mockturle06: (Avengers)

Well, my ovaries have good and proper exploded. It was the full Edwardian drag what done it, which I have a decided thing for, and then, yikes, the floppy blonde hair. I was gone. Gone.

I blame it on far too much Merchant Ivory at a tender age. Yes I do (and as if it wasn’t bad enough, the Guardian decided to get all retrospective over Merchant Ivory and their floppy-haired Edwardian chaps).

But, you know, lawks. If I’m like this now with just the pre-publicity, what am I going to be like when I see the damn film. Well, the complete lack of ANZACs should keep me suitably thin-lipped and dry of eye and dry of seat. So far it looks like the only Australian referenced in the whole damn enterprise is Frank Hurley and his WWI photos.  Like really referenced, like rip-off, like they better hope they’re out of copyright.

But anyway, short story: too much drooling over the Pine and boom, my second period in two weeks, because one wasn’t enough? I thought going crone meant less, not more. I’m gonna be a hollowed out husk at the end of it.

So, aside from the full Edwardian (swoon), there were repeats of Beyond and a brief appearance in Angie Tribeca (père et fils, actually, and my second Pine Snr sighting that week – I really need to get out more).

But that wasn’t my only Chris, oh no. I cheated and saw Guardians of the Galaxy. One of those other Chrises.

Meant to go last week but I had the dreaded lurgy, but I crawled off to see it on the weekend, dosed to the gills on borrowed Codral (I haven’t had it in years, so I’m still coming down). So, maybe it’s the Codral talking, that is, critical faculties not at full strength, but I kinda loved it.

Okay, yes, another decided entry in the sad man-child with massive daddy issues genre (the bit where he played catch with his dad was cringe-inducing) but hey, if films are still being made by a generation with abandonment issues, at least it had something to say about love and friendship and bonds that are stronger than blood (especially as blood kin are always proving perilously duplicitous – see also Lucifer). I do wonder what films from the helicopter parent generation are going to be like. More stifling, less hanging the kids out to dry, I suspect.

I could be crueller, but having been ‘raised’ by biological units with less instincts than reptiles or rocks, or, as Victor Hugo so accurately put it, she was a mother only by accident of biology, I kind of get where they were coming from (alas my surrogate mum met the end I might have wished on others) re the absent and abusive parentals.

But it was funny, the soundtrack rocked, the aesthetics were on point (especially the end credits) and Baby Groot stole the movie (should the flesh and blood actors be worried)?

What I really loved was that the big space battles were not endless, mindless minutes of stuff being mashed, but happening hilariously off-screen, in the background, and/or in between bickering. You know, back to being a means to an end, part of the narrative, not an entire reel of mind-numbing first-person player, for which I care not. That was clever and funny, and, gosh darn it, fresh and funny. More, please.

Finally, a film that was more about characters than explosions. Well done. More like this please.

I’ve also had the good fortune, via an email and a $20 ticket, to see and hear Ian Rankin read from A Clockwork Orange, talk about his early influences, being very funny, and then, then I got my book signed. Squee!

If that wasn’t enough, I managed to go to the talk, get my book, line up, get my book signed, get my big work bag back, walk blocks to bus stop, get on a bus and get home only 40 minutes after Himself who left the city over three hours before me. No, no wormholes or time-travel, it’s just that after 7-8pm the roads finally clear and zoom!

I was actually very thrilled to the point of, my colleagues accused me of, blushing, as I’d intended to see a talk by Mr Rankin in the UK, but that fell through, of course, so to see him out here for the Writers’ Festival, well, wishes do come true (yep, wish for Ian Rankin granted, others, not so much, but the universe knows which would cheer me up most).

It was also a good, if brief night, because I ended up sitting next to this retired lady (never did ask her name, I’m shocking) both in the foyer and in the auditorium (and my seat bought on spec was bloody marvellous) and we were chatting and she asked me what I did and declared it ‘useful’. Ah, some much needed validation at last.

The other talks were interesting (I have whole new uses for ‘oscillating’) and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

So, there I was, drinking French wine, listening to great authors, while Himself was strap-hanging on a dangerously over-crowded bus for hours. Ooops. Needless to say, tea wasn’t that much further on from having a tin of beans lobbed at my head. Ah well, seeing Ian was the only good thing this week.

Badness was waking up to being violently unwell, during a violent thunderstorm, and reading Roger Moore had died. My Saint, my Maverick, my Persuader, my Bond. My hero. I’ve adored Roger Moore since I was a child. I snuck in the theatre to see Moonraker (I never sneak).

I was, quite simply, besotted with the man. And, to my great relief, he seemed so sweet and wickedly funny on Twitter (his quiet on Twitter had me worried, I wasn’t wrong to worry). To my further relief, most media reports have been tributes, relating fan love for the man, his good deeds and cheeky wit, and his fine turn as a knitwear model. Really, I couldn’t ask for anything else. Vale Roger, my beloved TV idol.

I’m so very, constantly on the verge of tears sad, but also still full of my love for that man. Last night they played Live and Let Die on telly. Roger Moore, immortal, forever dashing.

I think I was oddly happy, too, to discover so many I follow on social media were massive Persuaders fans (points awarded). I loved that showed. And I adored Maverick. But my favourite would have to be The Saint. I don’t know why, but that suave crime-fighting (later, in the silly 60s, giant monster ant fighting) international man of mystery really took my breath away.

