mockturle06: (Lewis)

So, Melbourne. It was just a week away, me trying to cheer myself up, a consolation prize to myself, because I can’t afford overseas holidays any more.

Also, tiny bit inconvenient, with the family situation and all. You know, that line in Hamlet, ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions’, I always thought it was over-egging the plot a touch by having misery upon misery, but as my family has taken a turn for the gothic, it really does go like that, I’ve discovered.

Anyway, much like my anglophile trip to NYC (saw James Corden and Andrew Garfield on stage, and an exhibition on Mary Shelley, and I went to the cloisters to see the Lewis chessmen, etc.) I decided to do a faux-euro trip to Melbourne, seeing European art in galleries and sitting in French, Italian and Greek cafes. Catching trams. Stuff I can’t do here.  It sounds stupid and pathetic, and it is, but my Italian colleague gave my valiant attempt the thumbs up for trying, so there’s that.

So I went and saw the Van Gogh exhibition at the NGV. I wanted to see some VVG in Europe, so this would have to do. Maybe that’s why I was disappointed. I mean, I know they usually only send us the stuff they don’t care if it drops into the Indian Ocean, and quite right, too, (irreplaceable plant specimens from France destroyed in Australian quarantine blunder) but this was stuff they didn’t care if it fell down a volcano. Early juvenilia sketches and depressing scenes from when he was locked up in the loony bin. Exciting if you were a scholar, but it really wasn’t…there wasn’t anything to show you why people make a fuss about the man. So I was angry, because it’s crap shows like this that made me take a lifetime to understand why Vincent is considered a big deal. Because these muddy sketches in no way demonstrate it.

Also, it was far too crowded to properly look or consider, as each painting was surrounded by a deep scrum of tourists. Which was also annoying as I’ve had rooms full of Van Gogh to myself overseas (and I have the photos to prove it). Why should I have to pay a mighty fee to be jostled like I’m on my peak-hour bus, all to see a work nowhere near as luminous as the ones I’ve had all to myself to admire overseas?

Ah, well, if it was the bliss of solitary contemplation of great art I was after, I was right in my choice of the Hellenic Museum. The ticket price was off-putting to the same noisy tourists, so I had a room of ancient masterpieces all to myself to swoon over. And swoon I did. It was just a tiny room, with only a handful of statues, cups and the odd bit of bling to consider, but I prefer that, just one piece, one on one, to look, to study, to contemplate. To imagine if this was something the artist laboured over in tears, or something he knocked off before lunch? Ah, there was a lovely old pot I saw once at the Ian Potter museum that had clearly been started before lunch, but finished afterwards, because the careful lines became noticeably wobbly and skewed after a bit. So, that was me, chillin’ with Aphrodite, Paris and Hercules. Loved that.

And I loved the Love exhibition at the NGV. This one was free, uncrowded and full of treasures and delights from the NGV’s Europhile collection. The only time I grew cranky here was my outrage on the part of Aphrodite, whose statue was broken apart and stuck back together with plaster by so-called Edwardian gentlemen to better emulate their fashionable ideas of beauty. Yep, being a goddess wasn’t good enough. So they hacked her to bits and glued her back together like rough-handling Pygmalions. Because blokes.

The other one was my favourite print of Regency era dancers, arms upright and curved, no sharp-angled elbows akimbo like you see so often in period bonnet-pieces. I used to be (still am, a bit) an extreme nerd for that period and it annoys me when they don’t get the details right when it’s so easy to just look at the print and there it is, you can see how they danced, no need to guess.

Yes, you might have noticed that I don’t like huge liberties taken with history. Mainly because it’s just lazy and sloppy, but also because it’s unfair (as I don’t have access to see the real deal, be it costumes, mode or location), and it’s also bloody dangerous (to put misinformation out there).

Especially when folks take most of their history from the screen these days. Not just dangerous, but rude and insulting, too. Like, because America erases Australian forces from every single war film, despite having served alongside American troops for a hundred years, I get ignorant comments from so-called friends like ‘oh, were you guys in WWII?’ and if we hadn’t been on the freeway right then I’d have told her to pull over so I could get out. Harumph.

But enough about that. Back to love, and this exhibition covered it, from the sublime and the pious to the darn silly, filthy, dirty and dangerous, from Pamela (ah, to think I’ll never see the full set of Pamelas) to the cards pointing out the lewd imagery within symbols to cads and trollops and sweet pics of people and their pets. Love in all its forms and guises, good and bad, love gone bad and outright misogyny and yet also innocence and sacrifice. Fashions, flirting and faith. 

It was a small and eclectic collection and I loved it. Again, because it was small and uncrowded I had time to pause and consider, admire and appreciate.

