mockturle06: (Chris)

I wish I was of that generation that get a ribbon just for showing up. I could use a round of applause for just being upright and breathing right now.

Nothing is ever my finest hour, but I seem to be prat-falling into mess after mess of late, and, as I’m honestly surprised, none of it is deliberate on my part (OMFG, if I could stop effing up for five consecutive seconds, I’d buy myself a chocolate).

I’m going to try and explain my latest misery as a turbid mix of my very own and limitless incompetence, and work insecurity engendering a savagery in people I’d liked and respected – though clearly the opposite did not apply. At all. In any case, I’m upset to the point of unbearable despair.

Which is the mood I lumped with me, like a heavy, awkward burden, to two Wonder Woman screenings. Not two because of Mr Pine. Two because everyone in the planet was going nuts over this film and I hated it, so I thought, that can’t be right.

So let’s blame it on the rest of my life, intruding even in the cinema, as it must (I’d bought a Gold Class ticket, because it was Wonder Woman, but, of course, my order never arrived so I ended up with a movie length drink, i.e., huge, on an empty stomach, so basically I was just angry drunk for most of it). I was crying, not in joy, but in misery. I did not like it at all. I hated it. It jumped about to the point of making no sense, more like an extended trailer than any sort of narrative, the characters were flat, bitty and trite, the lauded colour was washed-out awful and of course, the only reference to nearly 10% of the Oz population being there were the Hurley photos they ripped off, including a couple that Bean tore him a new one over, being a bit fake, oh dear).

But the rest of the world was falling over themselves in glee, so I knew something had to be wrong, and that something was me. So I went and saw it again. Cattle class this time, stone-cold sober, with some morsel of food in my belly. Ok, the screen was better. That helped. Ditto having my row to myself (because I’m an angry loner).

Like most women of a certain age, I’ve waited all my life for a Wonder Woman film. And Gal did a good job in the role, nothing she did caught me as a sour note. And Pine was fine, perfectly handsome, heroic, charming and funny, just a little bit vulnerable and exceedingly doomed, all done up in period garb. My usual catnip. He was Cary Grant, Errol Flynn, Harrison Ford and my floppy haired Merchant Ivory boys all rolled into one perfect package (oh yes, the package, points for obvious ogling scenes).

But the skip-jump plot (and suddenly they were in Belgium, and, btw, Poirot has more to say about the war in Belgium than this lot) and my Ewen (Spud!) as minor comic relief, all the other characters like bit part provincials in a Shakespeare play (only with less telling dialogue) and the moustache twirling really so obvious they were announced in the pre-show ads villains – it still seemed spectacle over substance. Ok, obviously one of those films where I’ll have to read the novelisation if I want backstory (if I could be bothered). Ok, yes, superhero film pitched at nine-year olds, don’t go expecting layers or characterisation.

But still, but still. Even as a kiddie’s movie, look, Doctor Who is a kid’s show but it still manages plots with a bit of grit and purpose and meaning ­ in case you missed the colonisation, war, Brexit, cruelty, cowardice, greed and sacrifice riffs in last week’s fantastic episode. Oh my gosh, I loved that. Victorian soldiers on Mars. Victorian soldiers recreating The defence of Rorke's Drift (1879) on Mars. With Ice Warriors. And Alpha Centauri, for that hit of pure childhood nostalgia, because who doesn’t love a giant one-eyed monster? (No, not talking about the pool scene in Wonder Woman).

So I’m going to blame my lack of engagement on my greed and hollow emptiness, I wanted more than that film could give. Still, Mr Pine was perfect, and justifiably lauded for his light touch and comic timing. And there were moments I liked, vignettes, bits here and there (which is my main problem, it seemed more a string of scenes than a journey).

Maybe I’m just jaded. I knew dear old Steve was going to be fridged big-time to give our heroine that motivational push. And I knew Ares was going to be a backroom politician, not a general, because everyone knows who the real bad guys were in WWI. And as for the poisonous villainess with the facial scars as an outward depiction of her no-goodness, can you say trope? How progressive (unless they were applying a homage to tropes older than WWI and the history of film).  And the mixed ragtag band of dodgy brothers? Well, that was astounding, too, if you’ve never seen any Kurosawa films or any of the umpteen westerns and war films that riffed on them. I’ve seen music videos with more depth and character (and originality).

Ah, well, maybe I should see it one more time. There were bits I liked (no, not just Pine’s bits). Some bits oddly reminded me of Doctor Who, the second series with Rose, and not just the end of Christmas Invasion, with the not-snow. Lookit, it’s raining Steve! Little bits of Steve (no, not that bit). Oh, don’t tell me it’s ash of Ares, he’s just taking a nap because he’s got a lot to do in the 30s onwards.

Never mind. Happiness is flipping around the channels and finding Mrs Peel clutching a stuffed crocodile under her arm. Bliss. Classy British silly, all primary colours and silly villains (but at least I understood their motivations, no matter how off-kilter), a real trippy version of Le Carre – whom I’m reading at the moment, A Small town In Germany, because I don’t have enough things with EU-centric plots in my life right now (being sarcastic here). And besides, sword-fighting young cad Anthony Valentine in one episode? Yes, please.

The Avengers make me happy.  Doctor Who, when it’s good, makes me happy. There was a Buffy marathon on a wet long weekend. That made me happy. (I know, but it’s been so long since cable have bothered with a Buffy marathon, and I’m ever so nostalgic these days).

