Coming Up This Week @ the pbc


Closed for a private function from 5pm
Oct 21 @ 5:00 pm – 11:30 pm

private party


Wendy Rule Sydney Concert 2017
Oct 22 @ 6:00 pm – 9:00 pm

Wendy Rule

Sunday the 22nd of October from 6pm | $20 entry / kids free
Ready for an evening of music, Magic and mythology? Visionary Songstress Wendy Rule is making her annual trip to Sydney from her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and has chosen the charming Petersham Bowling Club to host this year’s concert.
Wild, passionate and empowering, Australian Visionary Songstress Wendy Rule, weaves together music, story and ritual to take her audience on an otherworldly journey of depth and passion. Drawing on her deep love of Nature and lifelong fascination with the worlds of mythology and Magic, Wendy’s songs combine irresistible melodies with rich aural textures and a rare personal honesty to create spiritual music.
With an extraordinary voice that moves from soaring heights to intimate whispers, Wendy explores all facets of the emotional world. Darkness and light, night and day, life and death are equally honoured.
Written primarily in the wilderness of New Mexico, her new album Black Snake is an album of transformation, of stripping back, of death and rebirth, and celebration of Life. Featuring gorgeous instrumentation – including cello by her long term collaborator Rachel Samuel, Native American Flute by her husband Timothy Van Diest, and ambient electric guitar, bass guitar and organ by her son Reuben George Bloxham – it highlights Wendy’s maturity as a writer, and her willingness to continue to evolve and grow as an artist.
But it is in her live performances that we are fully able to experience the full power of Wendy’s art. Every concert becomes a ritual, co-created by Wendy and her audience. From her intimate solo acoustic House Concerts, to her large scale events with a full band and string section, Wendy brings a unique magic to the stage.

Life Drawing @ The PBC – Every Tuesday Night
Oct 24 @ 6:30 pm – 8:30 pm

Life Drawing Petersham

Life Drawing Petersham

Tuesdays from 6:30pm | $15 entry
A non-instructional life drawing sketch club that provides male and female nude models every week. The group encourages beginner artists and provides a quality experience that has seasoned artists coming back regularly.
Lighting is a huge focus and a lot of time and effort has been expended setting up primary, secondary and fill-in lights to give the models great depth. Unique to the group is a 10 minute (optional) challenge that encourages exploration of non-standard techniques and gives participants automatic entry into the monthly draw for a free bottle of wine and complimentary session.
The $15 entry fee covers model booking, room hire and investment in lighting, easels and materials for beginners. There is no need to book and there is no problem dropping in late if you can’t make it on time.
Check out the Facebook page where you will find a weekly event with details of the upcoming model. Alternatively, you can subscribe to the weekly newsletter.
Tuesday Night Trivia with Mr Trivia
Oct 24 @ 7:30 pm – 10:00 pm

Tuesday Night Trivia with Mr Trivia

Every Tuesday | Club opens at 5pm | Trivia from 7:30pm
Book a table – 02 9569 4639 – or simply turn up on the day!
Wednesday Night Badge Draw
Oct 25 @ 7:30 pm – 8:30 pm

Come in for a bowl of food and a cup of beverage on a Wednesday night and you could win the PBC Members’ Badge Draw! The pot starts off at $100 and we add $50 per week until a lucky member takes the lot home. 

How it works…
The badge draw is open to current members from social to life. If you’re not yet a member, you can join on the night (by 6:30pm). For membership info – go here.
We will draw a member number (the number on your card) on Wednesday nights at 7:30pm.
To win, the member must be here when the number is drawn. If you’re not here, you miss out!
  • Members are automatically entered into the draw by being a current financial member of Petersham Bowling Club.
  • A number will be automatically drawn from a numbers generator & displayed in the club at 7:30pm on Wednesdays.
  • Members must be in the club at the time of the draw to claim their cash prize.
  • On Wednesday night at 7:30pm, one (1) membership number is automatically drawn from our number generator.
  • The member’s number & name are called out and the member has four (4) minutes to claim the prize from the bar staff.
  • Members must produce a current financial membership card with the same name & number as the member announced to win the cash prize.
  • The jackpot starts at $100 and will increase by $50 each draw.
  • The MAXIMUM Jackpot amount is $700.
  • The promotion will run as per normal on this night and carry over, each Wednesday, until won or the promotion ends.

It is PBC policy that no board members, contractors, or members of bar or kitchen staff are permitted to take part in any promotion.