Pausing even more (I’m old, and my knees are gone) in a café crawl across Melbourne, but they have so many, and they’re so nice, and kitted out to an almost but not quite Euro-Disney way, like super concentrated Euro café vibes, but that’s exactly what I wanted and needed. Unfortunately, one is paying for the vibe, because the food was awful, but, as I reminded myself, that was authentic, too (I did break down and go the nasi lemak at the Malaysian café round the corner, on my last day).  Still, I got to curl into various corners with my increasingly battered Rebus book, and order a coffee or three.

Trawling around Fitzroy was a bust. I thought it was because I was doing it sober and in daylight, but the problem was I was doing it years too late. All the cool ugly-beanie people have been priced out (they’re even being shifted/shafted out of Reservoir, so I hear now) and it was all ladies-who-lunch.

Who alas spoiled what had been shaping up to be a good time in a heartfelt parody of a French café, with their reeking perfume and painted faces and they went on and on like the real housewives of Melbourne over whose husband was cheating and/or beating. It was so horrifying it made me happy to be ugly and alone and forget my shameful tears earlier in the week. Good lesson. 

Theatre was ripe, but I’d seen most of the shows already in Sydney, so I saw The Book of Mormon, because it’s supposed to be a big deal. I didn’t mind it. I was just there mainly because I love Melbourne’s old theatres, though I loved it slightly less when the queue for the loo stretched out into the road (male-designed architecture vs women’s anatomy and fashion – discuss).

I had a wildly overpriced cocktail and spotted friends of my happy-clappy rellos sitting in the row in front of me – mutually busted, but oddly I get on better with them than the rellos so it wasn’t as awkward a meeting as it might have been.

That wasn’t the night I ended up in Little Bourke Street, though. Meant to, but decided on a burger and a night in front of the box watching Jude Law instead. Because Jude (and as I was missing him live on stage, watching the SBS screening of Young Pope would have to suffice).

Between Young Pope and Book of Mormon there was a lot of faith-based viewing going on, but there’s no escaping it these days, even if I take it no more seriously than a statue of Hercules. Besides, both kind of offered insights into the psychology of believers, scary and unsound as it appears to me. Sorry, I’m a rational humanist and will be until the day I die.

But anyway, yes, Little Bourke Street, in the rain, with all the neon dragons flickering in the puddles and bike couriers flashing up and down. Yep, totally a Blade Runner vibe there, damn shame I didn’t have my camera on me. The gongbao chicken was pretty great, too, though I had to settle for Tsing Tao to wash it down with.

Ah yes, my great White Rabbit crawl across Melbourne. I just cannot get dark ale in Sydney. They sell me these funky pale ales that always taste like possum pee. I lurve White Rabbit. They had it at Jackson and Young, in Chloe’s bar, where the famous/infamous painting of Chloe resides. It’s a landmark. It’s a lovely pub, too. Shabby genteel.

I also popped into the Melbourne Museum to see the WWI: Love & Sorrow exhibition. This was so distressing, and I was still fuming over Patty Jenkins’ comments about no-one knowing about WWI.  She meant Americans, though, as Mechad explained at the con, they don’t do remembrances there (he’d seen an ANZAC day service and was still affected). We do two a year, once on ANZAC day (25 April) when we wear rosemary for remembrance, lest we forget, and once on Armistice Day (11 November) when we wear poppies. We will remember them.

So I get there and there’s a packet of tiny souvenir playing cards like my Great Uncle had. I just reeled on from that, past the photos, drawings and casts of men without limbs and faces missing, past the letter from a child to her daddy, and the telegram that arrived instead, past the story of the soldier who came home, drank and beat his wife, then drowned himself. Past the wife who sent baby shoes to her husband from their newborn son, only to have them returned, unopened. Past the mother who waited two years to find out what happened to her son who was MIA, and when finally told he’d been blown to bits, drowned herself in the dam on the family farm. Past the mower that belonged to a blind soldier, who tended his garden by way of guide lines.

We remember them. I don’t know what the Americans do. Make cute adventure films sans ANZACs, I should guess.

So then I rambled about through the anatomy wing, where there were cases upon cases of 18th and 19th century bone saws, which is why most people (unless you make American movies) know that’s where the slang term ‘sawbones’ comes from.

Also hit the dinosaurs (just casts, but they’re always visually so cool) and the geology section (I’m from a family of geologists so I still know my igneous from my metamorphic). Zipped through the ocean and wilderness sections, because it was too much like work (my brain started pulling up work files, so no).

Café trawl was ok, I found a few nooks to hide in, and most made an effort with atmosphere. Weirdly, almost entirely staffed by French waiters, to add to the authenticity of the experience. I don’t know what France is doing for waiters. Maybe they’re all Australian? I never did get back to the café that had the absinthe, though, damn.