Seeing the NT Live screening of Twelfth Night made me happy.  I mean, Tamsin Grieg as Malvolia, and honestly, why the fuss, it was just one more gender-bend in a fairly gender-fluid play. It was very funny, but, as revealed in the last act, the jokes were cruel and got out of hand, and we never do get to find out if Malvolio/Malvolia gets their revenge, and how (not there’s an idea worth taking up, never mind rehashing films from five years ago). Still, the performances were just on the right side of arch (okay, some teetered alarmingly into panto) and there’s a lot about disguise, gender, roles and identity as costumes assumed and cast off, all going on.  It’s all very transgressive and queer-baiting, with dick jokes, but also grief and loss and humiliations galore.

Maybe I identified with Malvolia too much. I seem to be set up to be torn asunder myself of late, and no doubt I have brought it upon myself, just as much as Malvolia did.

Other theatre included Mr Burns at the Belvoir. The Simpsons as post-apocalyptic passion play. That’s pretty much it. Lots of Simpsons jokes, some comments on popular culture as the new religion. I was sitting in the front row and ended up bruised from a flying recliner chair. Still, Mitchell Butel, who is fast becoming a favourite (that hasn’t been snapped up by Hollywood yet) didn’t hold back in the last act, and nor could he or should he.

I was amused. The hardest thing was squirming in the first act when they tried to remember lines from Simpsons episodes, and not yelling them out. Oh, the strain to remain silent, it almost hurt.

I also went and saw Vivid. Well, a bit of it, anyway. We went round the Opera House and through the gardens. To be honest, I usually love Vivid, but I’ve found it to be a bit meh this year. Nothing has really caught my imagination, made me stand still and pay attention. Nothing was really wonderous, magical or pretty.

Sums up my life right now. I seem to be tired of pretty lights and pretty Pine. Tired of life? Far more than is healthy. Maybe it’s just winter. Not that it’s really winter any more. It’s just damp and dark.

But I’m not happy. And pretty Pine and purple flowers will not make me stop messing up, dropping the ball, or whatever I’m doing or not doing to make my life the cesspool it is. Save Steve, send me up on that plane. I’m sure as hell not doing anything useful right now (and no one would care).
mockturle06: (Chris)

For a very brief window, due to a random rearrangement of desks, I am working with folks who can sing the Jetsons’ theme song, quote Are You Being Served and The HitchHiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, appreciate Tom Hiddleston and know the difference between Godzilla and a dinosaur.

Sweet. Do you have any idea what a joy and relief it is to have someone not only get your jokes, but sling it back? To get your pop culture references instead of thinking you’re just making weird random outbursts because you’re mentally ill (well, probably, but also quoting Hanna Barbera).

Or maybe it’s just the leftover crème eggs I bought (there’s still like four left, oh dear) when I’ve nothing else to eat. Gotta go clean and lay off the crème. Maybe the sugar high is making me silly. But I’m not solely responsible for the chocolate eggs disappearing. At first the cleaner was blamed, but I pointed out that, despite my overtures at friendly (I’m always working back late at festive times with leftover chocolate) the cleaner keeps behaving like I’m trying to poison her.

‘Well, that’s stupid’, dismisses my colleague. ‘Who’d clean up the mess?’

Man, I’m gonna miss it when we rotate again and the straights are back.

Maybe I’m just being silly because it’s been a hard month, you know, double family tragedy (on top of the anniversary of another), the house falling apart around my ears (though I got the new very silly curtains up and I like them and not seeing the neighbours is very soothing), not seeing Jude Law live on stage in London (I had a ticket) and dealing with yet another restructure and crazy deadlines, half-baked jobs and having high profile projects taken away from me. You know, stuff.

So, anyways, we were talking Hiddles because Night Manager is finally screening out here, and I’d gone and seen the big monkey fillum last week.

I don’t know, I have a childish thing for big monkey films that I’ve not quite grown out of, and besides, I remember the withering judgement that greeted my choice of seeing Godzilla vs King Kong on the big screen once in my yoof, but what film are they remaking now, huh? Not your black and white arty farty films, no sir. No, we’ve got Shakespearian actor, Eton educated young Hiddles running about slicing and dicing pterodactyls in a King Kong movie. Ah, this is where a fancy education will get ya. If he shows up being all broody and serious and I coulda so been 007 in G v K 2.0, my life will be complete, or, at the very least, I’ll be ticking off a very silly box I never thought would ever be ticked. Heh.

As for the film, the whole South east Asian War Film Heart of Darkness aesthetic was very, very silly, and it got a bit Land of the Lost there for a while, and I would have preferred rampaging Skeleton Men (Danger Island) to the noble natives thang (but I guess not) and I was horribly cheated on the promised big spiders and I have a better, wilder, far more dangerous jungle past the Hills Hoist (weeding eludes me) than the Capability Brown park-scapes they strolled through, but yeah, it was an ok popcorn film.

Anything it might have had to say on war, the environment, politics, or anything, really, was flimsy at best, and lost under the wash of the monster mash. I think maybe there was a version that might have said something, at some time, but not anymore. Clearly the test audience of man-babies wanted more monkey eating octopus, less ruminations on geopolitics or the follies of getting involved in land wars in Asia (<- Princess Bride reference).

