mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

boy, boy, crazy boy

It's like a week with two Monday's, this having a holiday on Thursday. At least, it sure felt like Monday this morning. So yeah, yesterday, yet another anniversary in my ancestor's forced resetllement at gunpoint. Yay. Stranded in the land of mega expensive airfares and no decent access to new releases. In other words, should have kept your bloody hands in your pockets, granddad.

As it was raining cats and dogs it seemed as good a time as any to do the old Hidden Tiger, Hounds of Baskerville double feature, especially as the interebs were as slow as and I was therefore far too grumpy and dispirited after a long strugge with the damn thing to do anything else. I needed cheering up, and quickly.

And it worked. What fun, and, putting them together, there was a lot more tonal and thematic similarities than I expected (it's been a wee while since I sat down to Hidden Tiger), more than I remembered, and that was fun, too. Who had the creepiest scientists? The flirtiest couple? The silliest resolution? Pretty much level pegging, imho. An excellent double feature.

Accompanied by the last of the Fortnum and Mason Sandringham Blend Coffee and the Harrods Chocolate Chunk Biscuits (there are no wrong words in that name, swooned the Peanut Gallery) and yes, we are dreadful, but we live in disgraceful squalor and poverty the rest of the time but we take our tea breaks very, very seriously indeed, and there's nothing like a really nice cup of tea and a really nice biscuit (and having grown up with the most awful cheap teas and nasty biscuits, trust me, I know the difference). Mmmmmmm.

Also listened to the triple j Hottest 100. Did not type at all. Meant to, but by the time I'd given up on ever opening my email inbox I was far too cross and overheated to do any typing justice (bearing in mind that I'm supposed to polish and update as I type). Yes, overheated, it might have been raining but the humidity was cloying, the room stuffy beyond bearing, and once the wee pc and I both get into overheated and cranky mode, well, it's best that we just leave it and cool down in separate rooms for a while.


To cut straight to the executive summary version, I went to see West Side Story at the Opera House concert hall, with a live orchestra providing the soundtrack. Then I leapt onto a ferry, sped across the harbour and caught a bus to Taronga zoo where I saw The Church. Neato. And more than a bit mad. But that's me, more than a bit mad.

Still, it was fun, even though it was so steamy and the outfit I'd chosen didn't really do steamy (sundress, t-shirt, leggings and DMS, thinking foolishly there'd be ocean breezes, there were no ocean breezes). And I had to spend all morning deleting Russian spam off the blog (more than enough to make me wish Stalin was still alive, and not at all facetiously). But we still had another uproarious morning tea, Harrods Georgian blend and still with the butter dark chocolate chunk biscuits. We were duscussing male fashions of the 70s (regrettable) and so it naturally turned to teachers, as it must, those paragons of manly fashion (not). I mentioned Mr S, such a very young and unworldly young man, at least at first, bless. The Peanut Gallery remarked with glee that breaking a brand new student teacher was like breaking a mare on Big Valley. Especially the ones we had, fresh from Whitlam era teachers colleges with their crazy, hippy ideals. 'Hi, kids, call me John.' It was just like the tethered goat in Jurassic Park, and about the same amount of terror, mercy and bloodshed. Baaaaah.

We were so bad. Chortle. Chortle.

So anyway, off to the Opera House, alas to the matinee session which meant having to put up with the rudest, nastiest eastern suburbs matrons you'd never want to be stuck on a lifeboat with, I can tell you. They did hamper my enjoyment somewhat, but mercifully they left halfway through, when the film really kicked off.

It was an odd experiment, having the film with the orchestral soundtrack deleted via the marvels of science and technology, to be replaced by a live orchestra. Wonderful, yes, but a little bit odd. Certainly it was a far better viewing experience than the ancient video we watched at school once, on creaking av equipment you couldn't have sold on a flea market then, never mind now, when studying Romeo and Juliet. Our teacher, bless, thought we might relate to the grungier West Side Story instead. True, not many musicals, especially in the American 50s, came with a body count, but they have to be the absolute gayest gangsters ever. If the gangsters curently shooting up our neighbourhood every night pranced about like that life would be quite a bit more interesting (unlike the insular eastern suburbs matrons, I found the juxtaposition between stylised movie hoodlums and the realife hoodlums I must endure daily so funny I nearly burst out laughing).

But yeah, I rather love West Side Story. Heaps. I saw it, at that school screening, at a very impressionable age and, well, if you can't spot that it's the template for my never finished fic, well, I wasn't even trying or doing it on purpose, it just falls that way because that's the template I was taught (at that very impressionable age, obviously).

Besides, it fits so well, right from the whole 'Neal caffrey, I just met a thief called Neal Caffrey' all the way through to the warring houses (a plague on them both, and their Nazi sub) to the very end.

Well, that's the way I'm watching it, which sadly has nothing to do with the show as it is actually and clumsily writ, but whatever, I'll never see season three now so what do I care?

There's a place for us,
A time and place for us.
Hold my hand and we're halfway there.
Hold my hand and I'll take you there
Some day,

So yes, loved it to bits, got well weepy at the end, and all the cool cats filed out clicking their fingers at the end, as we walked down the front steps of the Opera House. Kinda fun.