The con was more fun than I was expecting. Caught the 57 tram out to the showgrounds every day, past delightful but soon to be demolished heritage buildings, and Jude Law glaring at me from various posters, just to remind me I didn’t go see him in London. It wasn’t at all as bad as the set up in Sydney or that awful one at the Gold Coast, so I zipped from building to building, using and abusing the priority pass I’d bought (just because I thought I’d be way more concussed than I was) so I didn’t have to queue quite so much. There was still queueing though.

Ok, highlights: Me, making Tom Hopper nearly cry by questioning Billy’s actions in the last couple of seasons of Black Sails. Billy’s been hurt and betrayed by those he trusted most, poor wee orphan, and I ought to know that. Consider myself told. Pretty young Mr Hopper also seemed confused why his costumes never included sleeves. I didn’t burst his bubble on that one.

Natalie Dormer revealed herself to be a hardcore history nerd and passionate advocate for Anne Boleyn (all those uncharacteristic talky bits in the Tudors were her idea). So I kind of love her now.

Mehcad Brooks was a total sweetie, talking to all his fans at eye-level, and being very gentle with the tweenie Supergirl fans. It sounds creepy but it was really just him being a really nice guy. Cory Michael Smith from Gotham just about ran off with my passport, because he wouldn’t, couldn’t believe it. And the pic I got with Lee Majors was as awful as always, but the squee going on there could power my laptop for several hours (childhood hero). Besides, he’s pretty much the last of the TV cowboys (Big Valley) and, you know, living history. I honestly didn’t mind him letting a little light onto the magic of my childhood shows. As always, the never meet your heroes edict applied to Buffy more than any other show I’ve ever been a fan of (besides Trek in its many incarnations) but there always has to be one.

Oh and the swishy dress with the huge petticoats I bought on a whim was worth it for the smile it evoked from young Mr Mitchell. Well, that and he was desperate for a signing. That, too, but, oh, such a smile. I shall remember that smile.

That was Melbourne: food, coffee, history and squee.

My pics:

My links:

mockturle06: (Dean sad)

The other day there was a lot about Kurt Cobain’s non-birthday. It was more about me feeling old and tired, than any distress amongst his surviving nearest and dearest.

And at least the man had the dark good fortune to leave his legacy intact. Age shall not weary him, enfeeble him or cause him to make embarrassing tweets or indulge in humiliating comebacks, reality shows, reunion tours or misguided acoustic solo albums of spoken-word poetry. None of that. Just the pure vision of a doomed Romance-age poet. Beautiful.

Yes, I’m being dreadful, but which has more value? Unblemished art or, say, the sad, staggering degeneration of a David Cassidy? (Who was never in same league, but for comparison). I mean, which would you rather, blowing your own face off or appearing in I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. There are indeed, it seems, many fates far worse than death.

And if you think I don’t know real pain, hey, my Dad killed himself and the worst and most difficult project I’m working on right now is pretty much the digital equivalent of what happened to all his actual papers: burying them in landfill. So no comments about taking dead dads lightly. No, it’s my own pain that makes me such a bitch about it.

So yeah, getting old sucks, and at least when you’re dead you don’t know what happens to the shit you leave behind.

Oh yes, cheery mood. I thought going to the school reunion would throw some light on the skittering cockroaches of my mind, but instead it’s sent me spiralling down the rabbit hole of existential bleakness.

But first, Trainspotting 2. Oh yeah, it’s all about getting old and still being as much a loser as you ever were. If there’s a theme this year, it’s constantly being reminded that all my dreams will never happen now. Like that Marianne Faithfull song, I know now that I’ll never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair, etc., etc.

Which is pretty much T2 in a nutshell. One could blame poverty and society (or lack thereof), being perpetual outsiders, but, pretty much, they’re a bunch of nothing losers making the same mistakes they always make and everything changes and nothing changes and nobody ever wins. Or something like that.

But damn, it was funny, and stylish, if gritty Scottish squalor could ever be called stylish (and funny how they’re knocking all those slum towers down when they’re just starting to throw them up where I live, developers, eh?). And if Ewan was worried he couldn’t ‘be’ Renton again, let me reassure him, he was Renton again, completely and utterly. It was brilliant.

And as for Robert Carlyle as Begbie – hee (I was hoping to have some distance between watching the delirious return of that mad bastard Begbie and Once Upon A Time, but no, EvilChannelSeven decided to whack on several episodes I hadn’t seen all at once on Sunday and I only caught them because I was hungover and looking for no more energetic activity that lying glassy-eyed in front of the goggle box).

So I liked that, I really did. And I saw it for free, because I won tickets, so that was a small spark of light in my otherwise bleak and run-down existence.