As for my own jungle, yeah, well. It was perfect weather on the weekend and despite a cracking headache I made it as far as the back door, where I found an enormous (and deadly) red back spider jealously in possession of my left wellie. If I was looking for an excuse, and I was, that was as good as any. Besides, I worked myself into throwing up the weekend before, and the green bin was full. What I really need is a flame thrower, and Tom Hiddleston on standby, armed with sword.

I went out to an actual screening of Doctor Who. I wasn’t going to, but come the long weekend and the cable and internet went out, as it must, and they said it’d be out until late Sunday night at best so no telly and no streaming so screening it was. Of course, the cable and interwebs came back on by Saturday night but I’d already bought the tickets by then, and it wasn’t a bad day out, though hella crowded as everyone in Sydney had woken up with one thought in their head: go to Circular Quay. Yikes.

Had burgers, strolled, or rather scrambled, through the markets. Sampled the malbec at the Dendy. Shrug.

Just so you know, I’ve been sampling malbecs across Sydney, and the best is at Event cinemas in George St. No, really, and their rose is the best, too. Second is the Opera Bar (ditto with their rose). Next is Toni and Guy in Park St (yes, really). Then it’s the Dendy entry (somewhat stale and disappointing) and, at a distant fifth, the Bar at the End of the Wharf, Hickson Rd (but the view, oh the view). Riverside doesn’t even do malbec, and their reds are always sticky and warm and give me migraines. All in the name of art, you understand, my user testing.

So, Doctor Who. Shrug. It was a rehash of much I’ve seen before (but that’s what I get for being a lifelong fan). I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t emerge from the screening thrilled, moved or in any way affected by it. Sigh.

Didn’t even try the wine at the Belvoir. Went straight for a beer (oh dear, not that brand) to wash down the veggie roll (all they offer) as a pre-show snack (and my sole sustenance for the day) before I went to see the return of The Dog/The Cat.

I adored this the last time I saw it in the Downstairs. This was Upstairs and last time I thought the dog part was far, far funnier, but this time the cat part was funnier, if sillier (this is where the rapping cat from my tweet comes in). The crack about Battlestar Galactica still has me in stitches, though. Ditto the cat’s expression, me.

Xavier Samuel has really honed and owned his cat (last time the joke seemed to be more that he was in the cat suit, this time he lived it) but I still like his Ben in the first act, endlessly pulling tinnies out of nowhere (again, way funnier in the smaller space, because they really appeared out of nowhere).

Benedict Hardie’s roles seem to have been beefed up, or maybe that was my perception. He does arrogant city douche rather too well, but that was funny, too, in a brittle American humour look how awful and unaware he is kind of way

It’d actually be ideal for a small American stage, despite how Oz the dog act (ahem) is, because the second act, with the cat, is very American in its sensibilities and style.

Anyway, I still love it, it’s still laugh out loud cringe at the too familiar funny.

Surreal and still screamingly funny was the Popular Mechanicals over at the STC. Originally a Belvoir production (and it still had Belvoir stamped all over it), one could try and claim that it’s like Stoppard in that it shifts the focus to some minor Shakespeare players, in this case, the mechanicals from Midsummer, but, really, it’s a direct descendant of an Aunty Jack sketch, complete with blustery fart jokes.

There are many theatre jokes, as our amateur thespians scramble to replace their leading man at the last minute (Bottom being famously indisposed), including a boozy old ham who could stand in for any old theatre luvvie you care to think of.

But, really, for all the prefect comic timing, perfect costumes and large performances, the pièce de résistance was the rubber chicken Busby Berkeley sequence, which had me doubled over with laughter it was so absurd and so perfectly staged.

Go for the jokes, stay for the rubber chickens.

I loved that, I really loved it. And I needed silly and it was very silly. Seeing such Oz humour was rather bittersweet, too, as it was the day John Clarke died (yes, I know he was a Kiwi but has anyone been such a part of Australian life?).

Okay, so here comes the Pine update. Much like the crème eggs, I was trying to go clean. Much like the crème eggs, I failed.

It all started last week, when in the middle of doing eight, yes, eight, really super urgent high level jobs my pals in another time zone started beeping me about a Pine sighting in Angie Tribeca. I was thrilled to hear it, but it was a bit of a tangle tracking down Angie Tribeca (Stan has it) and juggling everything else (literally, dropping my phone several times as I was typing as well) and I think I accidentally posted about Pine on my Twitter feed instead of DM-ing my mates, but that’s life with me, all thumbs.

So I duly streamed the Angie Tribeca episode my caring and sharing friends had alerted me to. I’d never seen the show before, or heard of it, tucked away on Stan as it is (a local streaming service, but my fave, more Goulds Bookshop in choices, which is my aesthetic, than Netflix which is like Blockbuster way too much in library or lack thereof).

It’s an odd show, and exactly the sort of show I would have loved in my teens (in fact I pretty much wrote something like it verbatim in my teens, the same notebook that has the modern version of Holmes, oy, such a notebook, I was on fire, but dismissed, and other people get to make these shows instead). So maybe it was just the huh factor, or maybe I’d made myself grow up and try to like more sophisticated fare (as if, rubber chickens, big monkey), or maybe it was 1.30am in the morning, but it was a bit too hard edged silly, but it was only my first go, and Pine was doing whatever the hell he was doing, but you know, whatever, right? He said he had fun, and that’s the main thing.