The PBC Management decision on the evening is final, and no discussion will be entered into regarding the outcome of the draw.

The PBC reserves the right to update and amend these conditions as necessary.

Bespoken Word
Oct 26 @ 7:30 pm – 9:30 pm

Bespoken Word

On the fourth Thursday of the month from 7:30pm in The Green Room | Entry $13
Comedian John Knowles (IMPROZAC, John Knowles is Saddle Sore, Impro Australia, ABC Radio, Sydney Comedy Festival) and writer Kate Iselin (Penthouse, The Guardian, The Sydney Morning Herald, The Saturday Paper, Thirty Dates of Tinder) bring together a handful of Sydney’s most interesting and exciting comedians, writers, entertainers, notable personalities, and celebrity mates for a brand-new evening of scripted and unscripted storytelling!
The first half of the evening, hosted by Kate Iselin, sees our guests telling short, pre-written stories which the audience will later vote on to see who takes home the mystery prize. This month, we have asked our guests to tell us about a time they were scared.
The second half of the evening is hosted by John Knowles and based on his successful Comedy Festival show and ABC Radio staple ‘I Can Top That’. A whole new panel of guests take the stage to tell completely true yet totally unprepared stories based on suggestions from the audience, from the other guests, and from John himself.
Some stories will be shocking, others embarrassing, insightful, sweet or just plain hilarious. It’s a smorgasbord of real life adventures and raw revelations with an emphasis on vulnerability, confession and laughter. Staged at the cosy Petersham Bowling Club, known for its welcoming community and artsy offerings, Bespoken Word aims to create a friendly modern version of traditional parlour entertainment.
Ghost Cat! @ The Green Room
Oct 27 @ 8:00 pm – 11:00 pm

Ghost Cat! Halloween Extravaganza 2017 – Bak from the Ded

Friday the 27th of October from 8pm | Free admission if you come in costume or a $5 donation
Haunting you this Halloween!
Ghost Cat! will rise from the grave for ONE NIGHT ONLY.
Helping conjure up some rockin’ spirits on the evening will be very special guests Rk Ally
Free admission if you come in costume.
$5 donation otherwise (any proceeds raised will go to the Cat Protection Society to help out our non-ghost buddies).
Closed for a private function from 5pm
Oct 28 @ 5:00 pm – 11:30 pm

private party


The Templebears headline show @ The Green Room
Oct 29 @ 6:00 pm – 9:00 pm

The Templebears

Sunday the 29th of October from 6pm | $10 entry
After a successful run of warm-up reformation shows, The Templebears2017 redux continues with a show in the bowels of the Petersham Bowls. Very special guests are new soundscape carvers A Broken Sail and Sydney’s underground kings of angle-grinding melodic punk Collapso. 6pm-9pm and $10 on the door.


The Inner West Film Forum presents: Paris, Texas: A Tribute to Harry Dean Stanton
Oct 30 @ 7:00 pm – 10:00 pm

The Inner West Film Forum presents: Paris, Texas, A Tribute to Harry Dean Stanton

From 7pm Monday the 30th of October

As a tribute to the great Harry Dean Stanton. actor, musician, and singer, who died on September 15th of this year, the Inner West Film Forum this month presents a rare screening of perhaps Stanton’s greatest performance.


Dir: Wim Wenders

West Germany/France/United States
147 minutes
Digital Screening

New German Cinema pioneer Wim Wenders (Wings of Desire) brings his keen eye for landscape to the American Southwest in Paris, Texas, a profoundly moving character study written by Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright Sam Shepard. Paris, Texas follows the mysterious, nearly mute drifter Travis (a magnificent Harry Dean Stanton, whose face is a landscape all its own) as he tries to reconnect with his young son, living with his brother (Dean Stockwell) in Los Angeles, and his missing wife (Nastassja Kinski). From this simple setup, Wenders and Shepard produce a powerful statement on codes of masculinity and the myth of the American family, as well as an exquisite visual exploration of a vast, crumbling world of canyons and neon.


Like Flying Blind Without Instruments:
On the Turning Point in Paris, Texas
By Wim Wenders

This piece first appeared in the 1991 Wim Wenders collection The Logic of Images: Essays and Conversation (Faber and Faber), translated by Michael Hofmann.