So I thought it was cute to watch a film about old friends who were really anything but, sadly trying to re-run/reboot/relive their youth and failing most terribly, and then go off to the school reunion. Uh huh. I just sat in the corner while everyone caught up on their many husbands (quite the partner exchange going on there, I should write a HBO show) and kids and dogs. But hey, at least a lot of them have quite interesting careers, which is something considering we were never expected to amount to much (working class government school, see comments re grit and squalor, above). But hey, to those princesses I have to work with, if you think I’m too loud and a bit rough around the edges, meet my classmates. I’m the quiet one, dammit.

At the time I didn’t think it was too bad, and one dear chum I’d known since kindy introduced me to expresso martinis  - and I still don’t know whether to thank her or smack her because I think I’m still suffering the hangover. Oy.

It was just afterwards, I was all rippled like a pool into which many stones had been chucked, and one of the former bullies I’d hoped to face and put behind me pursued me on Facebook all Sunday until I deleted the app. Again.

She was all ‘you didn’t talk to me, didn’t you remember me?’

What I thought was, to paraphrase Willow from BTVS, she made my life a living hell for four years and I hated her with a fiery passion. What I actually mumbled in reply was the usual lie about old age shredding my memory (less of a lie these days but it’s more serious head injury than age).

Come Monday and I’m being picked on from all quarters, and I’ve just about had enough. Stayed home on Tuesday to deal with a whole pile of issues that had been dumped on me, but it was mainly so I could curl up and cry. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

At least there was Chris Pine on the telly this week. My drug of choice (and less painful than an expresso martini, though it did, at the time, make watching Star Trek, yes, again, almost as transportive as watching it high on hospital grade anaesthetic, which sums up my 2016, pretty much). The dear boy. Chris, if you’re ever looking for a reason to get up and go to work on a wet Wednesday, keeping me out of the knife drawer should do in a pinch. My little slice of California sunshine.

Though last night I wallowed in Penny Dreadful repeats, because sad and gothic and doomed and oh, I’m probably going to start reading those thick Victorian novels again. And bad me, watching that second to last scene at the graveside all wrong. No, I must not, never mind that Timothy Dalton was being his most Bryonic since playing Heathcliffe or Rochester, both of which I saw as a schoolgirl in pigtails, so you can’t imagine how much it moved me, or set the standard. And Josh Harnett, whom I loathed as the most typical of cheesy Yank actors, was giving it his very best Bryonic, too, and almost nailing it, and so, love.

Then of course Rory walked in and stole the show, but that’s what he does (and why I always think the ‘film’ he was in was way better than Spectre, because the B Team/Scooby Gang looked like they were in a way more interesting film that was happening off-screen, let’s be honest here).

But no, must not, no new fandoms, must not dump current fic the way I dumped my MUNCLE one like a red hot stone (but it was basically such an, er, um, homage, and why, I’ll never know, to This Means War that the subsequent Chris Pine flail that caught me entirely off guard really should have been no surprise at all as it seems my subconscious was leaning that way long before my eyeballs caught up, and it was more the, er, um, optional ending on the DVD anyway, plot-what-plot-wise. Ahem, and I’d love to ask Chris if he was playing it that way through the rest of the flick, because, well, gosh).

Pity, because I did have fun scribbling most of the first MUNCLE one, which also owed a lot to The Champions and The Thunderbirds, damn my magpie brain. The second wallowed in Le Carre inspired ennui until I happily gave it up for a new/old toy.

Besides, I like my current fic, even if there are more daddy issues than Hamlet and Oedipus combined. Poor wee abandoned pup (read a great article on daddy issues in Hollywood).

There’s an awful lot of T2 riffs there, too, which my subconscious did pick up on a good 48 hours before the rest of me did, before I’d even seen the damn film (sometimes I think subby should drive the car, it seems to know the truth way before I do, but then it has, as they said in that episode of Doctor Who, all it needs to see clearly, it is both clever and unloved).

Mind you, I have thrown in a lot of Frankenstein, Dracula and Heart of Darkness riffs, that I can see myself stumbling towards Penny Dreadful, even now (my always abandoned fics are always like this, morphing into the next obsession before I’ve even got there).

Which isn’t to say I abandon the fics because I lose interest. No. Yesterday I wanted desperately to write, but was at the beck and call of others from 4am to 11pm, so no, no writing. Sunday, I did try, but ended up with, no, not the dull ache of a hangover, that I can cope with, just, but the red hot needles of my old concussion headache, and I’ll never know why an hour or so of scribbling in a notebook sends me wild with pain, but it does. It’s not helping or making me happy, I can tell you that.