Frankly, I was disappointed they killed off Timothy Omundson, because I adore him (forever high-scoring because of Galavant). But hey, at least I saw it, and ogled the Pine and only hours after the US screening, oh such times as these. Shortly afterwards it was red lights all round as a router up the road went out (so the recorded message said).

Other Pine included People Like Us, which he’s kind of adorable in (and I could watch on the digital bunny ears, being screened at midnight on a local channel – I was up and unwell) and I sort of worked through a repeat of Finest Hours (cable and internet back on by then, so I was catching up). I’ve seen that enough to know when to look up. He’s so sweet in that. Ah, I miss young puppy-ish Pine.

Also finally finished S1 of Preacher (also streaming on Stan). Forever disappointed I couldn’t get a ticket to see Dominic Cooper in Phèdre when I was in London, or the NT Live screening later (and grouching again over missing Jude Law live on stage), but never mind, he lurks in my DVD collection and now he’s playing Jesse Custer, of all the characters on my bookshelf, and doing a damn fine job of it. I think they caught the essential essence of Preacher, with its 90s dry, dark, gross-out humour, just perfectly fine (although much like Angie Tribeca, I’m not quite there anymore, but I did appreciate it).

To be honest, to see such a faithful adaptation of a beloved book is such a rare and beautiful thing, it was fun just to savour the authenticity and the sure touch of folks who knew what they were doing. It was Preacher. In this age of re-imagined reboots, that’s pretty darn fucking amazing.

And I don’t know why I found some stuff confronting, considering what I submit to in the theatre (fake vomit, rubber chickens, Xavier in that cat suit). I must be getting old, or something. Or maybe watching on my phone is an even more intimate space than front row at the Belvoir. Whatever. They did Preacher. They pulled it off. Yay.

Yes, I know this post is all about actors. Well, trying to see them in the theatre, or at cons, is my version of twitching, only with luvvies (which is why I fume when I have to stay back at work, like punishment, when a rare and elusive blue-eyed bird has alighted only two blocks away – arrrgh).

Meanwhile, I’m wearing a very loud dress today, mainly because I’m acting out (no Jude Law in London), possibly because I was watching stuff from the 60s last night (it screams ‘68, much like that outfit we saw in the markets that was wearing 1984 on its rolled up red vinyl sleeve).

At least I haven’t covered it in tea, so far, like yesterday: perfume allergies, aspirated tea, favourite top ruined. I had to run across to the shops and try and find something that was both cheap and close to my size (it’s all skinny little girls down this end of town, and that ain’t me). I found one jumper, and at first I didn’t like it, but because it was smaller than I usually wear it clung in all the right places, and it has these weird ridiculous 17thC Dutch collars, but I’ve kind of fallen in love with them, too.

Maybe that’s why I’m dressed like a fruit salad today, because I was all Puritan black and white collars yesterday. Puritan, me, ha! Now that’s just silly.

Items of note: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218/posts (warning: may contain Pine)


mockturle06: (Sherlock)

This week everyone has been so kind, surprisingly so. Indulgent, even. So I refuse to be a brat and ask why no-one was this supportive ten or twenty years ago when I needed this kindness more, and just accept and wallow in the kindness I have now, and thank my lucky stars I’m surrounded by much nicer and kinder people these days.

So something has gone right for me. I think I made the right choice turning down that job I accidentally got. They even offered me more money, but it wasn’t that much more (like only the price of a decent sandwich, I’m not that hot), and I think, right now, sticking where I can, for as long as I can, surrounded by people being as good as they can be (we all have off days), is the right choice for me.

So, as you might expect, it’s all been comfort food (and I can’t tell you how disturbing the diet has been, but yum) and comfort telly.

Doctor Who has been my go-to for troubling times since I was three or four years old. For some long-forgotten and astonishingly disturbing reason I decided at a very young age that this fictional mad bastard in a box was a comforting, reassuring and protective presence. Even weirder, I still find the Doctor a comforting presence, and I don’t know whether it’s just familiarity or habit, or the result of too many nights as a tiny child scared of the dark praying that the Doctor would save me. Whatever, entirely silly and unsound, but there it is, the Doctor is my touchstone, my safe place, and, dammit, it works.

I mean it. I’ve had some long dark nights, and every time, if I can find the Doctor on telly (or somewhere), he makes the shadows go away, just for a bit. That’s real magic, that is. I know it’s not real, but I’ll take the placebo, thanks. Watching Doctor Who makes me feel better, for a bit, and that’s enough.

Maybe that’s why the Doctor is so special, because so many of us remember being a child, and afraid of the dark, and those tiny whispers, hoping to be brave in the face of monsters.

And man, there have been some monsters this week. The kind that can’t be banished but just have to be lived with. Any respite is welcome.

Cute enough, one episode was the Robin Hood one, so I had two heroes for the price of one. Double my champions.

And of course Foxtel screened Star Trek again, and who was I to say no. I wasn’t going to, but I did, and my innocent wee babies (as they were when they made that) made me happy, for a bit.

I didn’t think Chris Pine could be a comforting presence any more, but he was. Not that I don’t love that peculiar boy and his own particular brand of peculiarity. Oh no, don’t take the lack of posts as a sign of that, it’s just that the posts that used to drop into my feed like rain have all dried up, so there’s nowt to share.