The story’s about a man who turns up somewhere in the desert out of nowhere and returns to civilization. Prior to filming, we drove the length of the entire U.S.–Mexican border—more than 1,500 miles. Finally, we decided to shoot in an area called Big Bend, in the southwest of Texas. Big Bend is a national park with incredibly beautiful mountains, through which the Rio Grande flows. That’s the river the “wetbacks” have to swim. As it turned out, we didn’t film there, because when we were looking over the area again from above, in a helicopter, the old pilot, a local guy, told us there was an area a little way off called the Devil’s Graveyard. This godforsaken patch of ground wasn’t even entered on our maps, and it turned out to be a gigantic, abstract dream landscape. There are no police, and most of the immigrants who swim across there just die in the desert because there’s not a drop of water anywhere in it. So that’s where we started our film; that’s where we see Travis for the first time. After he collapses with exhaustion, he’s picked up by his brother. The first place they go is a little hamlet of about twenty houses called Marathon. It has a hotel, where Walt drops Travis, and goes off to buy him some new clothes. But when Walt gets back, his brother has taken off again. The next, slightly bigger, place that Walt and Travis pass through on their way from Texas to Los Angeles is Fort Stanton, a town with a couple of thousand inhabitants. We tried to arrange the film in such a way that all sizes and types of American towns appear in it.

Actually, the smallest place of all was the gas station where Travis collapses. It was called Camellot, and we only stopped there on the recce because we thought it was a funny name. Then came Marathon, then Fort Stanton, then El Paso, which is a middle-sized town, and finally the metropolis Los Angeles. I didn’t show Los Angeles as a city but as an enormous suburb. You don’t really get to see “L.A.” in the film. The only real city you see is Houston, Texas. Houston is one of my favorite cities in America. So, you see, I tried to show all kinds of towns, though of course there are also a lot of scenes that are just set in the countryside.

Actually, I was going to make a far more complex film, because I’d originally intended to drive all over America. I had it in mind to go to Alaska and then the Midwest and across to California and then down to Texas. I’d planned a real zigzag route all over America. But my scriptwriter, Sam Shepard, persuaded me not to. He said: “Don’t bother with all that zigzagging. You can find the whole of America in the one state of Texas.” At the time, I didn’t know Texas all that well, but I trusted Sam. I traveled around Texas for a couple of months, and I had to agree with him. Everything I wanted to have in my film was there in Texas—America in miniature.

A lot of my films start off with road maps instead of scripts. Sometimes it feels like flying blind without instruments. You fly all night, and in the morning you arrive somewhere. That is: you have to try to make a landing somewhere so the film can end.

For me, this film has come off better than, or differently from, my previous films. Once more, we flew all night without instruments, but this time we landed exactly where we meant to. From the outset, Paris, Texas had a much straighter trajectory and a much more precise destination. And from the beginning, too, it had more of a story than my earlier films, and I wanted to tell that story till I dropped. —May 1984


Paris, Texas:
On the Road Again
By Nick Roddick

I have been going to press screenings at the Cannes Film Festival for more than twenty-five years, but only twice have I been absolutely sure—blindingly, heart-racingly certain—that I have just seen the future winner of the Palme d’Or. Cannes is a distorting lens that can give an undeserved boost to an ambitious but flawed film, just as it can smother a smaller or more conservative one. But on those occasions, there was no room for doubt; it was like falling in love.

My first such love affair was with Paris, Texas, shown in 1984 (the second was with Emir Kusturica’s Underground, a decade later). The festival jury, which that year included the veteran cinematographer Henri Alekan, who would go on to shoot Wings of Desire for Wim Wenders, duly awarded it the Palme d’Or; it even garnered the affection of a far more persnickety group, winning the International Critics Prize. The awards were all the more surprising in that the film is an unabashed love letter to America, coming halfway through the Reagan era, when Europe in general, and filmmakers in particular, were anything but pro-American. Of course, one might argue that Paris, Texas is in love with a certain idea of America. But in truth, Wenders would probably not have concerned himself with that distinction: the personal always trumps the political in his films.