I have over 300 pages of plotiness sloshing about in my battered old noggin, and I’ll never get it all down, especially the dialogue which goes from 40s film snappy in my head, which is ideal, to 90s tv soupy, which is bad, when I finally, finally get a chance to touch pen to paper, which is very, very rare. (What I need is a non-judgemental secretary who will work all hours for free – yeah, right).

So I get upset and frustrated, especially as my muse is really funny, and he needs to keep that snap that he has in my head while I’m travelling home, all bitter and twisted, on the bus (no, I can’t write on the bus, I’m usually strap-hanging and the roads so bad and the drivers so crazy if I do have a seat I’m hanging on with white knuckles because I usually don’t get a seat until near the end of the line, and it’s a race to go off shift for Mr Bus Driver, passengers, traffic and the laws of physics be damned). 

So the one last hobby I’ve tried to keep, all others sacrificed to the great god of duty and doing endless shit for other people, all the time, is barely registering a pulse these days.

My next book to read will probably be re-reading the Princess Bride (though it’s been so long it’ll be as new), if I ever finish the dreary Hornblower, if for no other reason than certain characters in my never-to-be-finished fic riffing on ‘as you wish’, which is cute. Derivative, but cute. No, I can’t change it, they do what they like and I’m not allowed to interfere at all or they’ll slam the door on me and I’ll be banned from my own little imaginary world. Yes, even the imaginary characters in my head make me their bitch, such is my miserable existence.

But enough about that. Watching tv while lonely and sad (and sometimes tipsy) always leads down to the path of ruination, wasted lives and truly awful fic.

One outlier to this saga of death and decay was also seeing Hidden Figures. It’s being sold as a chick flick here, which is odd, as it’s all about maths and spaceships, usually such a male prerogative, but I suppose that’s the point. A chick flick about maths, whoda thunk it. Why, they even had a few conversations that didn’t revolve around men – gasp.

So it wasn’t quite as mawkish as I’d feared for an American can-do film, and it was such an Obama-era film that I wanted to cry, but it was pretty damn formulaic in structure, but for a film about maths chicks, I’ll take it. And it would have been a touch more suspenseful if I’d not been familiar with the mission, but I’ll allow that too (it was a bit like watching Macbeth and thinking maybe this time it won’t play out the same way). So it was pretty much by the numbers (heh) but performed with such verve, I couldn’t help but like it.

The one thing that really struck home was the long dashes to the loo. I once worked in a Victorian building that had fancy loos for the chaps, but the ladies had to use a near heritage-aged demountable set up in the loading dock/courtyard, because women neither worked nor peed when that building went up. So I’m used to lengthy dunny runs in all weathers. And this was in 2007.

So that rang true. Alas, no forward thinking Costner-like manager came around and co-opted one of the gentlemen’s lavatories for us girl-types, so it was always coming back soaked if one had dashed off sans brolly. The life of a working girl in a man’s world, eh? (Don’t even talk to me about potty parity).

And I do feel for their challenges. I’ve been called a monkey with a university degree, to my face, just for being poor and the undeserving recipient of an over-generous state education.

I do wish I didn’t look like my maternal grandmothers (especially now), and much more like my Viking paternal ancestors, so I could properly look the part when I’ve a mind to rip someone’s head off, because they’re well past deserving it. All my cousins are proper little Vikings, all blond and ginger terrors.

I do wish I didn’t look like I do. I wish my Dad had bought the house in Bondi, so no one would ever sneer at my postcode origins. I wish I was normal and could talk to people.

I don’t particularly wish I had my school chums lives. It seems all about partner-swapping, sex, pay checks and vet bills. I know I live too much in my own head for that (mainly because I was trained to do so from a lifetime of bullying).

And I know, despite being cut of plain cloth, I set my standards way too high (yet quite rightly decided I’d rather die a spinster than live with a gamer, but you all know what they’re like now, right?) and I know I want the moon and the stars, and a dream man not afraid of red velvet dinner jackets – heh.

Ah well, and I really should tell Katy Manning this, Green Death was, and remains, a favourite story of mine from childhood, and, in a way, I am still fighting that fight for the environment. It’s pretty much the only reason I stay put with the long hours and lousy pay. The good fight. There is a purpose (even if the politics and pettiness are maddening).

I just wish I had time for a wee bit of fic. But come 11 pm and I’m too knackered. And yes, watching telly on Sunday arvo was a waste of time, but that was only after the headache from hell and being hounded by an old nightmare on social media. Maybe I should stop fussing about the right time, and write at the wrong time. Maybe I should get a better cheap PC and try out some speech recognition software. I could mutter to myself like Auntie Rotter, wouldn’t that be…just too weird.

So that’s my so-called life at the moment: no riding through Paris, in a sports car, with the warm wind in my hair. These days I’m lucky if I can just manage to catch a ramshackle old bus.