Perhaps he’s been a little too peculiar for some. I’m all art for art’s sake, but perhaps a modicum of sense or sensibility is required when one’s pay cheque is determined by the number of likes. I mean, go nuts, young man, but we don’t want to end up like Shia LeBeouf now, do we? Don’t be Shia LeBeouf.

If he’s kicking against the roles he’s being offered lately, then either don’t take ‘em or make your own, be your own art project if you must, have fun, but don’t go too far. I mean, it’s all fun and games until somebody gets hurt (that’s my only worry, and, you know, I worry).

That said, I have a sticky soft spot for that crazy boy and his shenanigans. I mean, you can go too far the other way, and lose out because you’re too slick and smug and manufactured, ain’t that right, Tom Hiddleston? So don’t be Tom Hiddleston, either.

Nobody wants to be Tom Hiddleston (and damn, because that beautiful boy I saw in Othello was so damn sweet and full of promise).

So go your own way, my dear, it’s amusing to watch from a distance, just don’t get lost, okay?

Whatever, what would I know, stuck in a crumbling life, with crumbling dreams. But hey, like my tag line says, if you can’t be a good example, be a horrible warning.

And I just don’t know why I like the Pine so much, but with my penchant for the Doctor, and Sherlock and the like, maybe I just like the floridly eccentric. Maybe, oh nos, I like people like me. The freaks, geeks and losers.

Because, and I’m being honest here, nothing scares me more than normal, boring people. People like my local rellies (not my nutty northern ones). People who only talk about painting their back deck. People who won’t eat things for a dare. Who won’t be with people who don’t share their rigid beliefs or hold to their strict codes of behaviour. Those people terrify me. And, I think one can say this these days, they’re everything that’s wrong with the world.

Nah, give me the weirdos any day. Even if they break my heart. Because what’s life without cuts and bruises along the way? You can’t make wine without smashing grapes (I know it’s supposed to be eggs/omelettes, but I could really use a drink right now). It’s been that sort of a week.

Meanwhile, I’m going to have to take up walking every lunchtime from next week if I keep up with the comfort food (oy) but I figure (what figure?) now is not the week to let my sugar levels drop. Maybe I could take my camera. I haven’t done that in ages (usually it’s wall-to-wall midday meetings).

I wonder if the war memorial is open – it’s been closed since 2015 and the reflection pool dug up. I know, WTF, right? I wanted to see Rayner Hoff’s Sacrifice again, because it was referenced, and it made me want to see it again. It’s a beautiful, heartbreaking, highly charged sculpture, and I’m not just talking all the cultural, social and historical meanings piled upon it. If you see it, you’ll know what I’m talking about, maybe. Doomed youth, is there anything more romantic or tragic?

You’d think I wouldn’t talk that way after this week, horrid week, but nothing stops me being overly gothic in my fancies. If anything, it makes them worse. Shameful, but there it is. I am what I am.

I did say freak/geek/loser, right? With an unhealthy obsession with Chris Pine. And an innumerable number of Tardises (WTF is the plural) hiding in her bedroom (including a tiny one pictured on a teapot).

News of the world: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218/posts

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: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218

mockturle06: (Sherlock)

There’s probably a sad cockatoo, sitting in a sad gum tree, missing his morning tea.

I know, don’t feed the birds, but that ship had sailed (I didn’t teach him how to rattle a door knob, or the joys of biscuits) but I’d been working home/being home a lot lately, and, well, I miss that. I miss the company. And, he, no doubt, misses the free feed.

The possum is his fine frisky self again, in case you were wondering. Something must have been in fruit just that little bit too far, as there were many, many walks of shame in the morning (most spectacularly on 25 December, I swear the wee rascal was out gorging himself on the ‘reindeer carrots’ a local supermarket had insisted on marketing). Had to hit him with the Chris Pine last night, because he was being really thumpity bumpity noisy. Yep, the infamous ‘I Will survive’ clip. I did warn him. I wasn’t messing about. Did the trick though, one possum free night (thank you, Chris, keep rocking).

So, what did I do on my not-holiday? (Well, it should have been sick leave but we’re having yet another effing restructure so I took it as rec leave instead, because yikes). Not a lot, truth be told. A lot of sweating into the couch (thanks, month-long heatwave), not a lot of fic writing as hoped (too much headache, but no doubt the universe approves, even though my muse is ever so chatty, and foul-mouthed, and I love him, the impatient little cranky-pants).

Mainly, as it was too hot for dvds (dammit) or laptops (and Himself had hoovered up all the bandwidth anyways) I was reading books, and old favourites, as I remembered the last time I’d hurt my head this badly, it lasted for ten years, and most of what I’m hitting now is from that time, when I used to hang off my bed upside down because the light was better and I couldn’t bear to have my head touch a pillow. Douglas Adams kept me halfway sane then, so I asked it of him again.

I know some folks frown at me re-reading favourite books, to which I say, firstly, favourite and old familiar friend of comfort. Secondly, you can never read the same book twice, the way the old saying goes you can never enter the same river twice. I am not twelve or fourteen or fifteen or whatever anymore (oh, so not), so I’m not the same person, so I’m reading different things, taking different meanings, getting jokes and references that floated past me before, by way of being an ignorant, untravelled child (at least I know what a Pizza Express is now).

