Himself typed ‘yea, I will be late.’
I typed back: ‘Verrily.”
I love autocorrect. Or autostuffup.
I think Penny Dreadful is my favourite programme on air at the moment (even with Ripper Street bac, suddenly catching up on wo seasons after a two year drought). And I am ever so fond of The Flash. And SHEILD and Once Upon A Time (so many seasons behind I’ve lost track) are fun, catch up on a weekend evening when I’m tired shows. But Penny Dreadful delivers satisfying, perfectly acted, beautifully shot moments again and again and again. This season is off the charts on happy box ticking as far as my happy tropes go. Why, they’ve even thrown in a Western to please me. Please me it does.
Outlander, not so much, but it’s a difficult book, yet I doff my hat to the filmmakers again because they always know when to edit in something I felt was missing from the books, like Claire, finally, acknowledging the coming French Revolution, never mind the minor lowlander skirmish the book is set around. I did like her ‘fuck it’ stalk out of the room when the powdered 1% just giggled at the poor.
It’s like reading pre-revolutionary books or plays, in France and Russia, and the cruel games the upper classes play. You can see what must come (too bad it’s nothing like that now, she says, ahem).
Speaking of which, I saw the screening of Dominic West in Les Liaisons. Oh, the Valmont for the ages, or at least, the best I’ve seen yet, by far. The really didn’t need to put the liberty painting in the last scene. Those bewigged cockroaches were so doomed. It just couldn’t go on.
I’ve also seen the screening The Hangman, which was a bit Mojo in it’s dark twists and scathing nostalgia, with Pinter and Orton notes, I felt. It also gave us the line ‘SMELL MY HAIR!’ which is going to stick, I think, alas.
The Peanut Gallery has already trotted it out during Game of Thrones, which hadn’t really set me alight until this week’s ep, ahem. Between the romance of the year between Brienne and Tormund and Daenerys rescuing herself, well, yeah, it’s kicking off, luv.
Saw a screening of the RSC Shakepeare variety hour, the one with David Tennant and a cast of Hamlets. Worth it just to see John Lithgow strutting the cross-garters as Malvolio, Dame Dench as Titania, and why has no one ever thought to cast DT as Puck? Pucking brilliant, he was.
Speaking of Mr Lithgow, I read several rumours that Kevin Smith is possibly going to make a Buckaroo Banzai tv series. Well, I suppose they’re the safest hands it could be in, maybe, possibly. At least he’s a fanboy, which always helps, and he knows his black lectroids from his red.
Work, which was good, suddenly became misery too much to bear, whether you’re taking six impossible deadline before breakfast, and I mean 3am on a Sunday deadlines, and being cyber-bullied on a Saturday night while trying to watch the Kingsmen and not think about suicide and weeping over the ironing and not sleeping and oh, it’s just dire.
But I’m still mainly thinking about who they could possibly cast as Perfect Tommy. This is important. Well, not more unimportant than those stupid deadlines, and distracting, because I’m really not happy.
Nor can I go anywhere because I’ve been called for jury duty which means I can’t leave the state, for a year. So I’m on home detention, too. Oh, and they’re knocking down the house next door (the one Anna spent her last money and days trying to get nice for her daughter, who promptly sold it to developers, the bitch) and the house across the road, the one with the guy with the really loud motorbikes. So that’s pleasant.
Filmwise I’ve sat through include Batman vs Superman (a film by a Supes hater), Captain America: Civil War (a bit like Charles 3 where everyone had a point, and how lovely to see a childhood hero on the stage, I’m talking Richard Hannay, fool), and Bastille Day, because I like Idris and Dickie Madden, and it was half tix Tuesday. It was, well, shrug. Idris and Dickie made the most un-bromance buddy cop couple ever committed to film since I don’t know when, and the film was an odd pastiche of a bunch of Sean Bean films I sat through in the 90s including Patriot Games, that one in France with Jean Reno and, oh yes, there was the bit that was a direct lift from Goldeneye, which was more amusing than annoying (by that stage I’d given up and surrendered).
Ah well, maybe I wanted to watch a mashup of 90s Sean Bean films this week. Maybe I should just see if any are on streaming (we have less of Netflix catalogue than some countries were goats are the main form of transport, it’s true, there’s a white paper on it and everything, the lack of streaming, not the goats).
Not that I have time with the before 6am, after 6pm deadlines and not a jot of overtime paid (and I could really, really, really use the money. Other people get paid but it’s not my award so nope).
So that’s really. Just hanging on by my fingertips, really, just to see the next instalment of Ethan and his two dads. Man, I love Penny Dreadful. And the smiling Dr Sweet turned out to be evil incarnate. Ain’t that the way. That’s life, though, ain’t it. Red of tooth and claw and gothic horror all the way. And tea, lots of tea.