mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

yet each man kills the thing he loves

I hate to mention this as a dear friend was bemoaning her empty weekend, and would it help if I said it was absolutely pissing down when I set out and I got soaked to the skin despite feeble umbrella and damn nearly ruined my shoes fording gutters that were running like creeks? And it took forever and forever again before a bus finally turned up and the trains were out? But we did have a massive sushi train session and while certain mgazines elluded me I did find an old edition of US weekly featuring a certain American actor I dare not mention. And a lovely bound edition of Bill's sonnets and A Lover's Complaint which I was peversely reading while waiting for the show to start.

What show? Well, er, yes. Look, I couldn't let the man whom I adore, and who takes up a significant portion of my weekly viewing time, go by. Not when he was putting in an appearance not too far from my extremely humble abode (as the crow flies, a perilous and lengthy 100km round trip by not public transport otherwise), and I'm not talking any daft yank actor. Nope. It was James May, with Jezza, during another touring Top Gear show and they'd rolled into town and I'd bought tickets for myself and the Peanut Gallery (the only live show he will ever go to), slightly, but only slightly better seats than last time, which was a touch irking for the price I paid but at least we could see the action without resort to screens and maybe it was just James (worship, worship), or the painkillers kicking in (I was not a well girlie), but I really enjoyed it much more than last year. It was big and dumb but jolly fun, even if it wasn't much more than what they put on at the Royal Easter Show for free, but whatever. I did but see him passing by, as it were, and that'll do me.

Not a lot of supercars in the foyer either to drool over, which disappointed me, and I'm still a Lotus girl at heart, I find.

So that was Saturday. No Supernatural, no nothing on telly so I tried to have an early night. Oh, did I mention the massive storm during Silent Witness on Friday? At any moment I thought for sure I'd never find out whodunnit, though I'd pretty much guessed two minutes into it, but that's hardly the point. I'm really only there for Tom Ward these days, and I wsn't disappointed.

It's still raining and I'm clutching at hot water bottles and I spent last night upright and unhappy but at least I had Burn Notice to keep me company. And what fine dvd viewing that was: not too hard, not too light, it was just right. I also suspected, and I was right, that I'd missed a couple of 'pay attention, you will be examined on this later' episodes that either I'd missed in the erratic scheduling or Ten had dropped the ball. I realised this when Arena played an episode I'd not seen before (when I knew I'd missed certain blocks, but not random episodes). Too bad Ten are playing new-ish Burn Notice over the Arena unedited and played in order screenings which I was quite enjoying. Hence the cracking open of the dvds once more.

It did me well because I wasn't well but I wasn't curled up on the loo floor either, so thanks for that, Burn Notice gang. Keeping me amused is always a chore, and they did it well.

Also enjoyed the gayest episode of High Chaparral yet, gayer even than the episode where Blue Boy wanted to run away and become an artist. This time we had a whole Romeo and Juliet thing going, only it was Romeo et Jules, and they rode off into the sunset. Even the Peanut Gallery nearly spluttered into his tea at that point. Ah, Fox Classics, you keep on rolling with the world's gayest cowboy shows, you big beautiful cable channel, you.

Himself, having purchased a crate of apples at a farmer's market, spent the wet weekend making chutney and apple crumble, both excellent. Got snappy and pissy though when I wanted to make a late night hot water bottle. I interrupted his schedule, oh dear.

I suppose I should thank the lady boss, well, not for giving me a thicker skin because, having been terribly abused in life I don't deal with chastisement at all well (and never will) nor do I bounce back from it, the elasticity is like a pair of old knickers these days, but I do find myself sufficiently calloused over for the sting to easse after a while, though I still get a sharp twinge from my recent corrections (especially as I don't feel I deserved them, certainly not to the violence with which the corrections were meted out) but there you go.

And as much as I might want to sulk and say I'll never write White Collar again (as if I'd finished the pwp), my versions of Neal and Peter had entirely different ideas. At it like bunnies. And worse, now I want to get over this rather shallow excuse for a shagfest and move onto the second part (it was one story but I split it up so I could cheat with the old "with a mighty leap he was free" picking up the action some weeks later thing. Just because, with all my viewing of Burn Notice, The Fixer, Dollhouse and The Prisoner I wish to ruminate on how effed up the friendship kinda is, though in execution it's very sweet between the two boys, given Neal's actual situation.

Oh, missed Saturday's Prisoner but Sunday's was by Pat. Oh, Pat, you miserable curmudgeonly crypto Catholic, you (no wonder he and Mel Gibson got on like a house on fire, apparently). It was all women are evil, soul sucking untrustworthy jezebels, with lots of Christ and Illuminati imagery thrown in, for good measure. Number Six is not a pleasant chap at all (I know he's stuck in an unhappy situation but acting out and mood swings much?), and honestly, other tv spies have suffered worse fates (and in Exhibit B to the case it is John Drake, check out the posters everyone is waving about, the very same photo that adorns my Danger Man box set). I did like the evil civil servant, and the way everyone always offers tea before entering into the interrogations. So very polite and well mannered. I notice the Number Two in the Dollhouse, also British, also always offers tea before getting down to the nasty, at least, she did in S1. And I notice that women are all soul sucking jezebels in White Collar, too (bar Elizabeth), but I understand The Power That Be is having a messy breakup, but stil. Ah well, it just adds to the hoyay now, don't it (as in girls are evil and have icky girl germs, let us have excellent boys only adventures and lashings of ginger beer).

