And Fred and Ginge were fun, too. Made a change from 70s coppers, which I seem to have been on, for a while now.
What else did I get up to? Bit of gardening, trying to reclaim some of the lower beds from the wilderness (you know you've been slack when it's more archaelogical dig than a neat bit of trimming). I have grand plans to sow them with vegetables and various herbs, but considering my lack of stick-with-it-ness and the local wildlife (still smarting over what they did to my chilli and there are always half eaten mandarins strewn around the garden) I sincerely doubt I'll be the image of Arcadia any time soon.
The Saint featured Anton Rodgers, and, as I was afeared of overdoing the Anton, I had to put aside the fillum I was going to watch for another day. Hence the weeding. Which was done with the hairy biker neighbour's radio blaring out loudly a rather Baz Lurhman soundtrack of disco diva tunes and sugar sweet 60s pop songs. We were giggling and chortling at first, since it was all very Baz (Baz probably listens to the very same station) and he's the world's nastiest hairy biker, but it wasn't until we'd stopped tittering and actually launched gleefully into a singalong with ABBA (with the dance moves) that he grumpily switched off the radio and stalked off. Aw, and we was having fun. Sourpuss.
Okay, next time I do the weeding I'll bring the camp disco hits. And if the neighbours don't like us belting out ABBA songs well, they just shoulda left the screening trees in place. They were there for a reason, people.
No, I haven't seen Mama Mia yet, I never get to the cinema. Whenever I plan to it's always work merde au go go.
Saturday night I got dreadfully upset over yet another online slighting. Unwelcome in yet another comm, sigh. Is it my deodorant? I try, I really try, maybe I try too hard, offering scans and links and fic and precious little opinion, trying so very hard to be the productive and dutiful little member and all I get is a collection of sub-freezing shoulders and turned backs. Weep.
I was so terribly upset (and remain so, to the point of being ill) that there was nothing for it but to watch Paris When It Sizzles on ABC2. It remains one of my favourite films. When I was younger it was just cause I loved Audrey, but now as a grumpy old woman I appreciate the skewering of that business they call show. Especially Tony Curtis as Second Policeman. Too funny, and too true (especially all the self important preening, it never reminds me of anyone, never, I swear). This time the dissing of method actors, ruining the scripts with "all that mumbling" that cracked me up.
I also really liked it because it reminded me of my Lewis fics right now, ie all over the place and getting very silly indeed, alas. I was going to try and describe the non process as like having James May at the wheel, forever taking wrong turns and having to back up and go around. But really, it's exactly like Paris When It Sizzles: one hack writer out of ideas.
Never mind, I realise now I'm writing them solely for my own amusement as I'm just not cool enough for the in crowd, so they can be as damn silly and fucked up as they want to be. Bring on the spies, vampires and aerial dogfights.
Still sulking on Sunday so I watched Morse, housework be damned, and was startled by a young Martin Clunes with all this blond hair, as well as a raffish young Rupert Graves. Poor Lewis was much put upon and reacted as if struck when Morse really tore strips off him in the carpark (Morse was having a bad day). Was also bemused that the Jag (whatelse) refused to start (as they do) in one scene and you could see John Thaw silently going "cuntcuntcunt" until the thing finally started and the thing moved off. No take twos on the old Morse, it would seem.
Then there was Fred and Ginger. Then the scanning. Still sulking, I didn't feel the need to absolutely exhaust my self doing it for once, so it was a modest collection from stuff left over in the to do pile. While this was going on we had Spiral playing because Himself wanted to brush up on his French (though how he's going to work 'Romanian crack whore' into a conversation is beyond me).
Naturally with my head down (thus unable to read the subtitles half the time) and with only high school French, I could only follow the basic gist of the plot but fortunately Spiral is such a by-the-numbers cop and lawyers show that it was easy to follow. I like the old judge, he's a good man, unlike the young lawyer who, while not as sleazy as his pimping, drug dealing best friend, is still way down on the sliding scale of sleazy. The druggie cop has more integrity, because he cares too much I suppose. I just loved how he was upset after he nearly died from a bad fix meant for his druggie hooker girlfriend. He cares, man. Also, the breaking of the suspect's car with a sledgehammer? Classic 70s cop move. No wonder he's an addict, he's a 70s cop in a 2000 world. Poor bastard.
