Happily the ads end and we're back to flashing blue lights and men in puffy plastic suits putting stuff in plastic baggies. A crime scene! Phew!
Yesterday seemed to be nowt but Yorkshire boys, either actually born there or playing one on telly.
First there was the dubbing of young John Simm in Chiller for folks. I shan't give away the plot, but you may be gratified to know it's all about the Simm, and there is much angsting, madness, tears and violence, and, of course, the requisite throwing of the wobbly. I don't think John reads a script these days if it doesn't allow him to chuck a spaz or three. I suppose the lad just likes to get his teeth into meaty roles (and more on that later).
Trivia note: this is the show during which John wrecked his knee. You can see him still wearing a brace in Boston Kickout. He talks about it in the Times interview he did earlier this year.
Lunchtime I was meant to be scanning but was instead drooling over and early, very early, episode of Dalziel and Pascoe. My gosh, was Peter Pascoe ever that young? Know I know what I saw him, for there he was, all willowing and golden like a Botticelli angel. And, as if that wasn't enough, there was a young James D'arcy, looking freshly hewn from the finest marble and breathed to life. Oh my. Oh my indeed. Swoon. Drool. Slurp.
Third Yorkie boy was young Sharpie, this time running about in the maginificently slashy Sharpe's Sword. There's a lot of Sharpe/Harper in this, but for me, it's all about the Jack, and don't you just love the matcmaking Colonel who just knew they'd hit it off. By the time they get back to camp, Sharpe is catching himself calling Jack just Jack and not any of his formal titles. How sweet. How smitten. Of course, it's all terribly tragic as poor Sharpe has to devise a hero's death for his traiterous mate, but oh, it was fun while it lasted. This was episode was my first introduction to Mr Purefoy, late of Rome, way back when.
Trivia: the chick of the week in that Sharpe episode is Mrs Sandro Nivola.
I'd actually meant to spend my day off admiring my peach blossums, but it rained, so scanning it was.
Wednesday I popped up to the gallery to catch a talk on Walter Sickert, not for any spurious Ripper thing, but because he was an Edwardian painter and the gallery has several of his paintings, including a self portait that just screams Lucifer Box. I cornered the poor academic and demanded to know if there was a similiar work in London. Yes, as it happens, at the Tate, a companion piece to the very work I was looking at. Hmmmm. Because if you could see it, you'd see why I'm going hmmmm. The very essence of an English gentleman. Hence my racing up to the gallery to hear the paintings discussed. Learned many things, like the subject of one painting was a famous music hall singer, whose name utterly escapes me right now, but her song was Daisy Bell, the song Hal sings in 2001. Anyway, that was fun.
Then I popped into the Lewis Morley exhibit, he of the infamous Keeler shot, and the nude Sherbet centrefold - grin. I loved it, though any exhibition that features bonus Gordon Jackson is bound to get the thumbs up from me. Loved his photo-journalism stuff and his fashion shoots, but the actor postraits were what I kept coming back to. There was a young Judy Dench, shocking off a glimpse of stocking, how shocking. Delightful snaps of Pete and Dud. Gorgeous pics of O'Toole and Cain, but my very favourite was a very moody shot of a very moody young John Hurt. I just really liked it, because I love pics of moody young thesps and John Hurt had been cropping up in conversation and on screen of late.
So there he was: moody young man one day, chewing the scenery in a 70s cop show the next. Poor John.
I also wandered about the gallery as I was quite unwell and it seemed a shame to waste such an altered state. Rolling around galleries with a fever is ever such fun, the colours are always so much brighter. I was really taken with the one pic of, well I can't say Elizabethan because he's a Frog, but of that era, a gent wearing the latest fashions and it's painted so well I could almost feel the silk slipping underneath my fingers. Ahem.
The hall of Pre-Raphs also made me swwon. It always does, but that night, especially so. I was having lots of fun and was home quite late. Tsk.
Forgot to mention some of the props in Adam Adamant have bemused. There was the suspiciously familiar hatstand, but what really had us tittering was the dead parrot. I'm not sure how many stuffed macaws the BBC props department ran to back then, but I suspect it just might have been the infamous Norwegian Blue.
And finally, I forgot to comment on this the other day. The casual violence is fine, it's just the smoking that's objectionable? Okaaay....
The Vesuvius Club
Walter Richard Sickert
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