Oh, and reading an entirely unrelated article in the paper, I wonder whether or not Neal has a curfew, as can be the case in home detentions, as I understand it? But considering the stated 3km limit has that ridiculous *except for booty calls work related calls to Chez Burke exemption, should I really care?

Btw, Seeker, enough of the kinky S&M now, especially at 6.30pm on a Sunday. I don't mean to be a prude, but, well, kid's shows sure are different these days, eh? I mean, there was always kinky bondage in the shows I watched as a kid, but it was a touch less overt, a touch less Showcase (which proudly trades on its so bad it's good line up).

Meanwhile, every second article I google on a certain actor, the actor of whom I dare not speak, comes up gay. Not that I should be googling or even mentioing certain actors, and now I know why I stick to the Brit boys, aside from the fact they're fun, cute, sexy and funny. They're also far less trouble. They get into far less actual trouble themselves (Mr Bale notwithstanding) and they're far less trouble for me (the only person who was particularly irked by all my posting of scandals re Mr Law was Mr Law himself, feedback-wise) as I get slapped down far less (4% as per 100% of posts, on average), which is important for my emotional well being if nothing else.

Nor should I care what google throws up re certain actors whom I dare not mention, except to observe it at a distance as a social dilema, or can an actor, who finds himself rising within the industry as he is cast in more and more mainstream projects, leap back into the closet and wedge the door firmly shut behind him in the age of Google? I mean there has always been gossip and scandal about celebs, and I'm thinking Georgian and Victorian London as much as 20thC Hollywood, but could you even begin an Oscar Wilde like case these days when a quick google, well, there it is? I know of actors who have tried and suceeded in litigation, but I wonder whether information can be controlled, expunged, and deleted for much longer, even with lawsuits flying ither and yon, and secondly, why does it matter?

And it doesn't even have to be a gay actor, I'm thinking of any actor who might have indulged in past behaviours frowned upon by right wing commentators (like Jane Fonda over the Vietnam thing, which still gets a mention now and then). Can they overcome and/or bury the past and do they need to, should they need to? Does it make a difference to the performance?

In the case of performance, I'd say sometimes yes. While I don't need an actor to be authentically hetero when snogging a girl, because that's silly, it's like banning Jewish actors from Christmas episodes (which would then be mercifully thin on the ground), I will say that sometimes spurious gossip enhances the viewing experience, like knowing who was shagging whose wife/mistress/each other in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood when you see one of their pictures. So that'd be a depends on the context answer. Yes more so in painting, writing etc. Less so in acting where one is merely interpretating than speaking directly to the audience (ie who cares if my meat puppet is gay/communistic/raving loon or not).

That said, the personal relationship between actors (good friends or deadly enemies) is sometimes useful to know when it colours the performance so richly, one way or the other. So yeah, it's subjective, on a case by case basis, but honestly, do they really think I care less about flaming actors than actors who are married with kids or can't keep it zipped or are notorious drunks and brawlers or right wing tories or completely arrogant bastards? Because trust me, I watch the films of some actors I'd loathe to be stuck on a plane with, and vice versa. When all is said and done what really matters is did they make the everyday just that little bit special for just a moment? If yes, then they can be a closet frog fancier for all I care.

Then one has to consider, for example, did all the scandal and gossip that surrounded the PRB, for an example that is both history and yet with contemporary resonance, affect their success? And again, the answer neither clear cut nor objective. Certainly, if my reading of Desperate Romantics is anything to go by, early controversy and criticism dogged Rossetti until his early death (and I consider the fact that sensitive artistes now die in their 20s now rather than their 50s has more to do with the efficiency of modern pharmacology than anything else) yet scandal also boosted their notorority (and therefore media coverage and sales) to a great extent, not to mention inspiring a range of fellow artists and writers including Oscar Wilde, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Gilbert and Sullivan. It comes down to whether or not you believe there's such a thing as bad publicity, I suppose, and what would be your definition of bad? To some extent, the PRB set the template for what passes as celebrity gossip these days, for good or ill. And knowing the back story of some of the paintings certainly gives them a whole new frission of interest than one might not normally divine from mere surface appearances.

Then there's the whole gossip thing: harmless fun or destroyer of lives? I think it's a lot like comedy, and depends very much as to whether one is the observor or the observed. Or, to quote Mel Brooks: '"Tragedy is a papercut; comedy is when you fall down an open manhole... and die!"'

Thus with gossip, imho.

That said, I do worry about all those openly gay (and largely accepted as such) British actors trying their hand in the States. How do you slam the closet door after a Hello feature? Will the Americans remainly defiantly insular re news from the rest of the world (and therefore ignorant of the fact that the actor has a legal partner of the same gender, for example), or can we but hope the actors make sure they never accept a project to be filmed in the mid-west or deep south - we've all seen that Top Gear episode were they were nearly killed by rednecks. Hmmm...maybe keeping a low profile isn't such a bad idea afterall. London is one thing, Alabama quite another.

Have I answered my question yet? Does it matter? Does anyoone care? No, to all of these, but I don't mind. I'm bored and crampy which equals grumpy and not in possession of a thick skin. Feeling especially thin skinned today, in fact. Would rather be in bed with a box set of The Persuaders, but such things, alas, cannot be.

Oh, and the Brit List news thingy is going to be late this week, if not delayed until next week, not because I'm sulking (even though I am), but because I'm also very unwell and very busy this week and that's yer three strikes, unprofessional though it may be. I just can't see the point of making myself even more ill and tired by sitting up at 2am working on it when, well, when I'm feeling a touch unappreciated, is all.

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Tags: art, burn notice, silent witness, the prisoner, top gear

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