So I read a couple of Dirk Gently books, mainly because I was excited by the new series and I adore Samuel Barnett (such a sweetie at the NT stage door that time) but it left me cold. So, back to the books. Which made me wonder why so many books I’m reading have Thor in them, just because, often for no really adequately explained reason, and is it because I was born on his day, I really have a thing for Norse gods (don’t answer that) or is he popping up in my books like a viral meme and I can expect the Asgard boys at the Netherfield ball the next time I crack open Pride and Prejudice?

Also, why do Sherlock, Doctor Who and Lucifer all feature extensive quotes from the Dirk Gently books, but of the actual Dirk Gently series, nada? Just curious. It’s the sort of question best put to Dirk himself really, I’m sure it’s all connected, somehow.

Also been hitting the Le Carre (which makes my post US election Twitter even more scary, since Our Kind of Traitor is very, shall we say, foretelling). And the Agatha, because nothing is as cosy as a nice murder or three. Does anyone ever wonder that Dame Agatha spent most of her time on train trips, at dinner parties or faffing about on her husband’s archaeological digs thinking up exotic ways to kill people? Just asking.

Imagine sitting across the train carriage from Agatha, and her beady eye falls upon you, and you just know she’s measuring you for a coffin. I, of course, would never do that.

Articles of interest from the Interwebs: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218/posts


 

mockturle06: (Avengers)

Still wrecked from seeing Helen McCrory in the screening of NT Live’s Deep Blue Sea yesterday. I love Helen McCrory, she always rips me apart, even playing Aunt Polly on Peaky Blinders.

There’s no way I should have been seeing a play about a suicidal woman, but I did, and I’m glad I did. It was the most, raw, real, honest and truthful play I’ve ever seen. Most plays are by the privileged classes whose idea of a disaster is an imperfect macchiato, but this was real. I recognised the truth in this, apparently written by a playwright who knew what he was writing about. And he did. The egg sandwich was mocked by middle-class monsters leaving the theatre. They didn’t get it. They’ve never been there. I was screaming at Hester to eat the damn sandwich, knowing if she could make it through the sandwich, she’d make it through the night. Because it’s like that.

That was the most real moment I have ever seen on stage or screen. I’m still a wreck. What can I say, I’ve had a few darkest night toast slices myself. My life has not been kind (doesn’t matter whose fault it was, you feel, it’s real).

So there was that. Otherwise I spent all weekend trying to kill someone. To borrow from that ancient Jimmy and the Boys song, ‘I’m not like everybody else’. Heh, not by a long shot. Agatha Christie makes it look so easy – and no-one ever comments on the plain fact that this woman seems to have spent most of her time on dig sites and the like thinking of ways to kill people, as in, oh, look at that plinth, pushy, pushy, or that ornamental hairpin, stabby, stabby.

So, yeah, I was thinking of playing with Holmes/Watson tropes, and what do I get? Poirot and Hastings and the Orient Express, in space. That last bit should be said ala Matt Smith. I just love his delivery on ‘…in space’, every time. It’s all gee whizz plastic spacemen in a cornflakes box, put in by writers my age, but young Matt manages to nail the delivery every time despite being born long, long after plastic spacemen ceased to be cool. He makes them cool again, or tries to (never brought back bowties, either, but it was a damn fine try).

So, yeah, wallowing in the McKirk, big time. This is a big thing, jumping ship after a lifetime’s OTP, worse, re-watching TOS with McKirk coloured glasses (start with ‘plum’ and continue on). It was the problem with the Kelvin-verse, they keep trying to push the tradition, but it just wasn’t there, barely a civil word, an extraordinarily unearned Khan set piece. Nope. They made it an AU, they should embrace it, and the McKirk just pops on-screen. If all the bitching and grabby hands doesn’t convince you, or the old married couple matching outfits, how about the wait-until-he-smiles moment at the birthday party. Aw. Totally.

Well, like I said, I wasn’t well, upset and drugged when I was watching it and it hit me, in a dazzling aura (that’d be the hospital drugs). I’m just stuck on it, but I’m having fun and unreality is at least getting me away from frightful reality (housework never done, too long hours at work on projects that go nowhere, dreadful neighbours, everything in the area being knocked down and concreted over). Trying times.

So sorry (not sorry). Have a new fandom, but not. It’s all very something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I’ve got something to preoccupy me, which is the main thing, because, as I think we’re all agreed, this is proving a particularly difficult year.

mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)

So I did finally get to see a bit of Vivid. Of course, as nothing is ever easy in my life, the very, the one night I’d put aside for my own entertainments, for once, was suddenly mightily impinged upon by work demands again. Oh well, I had until dawn, right?

So it was a late start to the evening a rushed tea, but oh so nice and spicy in the Thai café around the corner (I had the larb, of significant spiciness compared to what the local place, long since burnt down in suspicious circumstances, one fatality, used to offer).

Anyway, we caught the train to Circular Quay, which solved half the problems from last year (me being knackered by the time I’d walked there) but not the fact that the Olympus, which, to be honest, had never really worked properly had chosen today, of all days, to not work at all or ever again. No, off to the festival of lights, with no camera.

Fortunately it’s the 21st Century and even my humble phone offered a camera of sorts and I think I managed a couple of not too wobbly shots. I was also saved by this year’s Vivid, if one was only wandering about the installations and not attending a ticketed event, was somewhat meh. When the light installations are less inventive than the window of a convenience store, I think you’re in trouble.