The plot of Paris, Texas is disarmingly simple, focusing on the dramatic after-effects of a marriage’s breakdown on young Hunter (played by Hunter Carson, son of writer L. M. Kit Carson and actress Karen Black); his father, Travis (a name that still had sinister resonance eight years after Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, and played with shell-shocked intensity by Harry Dean Stanton); and his mother, Jane, a plain name almost willfully ill suited to the fragile, feral character embodied in the film by Nastassja Kinski. Travis is found wandering in the desert by his brother, Walt (Dean Stockwell), is reunited with Hunter, sets off with Hunter to find Jane, finds her, and disappears again. That’s about it. What turns this fairly ordinary-sounding family drama into something on the edge of epic is its use of landscape and setting—the desert Southwest, California’s San Fernando Valley (also the setting for Wenders’s 1997 The End of Violence), and the concrete canyons of Houston—reinforced by the stunning cinematography of regular early collaborator Robby Müller and a plangent slide-guitar score by Ry Cooder (with whom Wenders would later make the Oscar-nominated documentary Buena Vista Social Club).

A lot of the action takes place on the road, long a staple of American culture, as much in the novel as on the screen. Think of Rabbit Angstrom’s overnight drive south as he “runs” in the first of Updike’s Rabbit novels; or, earlier, of Kerouac’s generation-defining classic On the Road; or, earlier still, of the Joad family’s doomed westward odyssey in The Grapes of Wrath. But the road is a theme that, for obvious reasons, works better in cinema than in literature, and came into its own in such iconic works of the 1960s and 1970s as Easy Rider, Two-Lane Blacktop, and Five Easy Pieces. The American road is as much a state of mind as a highway: an almost infinite strip of possibilities that helps the traveler reach—or (as in Easy Rider) fail to reach—the heart of America.

Highways have been central to Wenders’s films almost from the start. He christened his first production company Road Movies, and nearly all his films are about movement: most of them are on the road to some­where; not all of them arrive—by which I mean that the characters’ journeys are incomplete rather than that the films fail. In 1975, a decade before Paris, Texas, Wenders made Falsche Bewegung, about whose English title no one seems able to agree. Released in the UK as The Wrong Move and in the U.S. as The Wrong Movement, it translates literally as “False Movement”—a much better rendering and a title that could apply to most of Wenders’s films, with the proviso that movement, however false it may be, is the only option available. This is as true of his early masterpiece Kings of the Road (1976)—about two loners thrown together on a drive northward through what was then the border region of West Germany—as it is of his most recent feature, Palermo Shooting (2008), about a German fashion photographer rather too obviously pursuing love and death to and through the Sicilian city of the title. What is more, the road itself is frequently a character in the films, whether as a counterpoint to meandering voice-overs, as in the opening of Alice in the Cities (1974), or as the visual equivalent of a character’s restless anomie, as in Paris, Texas, with its many, many scenes shot in or from a car. Even A Notebook on Clothes and Cities (1989), a documentary about fashion designer Yohji Yamamoto, is punctuated with long sequences of driving on freeways. (The only real exception is 1987’s Wings of Desire, set in Berlin two years before the wall came down, and for that reason a reflection not on movement but on stasis—or rather, on dreams of movement in a place of stasis.)

Born in the Ruhr area in 1945, Wenders is the best known of that group of young filmmakers who emerged in the 1970s and were dubbed the New German Cinema, a movement whose trigger was the 1962 Oberhausen Manifesto. Like most rallying cries, the Oberhausen Manifesto was about freedom and the need for a break with the past. “The old film is dead. We believe in the new one,” it intoned. Wenders was only seventeen when the manifesto was signed, but his early films, from Summer in the City (1970) through to Kings of the Road, are all about breaking with the past. Paris, Texas is one of the most fully realized and exhilarating examples of this break—which is ironic because it has none of the political ambitions of Oberhausen, and because it comes at the very end of the New German Cinema’s shelf life. Indeed, by the time he shot it, Wenders had moved a long way from Oberhausen, having already made two films in the United States.

The origins of Paris, Texas lay in one of those earlier American films: his failed attempt, under the not-always-benign aegis of Francis Ford Coppola, to convert New German into New Hollywood with Hammett, which took up five years of his life and was finally released in 1982. Wenders had wanted Sam Shepard for the title role of that film; the studio said no (its default response throughout the making of Hammett). But the two stayed in touch. The first inklings of their eventual collaboration came in a screenplay Wenders wrote based on Shepard’s Motel Chronicles. The final script, however, was an entirely fresh start, with Shepard’s epic sense of the American West finding perfect expression in dialogue whose rhythms are at just the slightest of removes from everyday speech. The final telephone-and-mirror scene between Travis and Jane is one of his best, and if there is one thing that holds at bay the sentimentality that occasionally threatens to creep in, it is Shepard’s language.