Stuff I found on the interwebs:

mockturle06: (mr flibble)
Well, at least that production of Macbeth was ticking all the boxes of my bad production bingo: bare black stage, a wooden chair, a fall of glitter. Check, check and check.

What a pity, and Hugo Weaving was so good, damn good, a magnificent Macbeth, full of sound and fury. If only we could have seen his Macbeth in a more tradtional production, and, hell, a traditional staging really would be radical in this town.

I can see now why our best actors go overseas. They have to. This was...woesome. It was like watching Gandalf bestride Ramsay Street, with glitter. (Yes, I know he played Elrond, but you get the idea, he was playing it big, the others, not so much).

Let down by the production. The whole putting the audience on the stage in the world's most awful plastic chairs just made us gaze yearningly at the comfy chairs that now formed the backdrop. The whole thing was a gimmick, and I've seen it done much better, at Traflagar's Macbeth, fer starters.
more: and then it got worse )
mockturle06: (Dean)
I'm having Russian caravan tea again because I had a craving. The Twinings version is my least fave but the easiest to get, and I'm having it with honey, instead of jam like you're supposed to, 'cause I have honey in my desk drawer, but no jam (dreadful oversight, I know, but I do have to keep the odd paperclip and pen in there beside all my teas - grin).

At least, I was told that one should properly have it with jam down at that cafe in Canberra, the one I like, and I figure they'd know, Canberra being much more of a cold war hotspot than I was ever led to believe, the official version as I was taught being that it is a remote rural backater were nothing ever happens, but I feel local prejudices may be at play. Certainly recently declassified files point to a far more entertaining level of spy vs spy shenanigans going on, so, I figure I'll accept Canberra cafes as an authority on things Russian.
more: law and disorder )
mockturle06: (Dean)
So I went to the flicks. Again. This time it was a Popcorn Taxi thing, which are always fun, albeit on the other side of the city. I was going more out of duty, having purchased the tickets in a mad moment, having strips torn off me again made me hit the fantasy escape button. Then I kept thinking what on earth had I done? What on earth had I signed up for?

The very thing, as it turns out. Oh, I had so much fun. Dominic Cooper and Rufus Sewell being sexy, magnificent bastards. Oh yeah, I went off to see Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, and you know what? It was bloody fun. The title says it all. It's very silly, but done with such po faced panache. And still way more plot, characterisation and actual acting than Magic Mike. (Hell, an insurance ad...)

Anyhoo, spoilers ahoy (below) if you're planning on seeing this, and you should, because it's a romp. Actually saw the 3D version, and I usually go miles (and miles) out of my way to avoid it because 3D doesn't work for me, at all, and I end up spending a miserable couple of hours squinting at blurry screens and getting a migraine so I just don't, really don't, and I'd been so hyped on the Dominic and Rufus I didn't even check or realise until I was handed the dread glasses at the door. But it worked. I finally got a pair of 3D glasses that worked (and damn straight I nicked 'em, to reuse now I have the sacred 3D glasses that actually work) so I had lucious Dominic and Rufus in 3D. Oh, what fun. Yum yum.
more: fang banging, dead presidents and the undead )
mockturle06: (Dean sad)
There was stuff I was going to say but this has been a waste of a week. Just an absolute non week of work, tissues, asprin and dvds. This is a plague ship here.

At least being dashed unwell has given me an excuse, or at least, I've given myself an excuse, to catch up on the stack of disks waiting viewing. Got my Fassy fix in Haywire, with bonus Ewan McGregor, and young Mr Tatum getting the snot kicked out of him as well he might.

Anyone who can't properly enunciate the name of my most beloved fictional hero, sacred to me since I was ten, deserves a good arse kicking my opinion, but this is what I get when Hollywood hires ex-strippers instead of someone who has been to drama school and done theatre and Shakespeare and television before hitting the movies, but Hollywood knows best. The sooner somebody properly discredits the American mumble school of acting the better. It's not deep. It just requires closed captioning.

Anyways, also got bonus Fassy fix when I found X-Men on cable. Yay Fassy. With added McAvoy, for good measure. J' Adore wee Jimmy McAvoy.

Doubled up on Peter O'Toole when I watched How To Steal a Million, which is a joy, a silly, daft, joy, and then found Lawrence of Arabia on cable. Swoon.
more: all fall down )
mockturle06: (matt)
After a particularly rough day, because I just love judgemental twats getting up in my face, it was a cheery evening with a barely bloody drinkable red and a big episode of Buffy (the one where Angel gets happy) and an episode of Law & Order UK, which wasn't cheery at all, but it had cute as a button Jamie Bamber in it, and they were wandering around my favourite streets (unlike other shows set in other cities, I could see them stroll past just one shop and know exactly where they are, hello shop, a couple of doors down from my Cafe Nero and I need to go back, I'm a few cups short of a freebie) and it's all old L&O episodes in English drag, which adds a further layer of meta hilarity to the proceedings, and there's Bill Paterson popping up to growl something in his brogue and, well, I am very easily amused.