So no giant glowing bunnies or anything of that ilk. I did get to see the Customs House illuminations from the train platform, which was the perfect viewing platform, upon exiting the train, and that, I think was the highlight.

The Opera House was lit up with hand dawn illuminations, giving it a very Tom Tom Club or Machinations feel.

Nothing else really did it for me (oh, how jaded) except the weird late 70s/early 80s jaggy looking animations on Cadman’s Cottage, that looked exactly like something from a Baker or Davis era episode of Doctor Who, the ghostly dresses down in The Rocks, and in Martin Place, which was mostly dead and dull, there were some weird plant looking things that made bubbly electronica sounds, so they looked and sounded like they should have been in a Hartnell or Troughton era Doctor Who story.

Ok, yes, you can see what I like, and why isn’t Doctor Who like that anymore, I wail. Still, wasn’t it nice to see the Skaro regeneration project coming along so nicely.


More...photos )
mockturle06: (Avengers)

So I did finally get to see a bit of Vivid. Of course, as nothing is ever easy in my life, the very, the one night I’d put aside for my own entertainments, for once, was suddenly mightily impinged upon by work demands again. Oh well, I had until dawn, right?

So it was a late start to the evening a rushed tea, but oh so nice and spicy in the Thai café around the corner (I had the larb, of significant spiciness compared to what the local place, long since burnt down in suspicious circumstances, one fatality, used to offer).

Anyway, we caught the train to Circular Quay, which solved half the problems from last year (me being knackered by the time I’d walked there) but not the fact that the Olympus, which, to be honest, had never really worked properly had chosen today, of all days, to not work at all or ever again.  No, off to the festival of lights, with no camera.

Fortunately it’s the 21st Century and even my humble phone offered a camera of sorts and I think I managed a couple of not too wobbly shots. I was also saved by this year’s Vivid, if one was only wandering about the installations and not attending a ticketed event, was somewhat meh. When the light installations are less inventive than the window of a convenience store, I think you’re in trouble.

So no giant glowing bunnies or anything of that ilk. I did get to see the Customs House illuminations from the train platform, which was the perfect viewing platform, upon exiting the train, and that, I think was the highlight.

The Opera House was lit up with hand dawn illuminations, giving it a very Tom Tom Club or Machinations feel.

Nothing else really did it for me (oh, how jaded) except the weird late 70s/early 80s jaggy looking animations on Cadman’s Cottage, that looked exactly like something from a Baker or Davis era episode of Doctor Who, the ghostly dresses down in The Rocks, and in Martin Place, which was mostly dead and dull, there were some weird plant looking things that made bubbly electronica sounds, so they looked and sounded like they should have been in a Hartnell or Troughton era Doctor Who story.

Ok, yes, you can see what I like, and why isn’t Doctor Who like that anymore, I wail. Still, wasn’t it nice to see the Skaro regeneration project coming along so nicely.

mockturle06: (Avengers)
 photo bc_esquirev160n4nov13us_0007_zps5b0388a8.jpg  photo hoult_vman31springsum14us_0004_zps9023d11f.jpg  photo damian_hunger6-2014uk_0003_zps65ab7d23.jpg  photo kit_gqapr14ua_0004_zpsbd913db7.jpg

This week: Benedict Cumberbatch snubbed again for Sherlock, Daniel Craig swaps super-smart tuxedos for woolly sweaters in Spectre, Aidan Turner didn't audition shirtless for Poldark, David Tennant Spotted On the Set of AKA Jessica Jones, Tobias Menzies on Playing Torture Scenes, Tom Hardy on Life as the New Mad Max, Nicholas Hoult Says Shaving His Head Was Freeing, Dominic Cooper cast as the lead in AMC's Preacher pilot, James Corden nominated for US TV prize, Charlie Cox Talks Daredevil Season Two, James McAvoy Finally Goes Bald for X-Men, Damian Lewis is unrecognisable after '70s makeover for West End's American Buffalo, Eddie Redmayne offered lead in Harry Potter spin-off Fantastic Beasts, John Hannah back at Fringe in 2015 after 25 years, Charles Dance sounds awesome in new The Witcher 3 video, Richard E Grant is going to play the Duke of Wellington for BBC Two, Dominic Monaghan had another reunion with his Lord Of The Rings co-stars, Mark Gatiss on his Doctor Who devotion, Christopher Eccleston on social mobility, Peter Davison talks Doctor Who's music, Matt Smith is the fastest Time Lord, Alan Rickman Set to Star in Supernatural Thriller, Charlie Hunnam as King Arthur, Ian McKellen and Derek Jacobi return in Vicious, Ewan McGregor to Play Lumiere, Simon Pegg Talks Idris Elba And Star Trek, Paul Bettany on Avengers, Kenneth Branagh unveils new theatre company in London, Toby Stephens Spending 13 Hours With Michael Bay, Jude Law Confirmed for Lead Role, David Oyelowo Finds Three Seconds, Matthew Macfadyen Talks The Enfield Haunting, Richard Armitage Bids Farewell To The Hobbit, Kit Harington on risky Spooks stunts, Rupert Everett joins Musketeers series 3, Andrew-Lee Potts made award-winning film in his cupboard, Tom Hiddleston in Chilling New Crimson Peak Trailers, Martin Freeman joins Captain America, Ioan Gruffudd's Forever Axed, Robert Carlyle to open Edinburgh International Film Festival )
mockturle06: (Avengers)
It's supposed to be super hot today, and I'm still cosplaying the Crimson Horror from last week. Well, of course I forgot my sunscreen when off to Sculpture by the Sea. Remembered the hat, but not the sunscreen. No worries, I'll pick some up on the way, right? Nope. None to be had, for love nor money. So, ignoring my sizzling skin (where my 90% redheaded DNA will out) I trooped around the cliffs in bright sunshine.