The playwright and director shared a sense of movement as escape—a traveling away from, not toward. While the constant movement in Wenders’s films—and in this one especially—seems to hint at a final narrative coming together, any such resolution or redemption usually proves unattainable. Compare Paris, Texas with Ford’s The Searchers (1956), which it superficially resembles. Travis, like John Wayne’s Ethan, comes out of the desert and is slowly weaned back onto normal life. But in Wenders’s film, the threat to normal life comes not from outside—not from a character like Scar, the Apache warrior who abducts Ethan’s niece—but from within Travis himself. As the last part of Paris, Texas makes clear, traditional redemption is not on the menu. Following that final long dialogue scene through the telephone and one-way mirror of the peep-show dive to which he has finally tracked her, Travis, visible to Jane when she turns the lights off on her side of the mirror, simply disappears by walking into the darkness. He repeats the action in the film’s closing shot: having engineered a reunion between mother and son, Jane and Hunter, in a downtown hotel room, Travis disappears into the greenish gloom of the parking lot below. It is a quintessential Wenders scene, at once bleak and borderline sentimental. Travis, briefly pinned down by the domesticity of his brother and the emotional needs of his son, is moving on.

Wenders has sometimes tried to re-create this feeling in Europe. But Europe, big though it is, is divided by so many frontiers, languages, and cultural differences that any movement is always “false” (one of the themes of Kings of the Road is highways and railway lines that lead nowhere, cut off from their former destinations by the fact that those places are now in East Germany). Still, he keeps trying, as in the wonderful driving montage at the start of Lisbon Story (1994), when the director’s alter ego, Phillip Winter (played by Rüdiger Vogler, star of so many of the early films), heads south to Portugal.

In Paris, Texas, there are no borders, and Wenders’s exhilaration is palpable. When Travis’s fear of flying gets him and his brother thrown off a plane and he insists they drive to Los Angeles, you can almost sense Wenders punch the air and say “Yes!”: they’re on the road again. Even that troublesome border a few hundred miles to the south doesn’t really seem to have had any meaning for Travis: from what we can gather in the opening scenes, he has simply walked across it back into the United States. I guess you could do that then. But Mexico and the desert have one thing in common in American culture: they are places people go when they want to get lost. And Travis, in the film’s wonderful, soaring opening shots, is clearly a man who would rather stay lost.

It is, of course, hard to think of those opening shots without hearing Cooder’s score. Cooder is a musician’s musician whose career has only occasionally overlapped with commercial success, as in his session work for the Rolling Stones (his is the slide guitar you hear on Sticky Fingers’s “Sister Morphine”). His score for Wenders’s film is not only unforgettable: it seems somehow to have burned itself into the landscape of the Southwest, to the point where footage of that dry red terrain, with its wind-eroded mesas, can hardly appear on an editing console before someone reaches for the Cooder button. Heard here for the first time, it adds a quality of yearning to the bleakness of the landscape. Absent through much of the middle part of the film, it creeps back in at the very end, as Travis retreats into the darkness—a perfect thematic resolution that removes (or maybe obscures) the need for a narrative reconciliation, turning Travis into one of the mythical figures of American cinema.

But if Paris, Texas is a love letter to America and American cinema, it now also has something of the feel of a farewell. The world to which Wenders pays homage is vanishing fast: not the desert, which is close to eternal, but the pay phones and diners and motels that used to line the approach to every small U.S. town, now replaced by cell phones and McDonald’s and multistory Doubletree Hotels and Quality Inns. All offer a sterile, branded comfort—and all deny the lure of the road, the impulse to keep moving, by affirming that, nowadays, however far you go, it’s still going to look just like home.

Maybe, as he fades back into the Texan darkness, Travis knows more than we thought. These days, Paris, Texas is not just an odyssey: it’s an elegy too.

Nick Roddick, a former editor at Screen International, taught film and theater at universities in the UK, Ireland, and the U.S. before becoming a journalist in the early eighties. He contributes regularly to the London Evening Standard and Sight & Sound.


The Inner West Film Forum Membership available at the Door

* Quarterly $15 ($12 concession) covers three successive months.
* Half-Yearly $28 ($23 concession) covers six successive months.
* Yearly $54 ($48 concession) covers twelve successive months
* All inclusive of the date of purchase.

Bar open from 7.00 p.m.

The IWFF is a non-profit group dedicated to the screening of important and too infrequently seen films and documentaries and providing a community forum for discussion of issues of social, political and cultural concern.