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Winter has laid damp fingers on Melbourne, giving us showers and a bright, wet sheen on the tarmac. With it, in our own solstice ceremony, comes the Melbourne International Film festival, launching into its first weekend as the Tour de France reaches Paris and victory slips from Evan’s bursting heart as I suspect he knew it would. We are a nation of chancers, and this was a typically Australian raid on probability. MIFF used to be at the beginning of June, when the city would be cleansed with solid rain. That was a different ritual, when we pulled our winter coats out of the jumble in the back of the wardrobe, sighed over our expanding waistlines and packed the trams, shiny-faced woolly sausage-people in a special fug of wet air and warm breath. Like a big, excited pack of dogs. Lurchers and beagles, dachshunds and... [read full story]