It was quite nice, despite the difficulties in getting there (the promised public transport was a lie), and while a good two thirds of the show were same old, same old (a frequent complaint I overheard, and not just on the day), and, really, a couple of artists need to try stepping outside their comfort zone. I don't know why, but sculpture seems to be the most samey of the arts, and the one branch of the arts where you don't want samey. Especially in a forum like Sculpture by the Sea. It should be big, loud, silly and surprising because it's a walking picnic, with art. No message, no metaphysics, just something that delights the senses, full of whimsy. Not too big an ask, is it?

There was some cute, like the papier-mâché bugs on the cliff wall, and creepy, like the enormous faceless brass babies climbing up the hill - good use of site. I just loathe artists who don't take into account the site. It's like doing a Tropfest film without the theme item, in other words, pointless and lazy and speaks of trying to shoehorn something they had lying around in the back of the garage into the exhibition with no sense of context. It's Sculpture by the Sea, everyone should know what to expect, and what's expected. I always like the ones that make the fact that they're on the ocean walk as part of the art experience somehow, whether it's reflections, tones or cheesy seaside imagery (cheesy is allowed, what part of seaside picnic with art do some of these serious beret wearers not get?).
more: photos within )
mockturle06: (Dean sad)
A friend was still bemused at my great disappointment at having braved cyclonic winds on Monday (Auntie Em! Auntie Em!) on various errands, and bringing back some bananas to take into work, the weather still so fiesty it blew several branches in through the door after me, I went and done forgot them. I thought 'I'm feeling a touch peckish, I'll go get that banana I...left on the kitchen table'. Apparently my disappointed face is still giving her mirth at the memory of it nearly a week later.

I did make some friends here. I'll miss 'em when I'm gone. Yep, they finally, finally, finally gave me my exit date. Shit just got real. I told another friend and they burst into tears. It's not too good.

So yesterday I just hit a wall, couldn't write a job app, though researching some of the jazzy jargon they used in the ad wasn't entirely a waste of time, I just couldn't get it going, aside from the old routine jobs that I apparently can do sleepwalking. Ah, I'll miss that, knowing the job so well I can do it on low battery power if need be.

So I took myself off early and went to see the exhibition of prints at the art gallery I'd nearly missed. Oh my gosh, that was excellent, an amazingly cool selection and all hits, no misses. I mean, I've been to print exhibitions before but they tend to err overly on the side of architectural plans or be way too baroque and there's a limit to the number of cherubs I can endure. But this was great. The span from 1500 to 1900 meant every half dozen or so prints (it's a local gallery, our exhibitions are tiny and could fit in the loo of an international gallery) you were onto another century, but I liked that, because I was on the clock and I was very much in the mood for a general oversight rather than in-depth examination, and it was entertaining without being exhausting, and, as I was very satisfied to see, essayed the passing fashions and issues (even if that wasn't the intent) in ways other disappointing exhibitions I've been to this year have really not.
more: Hammer horror )
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)
There's so much to tell you. On a personal level, things are not as I've still not be able to find a new job. all tips and suggestion will be given careful consideration.

I could tell you about the spider bite on my arm that looks like I've grown a third nipple. Should have caught the bugger and maybe had a new species named after me, but I was rather too involved doing the GEORF dance, alas. We were putting in a few new fruit trees to replace the poor old lemon which finally tottered over. Not that I'll see any fruit in my lifetime, but behold my optimism. Ah well, I like to think we were rescuing the wee trees from the supermarket and I'd rather see a shrubling than bare earth (unlike the neighbours whose Agent Orange scorched earth policy has to answer for my upwind dead lemons, oranges, quinces, plums, mangoes, etc).

So, theatre. At least I've still got pre-purchased tickets through to next year (though I'll have to sell my Hamlet ticket, such a cursed play for me, what with Toby Schmitz abandoning his long anticipated run as Hamlet last year, thus cruelling Toby Fest '13 forever and ever). I'll let you know when I pop it on Ebay (still holding out for a few more months, ever the optimist).

So, recent to last? Let's see if I can remember them.

There was the much anticipated and oh my god it's actually good Luke Mullins turn in The Glass Menagerie at the Belvoir. It was so well done, proof that the Belvoir doesn't always have to be a draining experience of uncomfortable silences. Just for once a little inventiveness actually worked, not clever for the sake of being clever, but bring that proper MAGIC theatre moment that so rarely happens. Here they had a set with 30s props and curtains, but they also had cameras set up and two screens, and with a fan blowing the lace curtain past a tear streaked actor gazing heavenwards, the screen would show an image that was such a piece of perfect 30s film, it was just really place and time setting more than a complete set (which the Belvoir really can't do, by simple logistics of being an old factory space). So wonderful, so atmospheric. The gentleman sitting next to me and I swooned over the effect in the interval.
more: there was an ick factor )

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