over-romanticise your emotions – it was getting late and unfortunately I can’t remember. Perhaps Franzen thinks pure sentimentality is a conceit. He might be right – if I’m honest with myself, often when I sentimentalise, there’s a part of my brain that celebrates the image of myself sentimentalising. But I did think his reaction to this question seemed overly emphatic (defensive?) and I wonder whether his perspective on sentimentality will shift with the years.

Also: Stephanie Convery’s short thoughts  on the event.

It’s Gillard, not Julia, thankyou very much: sexism against our first female prime minister

It’s easy to forget the widespread sense of excitement and optimism many felt when Julia Gillard first took over from Kevin Rudd. Having our first female prime minister was a significant milestone for a country where the most frequently propounded versions of national identity – male sport and the Anzac legend – revolve around men, where women represent only a quarter of Australian MPs and 10% of company board directors, and where across the board, women still earn an average of 17% less than men.

Gillard challenges gender stereotypes in more ways than one; she’s not a mother, wife, housewife or sex symbol. Her failure to fit within these categories has perturbed some in the media, parliament, and the general public. There’s no doubt that Gillard’s performance has prime minister has been disappointing in many ways, but the sexism directed at her has compounded the difficulties she faces. Many people will remember the time when, during her days as deputy prime minister, Liberal MP Bill Heffernan deemed her unfit to run the country because she was ‘deliberately barren’. And since becoming prime minister, Gillard has continued to suffer multiple forms of gender-based discrimination.

Obvious examples include Mark Latham’s suggestion that she lacks empathy because she doesn’t have children, slogans at this year’s carbon rallies labeling her a ‘witch’ and ‘Juliar Bob Browns bitch’, and excessive media fascination with aspects of her appearance such as her hairstyle, hair color, earlobes, and fashion sense. Bernard Keane, analysing the carbon rally misogynism, identifies three age-old devices for deriding women: calling attention to their physical attractiveness (too frumpy or too sexy); criticising their failure to behave in an appropriate maternal, nurturing, or empathetic manner; and suggesting that they’re unduly influenced by men. All come into play here.

There are subtler forms of discrimination too: a headline in The Age announcing ‘Gillard mum on speaker’, unable to resist the pun despite the story being unrelated to her parental status; criticism for not being emotional enough during the Queensland floods; an article in The Australian asking her dad’s opinion on her popularity and love life; the 60 Minutes interview which Gillard and her partner are condescendingly grilled about their love for each other and intention to marry; and the media’s tendency to call her ‘Julia’ but not Abbott ‘Tony’, undermining her authority. In each of these instances, the question is whether a male prime minister would be treated this way. It seems unlikely.

As writer Jeff Sparrow has pointed out, the media, with its sound-bite tendencies, is inclined to put people in boxes – it’s easier for politically disengaged readers to digest things that way. This  isn’t particularly conducive to the dismantling of any stereotypes, including gender stereotypes. But the sexism directed toward Gillard also reflects the fact that leadership, particularly political leadership, is still viewed as something that’s inherently masculine, and that women who strive to break out of patriarchal roles continue to face abuse and discrimination as a result.  For young women aspiring to leadership positions, the advent of a female prime minister is an encouraging sign. But observing the way she’s been treated may serve as an equally potent deterrent.

This is an extended version of an article originally published at gelp.com.au.

Crying in cinemas

I went to a day-time session of Jane Eyre on my day off, surrounded in the theatre by choc-top eating schoolgirls whose teacher told them sternly, ‘Make sure you don’t get hysterical when Mr Rochester comes on; remember that there are other people in the cinema.’ Haha, as if – I’m sure they’ve got access to way better eye candy than Mr R.