It's fun to watch the different criminal processes in other countries, too. Like we were wondering if the French employed the suicide watch, or was it just neglected in this instance for dramatic purposes? (Nice suicide over the train tracks, btw. They had the woman just vanish as a truck passed, which was a neat way of saving on expensive and dangerous stunt work). Btw, I read the other week that the British cops were in trouble for not always observing suicide watch when they should - sort of a passive aggressive version of deaths in custody. But I digress. I liked Spiral, because it was a bit different. Snotty 'do you know who I am' suspects are even snottier in French, and crazed clients even more histrionic. Very entertaining.
Which brings us to Dr Who and the Doctor's daughter (and I know it's not wrong per se but the fact that DT is now dating her is still kinda squicky). It was pretty bog standard fare and I got the whole it wasn't a war of centuries thing ages before Donna did. There was some nice work from DT (as well as the usual bug eyed overacting) but seriously, since when has the Doc been anti-genocide? Even Donna should have called him on that, or does she not recall the flushing of the space spiders down the plughole (let alone all the other species the Doc has wiped out because they didn't fit in with his Guardian reading sensibilities - I'm just sayin'). And I'm not sure how the fish dude managed to drown, but whatever. And aliens breathing green cordial? I've never seen that before, she says sarcastically. At least Martha wasn't quite as annoying as usual.
Which brings us to The Last Drop. It was abysmal. Absolutely awful. It was trying to be Kelly's Heroes but it just failed horribly. It suffered from a rubbish script, rubbish overacting and a rubbish plot.
It seemed to have suffered especially in the editing suite because the plot, such as it was, jumped about wildly without explanation, with characters jumping locale without any reason or logic and I don't know what was up with The Lovely Alexander and Laurence but in the movie we never saw I can only assume that it was a bad breakup. Lawks, it certainly played that way when they finally met up after brooding upon the other for most of the film (not that my boy had any satisfactory screen time, whimper).
And yeah, I had to suffer Laurence attempting another German accent. Ack. No wonder he says he's never done accents, I certainly wouldn't count his two attempts at a German one. I had to content myself with watching him take his hat on and off (a tic pointed out in the Deathwatch commentary) and banging the table like all TV Nazis do. And the strutting about. Lets not forget the strutting about.
The Lovely Alexander had a much bigger role, was very amusing as a mercenary deserter (who had issues with Laurence) and his various comedy misadventures (and I mean slapstick). Very cute. Not sure about the hair though. I prefer Brad hair, because the floppy blond fringe just made him look too much like Illya Kuryakin.
Rafe Spall played a weaselly medic, and there were various other tropes, and what the hell was up with them walking across county in an open field like they were off on a picnic? The only one who aquitted himself with any dignity or believabilty was Sean Pertwee, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself in the 'making of' and so long as he had fun, right?
But mainly I was there for the tall blond boys and I was treated to the spectacle of my boy Laurence kicking several shades of shit outta The Lovely Alexander - smirk. Then my boy got blowed up for, well, no good reason at all and The Lovely Alexander laughed all the way to the bank (and then promptly robbed it, no doubt). Well, I can't see any reason why my boy got blowed up as he was just about the only by the book just following orders soldier in the film and it's not like looting deserved the bad karma because everyone was trousering trinkets (don't even get me started on the morality of this movie). In my version Nazi!Laurence escapes, badly singed, with a priceless Caravaggio tucked under one arm, determind to track down the Lovely Alexander for round three (I don't know the whys and wherefores of their falling out, but it looked a rather personal and intimate wounding).
Yeah, I think it's one of those films so completely bad it could only benefit from watching it with your own plot, because it doesn't have much of its own. A confusing mess, but blond boys were pretty.
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