Finished off with Once Upon a Time, which is freaky and does not bear close examination at all but I'm happy to waft along for the ride. It's all very daft but with the same sort of soapy stuff that kept me bouncing along with Buffy, so it tweaks that kink and I'm happy.
more: roman in the gloamin' )
mockturle06: (Dean)
First I have to tell you about the silly celebrity sighting before this week drags me down any more than it already has. It was quite simple, really. I was in the city to see a play and loitering around QVB, very bored by that stage, having found all the shops I liked boarded up and having taken my notebook to three lacklustre coffee shops by that stage (I had to get in early before the buses cut out) and I was heading out the door, then decided to turn back and have another look at the one shop that was open (and just as well, because what I'd been looking for was only put on the shelves then).

Anyways, as I turned there was young Mr Daniel MacPherson, his usual cheery, gorgeous self, in the process of doing a stage bow right in front of me with all the flourishes, as the punchline to some joke with his friends. It was nothing, of course, but I was tickled. Ah, the dear boy, just as silly off stage as on.
more: except you, you and you )
mockturle06: (lom tea)
Every time I go out into the office lobby, this enormous and bulging black bin bag has moved to somewhere else in the lobby and is skulking in a different corner or leaning against a different wall. I'm afraid I'm too much of a child of cheap and creepy British telly not to raise an eyebrow at this sort of behaviour, you know, from watching the sort of shows where they'd imbue a bin bag with dread and menance, because that's all the FX budget ran to.

Nevertheless, I'd have to declare their efforts most effective because I still can't but help find that independently mobile black plastic bin bag of unusual size rather unsettling.

Okay, yes, maybe that old wowser Mary Whitehouse had a point, but life would be so dull if there weren't any creepy deserted lobby wandering bin bags.
more: a surfeit of Sherlocks )
mockturle06: (Fassbender)
First of all, thank you to whomever comped my DW account. That was nice and engendered the warm fuzzies, no mean feat for a Monday morning. Also engendering warm fuzzies were the Fassy pics a friend alerted me to. Damn that man.
more: buttons, spiders and submarines )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)
Since the whole phone hacking thing I've noticed that the gossip feeds have gone eerily quiet, which means that either the publishers are being cautious, or everyone in the entertainment industry is behaving themselves.

Well, everyone except that wicked Sooty, of course. Of all the British celebs to end up in the shame files, I never figured the next one would be Sooty: Sooty apologises for Paul Daniels pizza-throwing injury.

It was this quote in particular that had me doubled over in mirth, but I really think you need to have grown up watching the Goodies puppet government episode, alas, but I was rotflmao to within an inch of my life.
"Sweep said Sooty was so shocked by it all that he was speechless afterwards."

Snort. Giggle. Wheeze. Yes, I am five. I've been behaving like a five year old week. I'd like to blame the nightly roadworks. There's just something about prolonged sleep deprivation (and hormones) that just makes everything more extreme.

[Update: Sooty read my guffawing tweets and replied with an unhappy face. No, really. I have distressed Sooty with my tittering and I'm sorry. I am a bad, bad person. But seriously, Sooty's on Twitter? I live in a strange, strange world - and I can show you the official reply if ye dinnae believe me.]

Anyhoo, trying to be cheerful, I note with delight that someone has at last shown young Matty how to wear a hat and wear it well. Either that or he's finally got his hands on one of my favourite books, City of Shadows, from the Police and Justice museum. I have a signed copy from the book launch - smug.

Certainly looks like it anyway. Kind of reminds me of George Sanders, too. Yes, they've been playing the old 40s Saint fillums on 7TWO in the wee small hours. J' Adore.

Forties Saint is so damn arch and tricksy and amoral. I just love those flicks to bits.
more: love never dies )

bite me

Nov. 26th, 2010 10:18 pm
mockturle06: (matt and tim)
The interwebs seem to be seething with news of the Buffy reboot. Well, yes, while I should like Buffy, flawed though it was (series 5-7, yeesh), to stand as is, I'm aware that in the risk adverse (ie completely devoid of any creative or original spark) studio system it was inevitable, it will be violating, and do we really want the Twihards jumping onto Buffy fandom? No sir, we do not. But there's nothing to be done.

Me? I'm still breathing into a paper bag over the news of an UNCLE film, so the Buffy thing is just another log on the fire, rather than the fire, in my world.