I loved Jane Eyre,  but reflection, I don’t think it was that good. I liked Jane’s acute, strong, slightly ethereal voice; the slightly claustrophobic, feverish tone; and the redemptive story of romance. But these things are all just (weak) reflections of the book’s strengths; the movie didn’t offer any fresh interpretations or emotional amplifications. Also, while there were some electric moments between Jane and Rochester, at times the depiction of their relationship seemed insipid or overly frivolous. But the absence of friends whispering their discerning post-movie critiques in my ear allowed me to ignore these minor criticisms and cultivate a non-critical, cooing internal dialogue, i.e., ‘Wasn’t that lovely dear? Yes, oh, it was. Such a romantic story, isn’t it? Oooh yes dear.’

Being alone also allowed for completely unrestrained sobbing during the most romantic scene, when Jane returns to the blinded, bearded Rochester sitting under a tree with his cane. Admittedly, Rochester looks slightly ridiculous, more like a feral forest protester than someone who’s genuinely been through hard times. But when Rochester feels Jane’s face and says, ‘Is it really you Jane?’ and they embrace, you know they’ll be together forever, and it’s cheesy but irresistibly tear-jerking, although that said, I looked around the audience and the schoolgirls didn’t seem that moved.

When you cry at a movie, are you crying for the characters or yourself? I was talking about this with my sister yesterday, who’s visiting from Egypt. We’d just watched another film, Beginners, and were checking in with each other about whether we’d cried. We agreed that what makes us cry isn’t a pure empathy with the characters, but the way their plight reminds us of our own. So choking up during Jane Eyre‘s happy ending, I was thinking, ‘Oh, I want that kind of romance for myself!’ rather than ‘I’m just so happy for Jane and Mr Rochester.’

My sister and I also agreed that we feel more comfortable crying when we’re alone. Even when it’s only my sister with me, I still stifle my sobs a bit, whereas when I’m by myself, it’s all on. Is this because crying’s a private thing, because I don’t want to show vulnerability or because I feel lame crying about fictional characters (and how their plight relates to mine)? I think it’s mostly the latter.

There were moments of brilliance in Beginners: of modest, intimate humour; warm loveliness; and sad emotional truths. Like when Oliver, played by Ewan McGregor,  stands with his dog on a park bench and asks him why he doesn’t join his ‘own people’, i.e. the other Jack Russells frolicking around them them.  Or when Oliver’s mum dies and his dad Hal, played by Christopher Plummer (aka Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music), announces that, at 75 years of age, he doesn’t want to just be theoretically gay any more – he wants to put it into practice.

Hal, denied sexual expression for so many years, becomes comically, endearingly and inspiringly uber-gay; joining gay support and political lobby groups, visiting gay nightclubs, holding political letter-writing parties and finding a boyfriend half his age. I imagine coming out as gay after a long marriage isn’t that uncommon, because getting older can lead to the casting away of old pretences and, more obviously, because gayness is now socially acceptable. In one scene, Hal shows Oliver a rainbow sticker, telling him it’s the symbol for gay pride. ‘I know that,’ Oliver tells him. Hal, seeming almost disappointed, remarks, ‘Not many people know that.’ ‘Yes they do,’ Oliver says.

The other main storyline is Oliver’s love affair with Anna, a quirky, playful and emotionally complex French actress played by Mélanie Laurent of Inglourious Basterds fame. They are a beautiful couple, and I kind of just enjoyed watching them. But while McGregor’s acting performance is sound (he does an excellent sad face), I found Laurent’s a little superficial. I could imagine her practising each facial expression in the mirror; she seemed a little self-conscious.

Oliver and Anna have an unusual romance. They meet at a costume party. Oliver is dressed as Freud and Anna plops down on a nearby couch for some faux therapy. Jokingly, he asks her about her mother and her father, and having lost her voice because of laryngitis, she replies to his questions on a notepad. Then she writes, ‘Why are you at a party if you’re sad?’ He asks how she knows, and she just draws these really simple, but very obviously sad, eyes on a piece of paper.

But when Anna and Oliver move in together, they became unhappy and started to fight. This breakdown, though unexplained, was to me the most convincing moment in their relationship, which to me, always seemed a little light on substance. You could see that Anna and Oliver shared moments of emotional truth and a quirky sense of fun, but I still found it hard to imagine what they would have actually talked about over breakfast.

After Beginners, my sister went off to an internet cafe to do an interview for a job in Kenya while I hung out with another friend. We were in Readings checking out book cover art when he spotted a new version of Jane Eyre, with a cover featuring the actress from the movie and the words ‘Now a major motion picture’. He pointed it out to me, and asked whether I’d ever buy a book with those words on the cover. ‘No,’  I lied, pretending to be anti-elitist or something.

On the way home

My friend and I passed this Carlton house on the way home from Saturday night drinks. It’s a bit special.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chernobyl, climate change, and the problem with invisible threats

I recently saw Innocent Saturday at the Melbourne International Film Festival, a powerful, if slightly agonising, film about the collective inaction of residents in a town near Chernobyl immediately following the nuclear disaster. Valery, a white collar worker and Communist party member with an inert, unappealing face, hears party officials talking about how the accident could be as bad as Hiroshima and even then sees the horrible smouldering hulk of the reactor with his own eyes.

He runs from the disaster site in panic and grabs Vera, the gorgeous, airheaded girl he’s in love with, as she emerges from a group shower. He forces her to get dressed and run away with him. (They do, however, find time to stop briefly and exchange a hard and urgent kiss). But her heel breaks and they miss the train.

Vera convinces Valery to buy her some new heels; he reluctantly acquiesces, and she spends a long time in the store before choosing the perfect pair (bright pink). Then she wants to collect her passport from a wedding party before they leave. She doesn’t emerge from the party, so Valery goes inside to find her.

Valery ends up getting embroiled in the manic wedding party, where Vera is singing a crazy Russian song with the mockingly menacing lyrics ‘What’s wrong wrong wrong.’ At this stage, Valery, inexplicably, abandons any attempt to escape, instead getting drunk with his friends and playing drums in the band.

The movie then descends into a blur of partying, fighting, and smutting, with no real narrative arc or character development. We watch a bunch of fairly uninspired people who, unwilling or unable to act in the face of a so-far invisible reality, risk radiation sickness and death. The dramatic momentum recedes, and at my screening, many of the audience walked out during one particularly drawn out drumming scene.

The film evokes that nightmarish sense of paralysis, as when you’re trying to run from that monster or serial killer but your limbs won’t work properly. It’s a banal portrayal of the phenomenon of collective inaction arising from failure of imagination and distraction.

Tony Abbott, in an act of calculated stupidity, recently asserted that carbon dioxide can’t be measured because it’s invisible, odourless, and weightless (it’s not actually weightless). It’s true that because of the invisibility and abstraction of climate change, it’s difficult for humans to conceive of it — we’re sensory creatures. If smokers, for example, could see their skin turning temporarily black as an indication of toxicity, I bet they’d give up a lot more quickly. So in the face of an invisible threat, and in the absence of panic, people’s natural tendency is to maintain the status quo, even if the long-term consequences of doing so are disastrous.

The Greens talk a lot about appealing to love and hope instead of fear. And Gillard refers to ‘dangerous climate change’, but she doesn’t use fear, really. But sometimes I wonder whether a small fear campaign wouldn’t go astray. Tony uses fear well. The simplicity of his negative (‘big bad tax’) rhetoric is easily confused with some kind of strength, even though really, he’s taking the intellectual coward’s approach. In contrast, the idea of the carbon tax is complicated; it’s easy to get lost in, and bored by, the policy detail, and difficult to understand how it works, really.

While the science and policy of climate change are complex and often boring, the potential environmental impacts are more tangible. One of my friends had this idea about doing an advertisement, with variations in each state, depicting the effects of climate change – wilting crops, dying animals, and extreme weather events. I’m not sure if something similar has been done before, but it’s an interesting idea. If people could actually envisage the effects of climate change, it might help restore a sense of urgency.