"...about twenty five years of age, tall and elegantly formed, and of a countenance distinguished by an unusual degree of masculine beauty. His dress was green, like that of his companions; but it was enriched by a purple scarf thrown across his shoulders, and a knot of plumes of a similiar colour, which waved in his cap." - Anon.
The secret is knowing how to accessorise. Snort. Wheeze. Titter. Okay, enough of that. It's just that I'm up to The Romatics and suddenly Our Hero has gone all Jude Law on us. No longer a Rob Roy character of open rebellion, or a bawdy figure in pagany pastoral plays, Robin has become idealised and now just pretty much Vogues it up in the mythologised forest.
Still, he is a changeable chap. What did amuse me in the early 19thC pieces was the romanticising of the land as well as the times past, and the regret for the lost forests. One writer even goes so far to note it was warmer in the middle ages and wonders if the bitter 19thC winters have anything to do with massive deforestation. Robin Hood as a poster boy for man made climate change...in 1819.
I can see that will probably be his next incarnation: Captain Forest, but mercifully not now. Robin being nice to cute fluffy animals on top of everything else I could not bear.
And sadly I suspect I'll never see the Tarantino-esque ultraviolence of the original versions of the Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne ("Stuck in the middle with you...") and The Progress To Nottingham ballads, in latter of which young Robin racks up a body count impressive even by my jaded standards. Not before the 9pm watershed at any rate. Sigh.
I read a review in Empire, that, while only bestowing two stars, was almost too kind, only quibbling over Jonas being a little too much of a sensitive pretty boy and Keith being way too much on the panto. (Empire also featured an interview with wee McAvoy and now I love him even more).
As for me, I've decided the only way I could possibly tackle a fic is to go off piste, that is to give the chacters depths and layers so lacking in the show (or worse, hinted at but never picked up). So Robin isn't just a shallow pretty boy, he's emotionally shut down and his cruelty to Much is his way of trying to gently part from the lad, Brian Kinney style. Although I've yet to come up with a rational reason as to why Robin's teasing of Much is affectionate in private but mean spirited in public. Peer pressure? Needing to be one of the boys at the expense of his most loyal friend and ally?
And why does everyone treat Much as a joke except the Sheriff? Not the dungeon for Much but schemes to try and turn Much into betraying and seperating himself from Robin. The Sheriff is the only one who calls Much Robin's right hand man, the only one who remembered all of Robin's promises. So that's interesting, as to why Much is so strategically important to the Sheriff. Perhaps he sees what Robin takes for granted?
At least somebody sees Much as one of Robin's most important allies and a lynch pin, rather than a mere sidekick or worse, clown.
Then there's the uneven writing which will have Much being deeply poignant one minute (especially with the PTSD, poor Much) and so Jar Jar the next. I can only attempt to explain that by suggesting that Much is employing the old Claudius ruse by appearing far more stupid than he actually is, perhaps in part to flatter his master as any good servant should. I really wish they's write Much the way he should be: the one who sees everything and is there to support the flawed hero, whatever the cost.
If only, and I can't believe I'm writing this, they'd make Much more like Xander. I've forgotten, for the moment, how annoying Xander became, and just watching early Buffy, even with all the pratfalls and jealousy and smart alec comments, Xander is, and probably always was, the secret hero of the piece. So often a small action from Xander helps save the day, and I'm not just talking about The Zeppo. And last night it was the flu monster one and little breakable Xander stood right up to Angelus and made Angelus back down. That was a very brave and ballsy thing to do. Brave, Brave Sir Xander.
If only they'd write Much like that. But never mind, I will. He might not be the best, brightest or bravest all the time, but he is when it matters. Now that's heroic.
Look at me, sounding like a Xander fan. Time for a Bex and a lie down, methinks.
I also watched Jane Eyre last night, even though it was really too hot to do so (the dvd popped out like hot toast, ouch ouch ouch). I once read that BTVS was wish fulfillment tv for library nerds. Well, so are the works of Austen and the Brontes, because it's never the prettiest girl in the room who gets the guy in the end (and she's always a Cordelia type), it's the one with the quickest wit who is true to herself, and always tries to have the best intentions). It's the smart funny girl who gets the guy. No wonder I glommed onto those books when I was a teen.
Not that I ever got the guy, but, well, I do live in the shallowest city on earth. Elsewhere, and I might have had a chance. Even the Vicar of Dibley bagged Richard Armitage in the end.
Okay, so it never happens in real life, but a girl's gotta dream.
Meanwhile a friend sent an article about Rome which babbles:
There's a scene between Atia and Servilia, who hate each other with a passion. Servilia has called upon the Furies to destroy Atia and her family. Atia has commissioned men to assault and shame Servilia in the public street. Atia has, one assumes, come to Servilia's house to gloat -- and to see if her attack has had the desired effect.