Would that sacred texts remain sacred texts but I am in no position to argue that, drooling as I was over the Jane Eyre trailer with Fassy, and this is after spending several weeks wallowing deliciously in the Toby version and declaring it to be the knees of bees.
more: want fries with that? )
mockturle06: (White Collar kiss)
Are you here to see Joss Whedon, asked the cloakroom gal. I resrained the fangirl flail and answered with a demure yes, but, oh my, there were some serious fangirl vapours going on.

This is the something I had on that had me blowing off invites and duty and even the annual Fifties Fair. This was it. Mr Whedon. At the Opea House.

I don't know why I was so excited, but I was. Maybe because Joss Whedon, and his works, have been so important to me, have gotten under my skin and become of part of me. I simply had to see the great man and pay homage.
more: sunday afternoon )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (merlin subtext)
"I think the word bromance is so passe. We are two men who happen to be roommates who wrestle a lot and share a bed." - Robert Downey Jnr on Holmes and Watson, MyPark Magazine

Ah, bless (though he later recants). I just know I'm going to be horribly disappointed, but I can't help but be curious about this film. Especially as a lifelong Holmes/Watson fan (no don't ask me to choose, because as a lass I wouldn't be shifted from Rathbone until Mr Brett, but I've yet to be swayed from Mr Brett by later intrepretations, though I preferred Everett to Roxburgh).

Meanwhile, work has been hell. I've not slept or eaten and it has sent me grey, but enough of that.
more: You don't frighten us, English pig dogs. Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called 'Arthur King,' you and all your silly English K-nig-hts )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (macavoy)
Yes! Moffat is doing Doctor Who!!! Behold my fangirly squee!

Why? because young Steven is perfectly attuned to my idea of Doctor Who, as ably demonstrated by Blink. Precious little of the screaming girls running down corridors rubbish. Oh, happy day. (And if he has to pick someone from Coupling, can it be Mr Coyle?).
more: muffin magic )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (mads)
Sigh. No more Unit One. I'd never seen the last two episodes before and was bemused at just how Cranford the ending was, though I don't remember Cranford dropping the C bomb quite so often (perhaps if it had been a HBO show - grin). Certainly Unit One seemed to be shooting for Deadwood's record, and surpassing it. Seriously hardcore, these Danish cop shows.

I will miss it though, and the Cranford ending was very telling, for it was terribly soapy, in its own way. Girlie tv in disguise.
more: kiss kiss hykeeba )


Oct. 12th, 2007 03:31 pm
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (lom gun to head)
Oh dear, where to start? Well, I can say the only two things that have brightened my week considerably were the ads for Supernatural I saw last night (squee!) and the fact that every second review of Robin Hood appears to use the word "gay" in the headlines. Obviously they're all watching it wrong - grin.
more: I get by, etc, etc. )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (robin hood 12)
Hello. I really don't have time for this but I've been head down bum up since 6.30 am and I figure I'm due a break. It's Thursday and it's my first proper day in the office, so you can imagine the state of my inbox. If it wasn't for the inbox I could almost enjoy myself for the weather is lovely, I'm at my desk, with my cup and my secret stash of good tea bags, and I don't even mind the fortress they're (very noisely) building out there. Seriously, they're building Berlin walls for APEC, only, like the old BW, they lack finesse. I prefer a more retro wall, you know, ancient stone, a bit of fancy carving, that sort of thing.

I do hope I get some time off next week because I don't fancy being stopped and searched while going about my lawful business (especially as this terrible pain down my side is giving me fair warning I might be a bit lippy next week).

Anyhoo, sometime last week I mentioned Baines reminding me of some snotty posh boys of my acquaintance and it was a fairly non cryptic dig at a certain few gentlemen and one in particular. So guess who I ran into on Tuesday. Okay, given the whys and wherefores, not the least bit coincidental, but still, there he was, made flesh from my thoughts, as it were. Fortunately, as noted in the D&P book I just finished (bloody good read, too), a posh education can be relied upon to have ingrained good manners in the bastards, and Mr D duly exchanged civilities, which must have pained him as everyone else was giving me a wide five seat berth (Hair awry again? Skirt tucked in undies? Deodorant no match for the jog uphill?).
more: minor blink spoilers and the usual waffle )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (much sad)
"Unrequited love. It's fantastic, 'cause it never has to change, it never has to grow up and it never has to die!"

Um, not quite. And isn't it interesting to compare Vince's declaration with Martha's: more: spoiler, and oh no, not you again )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (master laser)
Today started with Ewan bellowing "testicles!" down the (fortunately) empty corridors this morning, which'll learn me to a) peek at the Long Way Down page in public and b) not check that some peon hasn't fiddled with my volume controls in my absence.
more: the simm that ate cardiff )


mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)

June 2017

111213 14 151617


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags