This was not the way the show was marketed, not at all (and the thought of ultra conservative mon oncle being walked past all those thrashing orgies brings a smirk to my face, even now).
It was not the kind of goddess show I was expecting. No meek little homemakers here, though there were a few images of domesticity, but we also had the compassionate goddess, the blade flailing harpy and the passionate lover. The three faces of Eve, I suppose. Happily, there was hardly any motherhood, and the only picture of a nursing goddess featured one looking very bored and disinterested, reminding me of those moping Madonnas I saw in Europe, the ones who look like they're desperate for the grandparents to take the little Saviour for a weekend.
So no wonder it was wall to wall women of a certain persuasion (the last time I was surrounded by that many eccentric looking gal pals was at a slash con - snarky grin). But that's cool, very cool, because I'm sick of all this motherhood crap. I'm sick of being told I'll never know real pain, love, happiness or life or that I'm not a real person - and this from the lips of politicians in the paper. Bring on the chicks with the swords and the severed heads and those gals with those twisting limbs and jutting hips.
There were some really breathtaking statues and bronzes, but the drawings left me a little cold. They were small and badly lit, so it was hard to see or appreciate the detail so there was a lot of shrugging and moving on to the next piece. However it was worth making the effort to peer at the dusty and minute little drawings in the karma sutra room. Lots of naughty yet no doubt deeply enlightening cavorting going on there, including stuff I'd only heard about from my spam can. Gracious!
It was cool reading about the Hindu gods of time and death, tho' (and I'm stamping on that lil' plot bunny right now).
After I'd done the exhibit and sucked down a lychee nudie at the outdoor cafe, I came up the stairs to find some Indian dance troupes performing. It was a very ragged lineup, from the truly Pot of Gold/school show woeful to the bloody brilliant. The boys were the best, with one energetic lot in bright costumes performing a rousing number that included Cossack like kicks and Chinese circus style pyramid building. Everybody was clapping like crazy. The other boy group were also great. Not as athletic, but very funny as they achieved this very colourful fusion of Hip Hop and Bollywood that really, really worked. The crowd loved them. The other one I liked was the strictly classical number, both for the movements and the weird puckish guy up the back with a face I've seen on a statue somewhere. Very saturine. He just fascinated me, because I've seen his face in marble somewhere.
Of course, while it failed to rain on me on the way up the hill to the gallery (it usually rains on me when I go to the gallery, and rain is rare these days), what it was really waiting for was me to try and get home with a Caravaggio print tucked under my arm. It bucketed, and I missed the bus - so I had to get a taxi - when I could find one. Gah. I bought the cheap Caravaggio print (just fruit and veg,sadly) because, flicking through the prints, I saw how much I'd paid for Ophelia (I must have been feeling unusually flush), and I decided no way was it going on my stupid skewiff walls (where it has every chance of falling down), so cheap Caravaggio it is.
Of course, all this staying out has put me another day behind in the Great Spring Clean. I'm still stuck on the bookcase, which sounds easy, but to squeeze this last bookcase in I have to move two other bookcases, the desk, dresser, wardrobe, bed and tv, hence the massive sorting and culling going on - well, might as well do it halfway properly, eh? At least the tv is on rollers, though that's a bit of a joke as it's tethered to the wall by its too short cable lead. Once I get this done it's onto the next room. I'll still be going past Xmas at this rate. Probably next Xmas, too.
That squeal you just heard was me getting my wish. Well, I wished for Captain Jack yesterday, and true, I should have been more specfic about the dimensions (three as opposed to two), but yesterday a copy of the Torchwood cover RT landed in my letterbox. Swoon! Sigh! And big hugs to the good samaritan who sent it :D Made my day.
And it's a bit of a day, with no time for reading mail or writing in the dark, quiet hours. I even got ticked off for going out last night (though, weirdly, I was close to work so I could have popped in and done it, but I don't have a mobile for that very reason).
I know nothing can summon managers/urgent work to my desk quicker than poor Gene trying to get his hands inside Sam's pants, but at 6.45am? There I was with my cuppa, fingers poised above the keyboard, but before I could even get in the first stroke, the phone rang with urgent kerfuffle. Poor Gene. It's been like this all week. I'm beginning to share his frustration. And poor Sharpe - how he languishes.
It's like Coleridge's annoying visitor, to the power of ten (the interuptions, not the work, which no one would miss, anyway).
Oh, and I seem to be misunderstood again. When I said they should offer John Simm a truckload of cash, I didn't mean that John was making salary demands, I just meant that every man has his price and if the BBC were serious about keeping their hit show, then they should get serious with the bribing. If not cash, then offer him something arty in return, like first run at that serial killer or costume roles he wanted to do next. Hell, do Jack the Ripper so he can be a historically costumed serial killer.
I mean, he can't be that fussy or precious - he did Nero. Fun as he is in that, it's bloody awful. Everytime folks say John can do no wrong, picture me in the corner silently holding up the cover of Nero, but saying nowt.
Give him the golden handcuffs, or stop the show, because I'm really still a bit queasy about the idea of a spinoff. As I said over at TRA, there are several reasons, like for every Frasier there's an AfterMASH and Joey, fer starters.
Also, the early 80s aren't quite so synonymous with legendary cop shows the way the 70s were. All that comes to my mind are early Bill episodes. I'm just worried about LOM being diluted the way I was told it would be if they did a third series (which, to my mind, would be the better option, aside from stopping it all, now).
But, whatever. I am merely a hapless consumer, with little choice but to take what I am given and enjoy it as much as I can. It's just that Life on Mars ticked all my boxes. If there ever comes a time when niche telly devolves into design your own telly, LOM would be pretty much it. So I'm torn up to see it go. Yes, I'd rather it not become a joke, and it's a fine line they walk at the best of times, but it is/was my favourite show. It's like shall never come again and everything now will be viewed through post LOM glasses.
If they can't bring back Life on Mars, can they bring back Ultraviolet? Watching Torchwood trailers on the net brings UV back to mind. Loved that show, too. They never even made the promised second season, sigh.
If I wasn't anticipating being up to my elbows in dust bunnies this evening, I'd give it a spin, just to whet my appetite fo Torchwood. Is it good, btw? I've been covering my eyes re spoilers, well, kinda sorta, but I just want to know, does it hold together? Does it fly? Or is it just the Ultraviolet/X Files clone it rather looks like? Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind. I just want to know, was it good? Because I can never judge a show by its wrapper, no matter how bright and shiny it might be.
Though I suspect tv shows hold to much same laws as amateur dance troupes: beware the ones with the glittery scrunchies in their hair. A performance of true quality needs not such gimmicks.
FOX Fall 2006 Eco-Casino Party
Hollywood Film Festival - 10th Annual Hollywood Awards - Backstage and Audience
Hollywood Film Festival - 10th Annual Hollywood Awards - Show
Hollywood Film Festival - 10th Annual Hollywood Awards - Red Carpet
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Praise for a pencil pusher
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