... and the conversation is entirely that of a tea party. The two women are as gracious as you could imagine. Atia acts sweet and sympathetic. Nominally she is there to invite Servilia to watch Caesar's triumph from her box seats. Servilia is gracious and cordial, because to admit she knows it was Atia would be to admit weakness.
It is brave writing because it relies on the director and the actors to convey without words or even overt actions the depth of the two women's hatred for each other.
It is brave writing because it relies on network executives not to come back with well-meaning notes like, "How are we going to know that these two women hate each other? Won't the audience be confused?"
Well, that must be an American male point of view because any student of British bonnet dramas would know that any British actress worth her salt, and certainly the two in Rome, have had much experience with sitting down to tea and politely dining with women they'd really much rather scrag fight with (see also The Mayor of Casterbridge). Think Elizabeth and Bingley's sisters. The undercurrent of loathing is what makes these mannered tea parties rock. Trust me, we get it. Maybe it's a girl thing, the being civil to one's mortal enemies while asking them if they'd prefer one lump or two.
Ouch. Okay, my fault. Should not have drooled quite so freely over those "eyes of blue shining thro' dusk hair, like the stars of night" (Reynolds) like I was. Owie.
I was kinda hoping to be in bed for the big finish, crampwise, but alas, no. It's gonna be like that bit from Casino Royale, only having to sit up at my desk and work, too. And keep a civil tongue in my head. Usually fall down on the last bit. Just not stiff upper lippy enough. It's all that course and common blood. Too colonial, too celtic. One just can't get good help these days.
At least poor Jonas was out of the country when those last reviews hits the stands. I may mock the boy, but he tries so hard. Still, he's got a few more years of trying before I give up on him. Generous to a fault I am.
Besides, he's not doing too badly: one minor role, one co-star role, one lead role. No slaving away on guest spots on The Bill for him. (Which is probably from whence much of the sour grapes spring. Btw, no clip of Sean Bean's turn in The Bill on YouTube - a shameful oversight, Bean fans. Pull yer socks up).
Btw, still tittering over this review of Waking the Dead.
I like they're theory that it's always Boyd what dunnit. Kinda like the way I have to watch Midsomer Murders (there's ain't nothing but on tv right now, three channels, three nights a week) where I've decided that it's Barnaby's wife who's the serial killer, especially as people start dropping like flies in whatever hobby she's gotten herself into that week (amateur dramatics, bell ringing, jam making, etc) and Barnaby just runs about covering it up.
Or, as Peanut Gallery likes to snipe: "Look, it's that episode where somebody is offed at the local fete."
Meanwhile, continuing our infantile amusements with Edwardian fashion items and their hitherto unknown near Swiss Army Knife capacity as employed by the suffragettes of the time, comes installment #2:
From the SMH, 6 May 1914:
NOTABLE PICTURE DAMAGED.
LONDON, May 5.
An elderly women’s suffragist, named Mary Wood, armed
with a chopper, made three slashes in J. H. [sic: J.
S.] Sargent’s portrait of Henry James, one of the most
notable pictures in the Royal Academy.
She stood looking at the picture for a few moments,
then suddenly pulled the chopper from her muff and
inflicted the damage.
Onlookers seized her, and many ladies standing near
cried “Lynch her!”
Later a man in the gallery expressed sympathy with the
suffragists, and he was severely hustled, until the
police rescued him. The slashed portrait is one that
was recently presented to Mr. James in commemoration
of his 70th birthday. The damage is estimated at £200.
Wood was brought before the police court this morning,
and committed for trial. Women suffragists last night
burned the Cavehill (Belfast) bowling and tennis
The computer read the attack as "suddenly polled the
bopper from her muff", which sounds like a
Note, also, the gendered reactions to the attack.
One presumes the Irish bowling and tennis club had a
typical "no lady members" policy... otherwise it seems
a somewhat abstract target for political aggression...
Meanwhile, there were women preparing to vote in that
December's election in New Zealand who weren't even
born when women's suffrage was legislated!
Okay, back to work, and no squealing.
Cable's January 2007 Press Tour - Arrivals (Jonas)
Hugh Jackman On The Set Of "The Tourist" - January 10, 2007
Scientists plan Britain's first ever mission to the moon (byo purple wigs)
Holy cow! Hunt begins for pure-bred American bison
Scott of the Antarctic: The final words of a Polar hero
Eurovision contest tempts Morrissey
Robin Hood’s Progress to Nottingham
Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne
Reservoir dogs - Stealer's Wheel - Stuck In The Middle With
Pride and Prejudice
The weekend's TV
Spiders - Arachnida
stereogum: Heaven Knows He's Still Miserable Now
Skyhooks - Living In The 70's
As You Like It