Depending on what age I was at the time of viewing, it was either about the clothes and the cars, the grittier black and white episodes where he was more anti-hero with a conscience, more of a crook than a playboy with a heart of gold, or it was the wacky full colour mid-sixties episodes where the previous too cool Simon Templar became a cardigan wearing grump complaining about pop music and teenagers. And I still loved him. There’s a Saint episode for every occasion, if you want black and white noir and Soho nightclubs, go early. If you want giant ants roaming the Welsh hillsides or brainwashed teenagers, go late. I loved that show. I loved Roger.

The Persuaders, well that just seems just get camper with every viewing. I don’t know what they were thinking, but the series is thoroughly enjoyable. Seriously, some episodes feel like Roger and Tony have taken some time out from their holiday to stumble in front of a camera, but the results are joyous.

Maverick I came to late, only having seen the show when Fox Classics played it a few years back now, but I was hooked. Some of the greatest episodes ever committed to film are contained within Maverick, in my opinion. Sadly not many of them were Roger’s, but he had a few crackers, and I still want to know what he did to get a fire hose in the face in one episode because he breaks character and it’s so obviously unscripted but delightfully silly.

Bond, well, technically he was my Bond, but my Dad always preferred Connery (even if he was a lowlander), but Live and Let Die and the Man With The Golden Gun, total faves. I never did get that Saint film I wanted, but as far as I was concerned, the Bond films were near enough.

Oh man, it was such a joy to watch him last night. At least he’s not gone, gone. He’s still there, taking up shelves of my bookcases (dvds,  memorabilia). He’s there, on my playlists. Immortal. Beloved.

But it hurt. And he is gone. No more zingers on Twitter – damn, I’ll miss that. It made me love him so much more, as if that were possible.

Ah, why must you make me live in a world without heroes.

Saturday

Sep. 13th, 2009 11:23 am
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (Default)
I know I went wrong somewhere when nothing makes me so happy as watching silly 60s SF with buttons and knobs and giant ants out on the moor. In other words, we're up to the silly episode of The Saint. Bliss! Today it's the Loch Ness Monster one. Squee.

see what I mean. And I should be out getting sweaty in the garden. Yesterday a neighbour popped over with a few spare plants and we did some weeding. Yes, it had gotten away from me again. It was fun, if hard work and more than a touch shaming but they were very nice about the whole thing. You know it's gotten away from you when you start uncovering undiscovered Incan temples under the weeds. Oh dear. Well, at least I'd made a start before (she says, sheepishly).


Yep, the whole I have a note from the doctor is cutting no ice with nobody, sigh.

Other news, am fed up with work in ways I dare not describe. Came home late on Friday, had a few stiff ones then watched a weird ass episode of Bonanza during tea (we were hoping for aliens, werewolves or cannibals but got ghosts, we knew it was something because the theramin was working overtime) and snoozed for most of George Gently but they annoyed me by having stuff from 1967 in 1964. Harumph. (Sorry, made a study of the 60s when I got into The Saint in my teens, being an anal little sod, and I still know the difference twixt 67 and 64).


Anyway, why am I typing when Simon Templar is on telly???
mockturle06: merlin in a hat (life on mars 05)
Vincent. Not as much of the DCI Driscoll as the trailers led me to believe, alas, in fact there wasn't much of poor Driscoll at all aside from the odd sour look and icy exchange with Vincent, and a lot of grappling atop a railway bridge, which only made our poor chap look foolish, and, worse, he was out of shot for the better part of it. Sigh. Still, some of Phil and his pretty eyes is better than nowt. Driscoll seemed very subdued for the episode. I'm still trying to work out if this was done before or after Life on Mars. Not that it really matters, there was no sign of Gene lurking in there this week.

The Sweeney. Another cracking episode, and damn me, I meant to cap the chip throwing bit, being very much like another chip throwing incident in another 70s cop show. Another downbeat ending, too, as the villain Jack actually wanted to nab, wasn't involved in this second job. Btw, any Brits out there, what did George mean when he said "a bit of ginger"? Sadly, the translator microbes let us down on that bit of slang. Basically, one of a gang of villains responsible for the previous crippling of a Flying Squad copper pops up, with an oh so slimy lawyer (not even a David Kelly lawyer packs this much sleaze) to rob an entire semi-trailer of prime Aberdeen steaks (can't fault them for taste). At this moment I should say hello to whoever was the fresh out of art school camera person. We appreciated the long tracking shots inside the truck and the oh so arty framing everywhere else, but I bet you soon had that beaten out of you (set up, shoot, stop).

Anyway, there's the usual violent interrogation, the slutty missus (it's funny how they all lok the bleedin' same), interference from on high, the lawyers getting in the way of getting the villains off the street (now there's an idea for another LOM episode: Gene versus some poncy lawyer, ridiculous green glasses optional), and a whole lot of near comedy capers, except played darkly this time - phew. I don't mind comedy, but, like I was trying, and failing, to say before, I like the silly, but mixed in with the drama, please, otherwise it's just a sitcom. So I liked this as it mixed the arch with the angst. A very LOM-like episode. Especially the frozen crooks in the truck, and the guy trying to make a break for it, and the lawyer, and the missus. Very Life On Mars indeed.
more: slashiest title song lyrics ever )

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