Dashed up to the Quay and did, actually, leap onto the ferry as they were pulling away the gang plank (I stills gots it) and thumped down in a seat as we spun around and pootled across the harbour, past the Harbour Bridge, Kirribilli, and bobbing onto the old wharf. A short wait for the bus to the top of the hill (it's a hill's hill, okay, and I have just had another birthday) and into the zoo. Sadly, due to my West Side Story-ing, I'd missed my opportunity to wander the animals as they were shutting everything up, but I forgot my camera anyway, and we were all herded down to the concert lawn, tres Edwardian, down by the old elephant house (a glory of Edwardian fancy) so I did get to see some pachyderms as they pressed by the fence, one seemed to particularly like the music, rocking in time, but they are former Malaysian street elephants so it probably misses a bit of noise and light. Also saw spider monkeys, but that's pretty much it in the way of exotic wildlife.

It was a fairly cramped picnic ground, and I was just there with my blankie and bottle of water, other folks really did pack the full dinner setting and silver service. I had picnic envy. So bad the couple on the blankie next to me offered me a few strawberries, taking pity. We watched the sun go down across the harbour, and then on with the show.

Best Church gig I've seen in a while (I honestly couldn't tell my picnic neighbours how many times I'd seen The Church, as I followed them around like a puppy in my youth) but whatever Steve was on, I could seriously use some right about now. He was mad, like a monkey with a firecracker up its arse, cavorting across the stage like the god of hellfire. Hilarious, but kind of silly, too, in a completely lacks dignity kind of way, but he'd sounded so excited to be playing the zoo in the interviews I figured we'd be getting a livlier Steve, and that we did. The boys just looked on and kept playing, as they do. They played several oldies but goldies, which was a treat, including Almost With You, Unguarded Moment, Under the Milky Way and Reptile. Squeal.

I know, but there's a precious patina of time and place for the old songs that makes them special to me, if no one else. For a second, it took me back, and that was fun.

Sadly over too soon, the boys left the stage so the elephants could go to bed and it was off down the dark windy steamy jungly path through the zoo down onto the ferry that had been sent to fetch us back and across the harbour, at night. Okay, this is one of the few things Sydney does right, because it's not a harbour, per se, but a drowned valley, so the lights come right down to the water, and it's pretty damn cool, I can tell you. Chug, chug, chug across the black, sparkly water, five bells and all that.

A grand day out.


So that's one pervy Fassy film down, one to go. Too bad Popcorn Taxi aren't screening Shame, so I could go and see it with the veneer of serious student of film, and not just a letch, an important distinction with all matters artistic (Himself refused to be drawn on the old art vs porn argument, connoisseur or voyeur).

It was off to Bondi, just a short bus ride from work, and, I'd better confess my fall from grace. I've been good, so good, but when I fall off the wagon, I fall hard. I'd only had a cup of tea for breakfast, and a nectarine and a couple of grapes thrown in for a treat from my beloved fruit cart man, for lunch, and I'd fully intended to have just a couple of decorous pieces of sushi for tea, when I saw it, the large iron pot of butter chicken. Fifteen minutes later I had my face down in a bowl of butter chicken, may god forgive me. I'm sure the CCTV is being sold to one of those torture the funny fatties shows they love so much as we speak.

And you can tell those shows are back on, and everyone takes their cues and the explicit permission to torture fatties. And so everyone put their bags on the seats when I got on the bus, pointed and laughed as I stood and told me they'd done it because nobody wanted to share a seat with me, and pointed and laughed as I stood, and, better yet, every time someone else would get on the bus, the bag would be whipped off for them but I had to keep standing and be mocked, loudly. I want to kill myself and it's not even six am yet. Such is my life.

So onto a screaming thrashing and wildly scenery chewing Keira (must be a few calories in all that plaster, surely, you skinny , overacting bitch) is delivered up to the tender, concerned and spanky ministrations of Mr Fassbender while Viggo waves a cigar about (sometimes a cigar is just a...very silly prop) and Vincent smokes Gauloises and grins, the imp on Fassy's upright shoulder.

Very, extraordinarily, restrained uptight tea cup rattler from Mr Cronenberg, I mean, seriously, no dissolving walls or anything, and very talky, you could tell it was a play, it was very much like a filmed production but for all that I rather loved it, because if you're going to have three chaps standing about discussing the finer points of shagging, and dressing it up as a scientific pursuit of truth, then it really helps to have three very, very fine actors indeeed and it's a shame these boys were overlooked for gongs because they make the dialogue sing. I've still got a thing for Viggo, it seems, and his ever so slightly rascally and twinkly Freud, and Vincent, well, he can do no wrong, and I've come to the sad conclusion I'd happily watch Mr Fassbender read the phonebook, I am so completely in love with him. There is only one actor who concentrates my attention so, and that is he. I cannot give a reasoned assessment as I found every gesture or frown a delight and new proof of his genius. Oh yeah, I've got it bad, and I've had it bad, for years/decades now. Seeing him on the big, big screen just makes it so much worse, I think. I'm completely mesmerised.

The subject matter? Eh, what care I for turn of last century ideas and thoughts, that curiously cling on while other ideas so in vogue have fallen by the wayside, but I understand other folks, including several of the audence, take this sort of stuff very seriously indeed, and that the schism that is sort of touched upon is still raging about the place. Everything seemed just sort of touched upon, including matters of trust and professionalism, and I should call the screenplay flawed in that regard, but maybe it was trying to reflect the repression of the times (stiff upper lip or stiff screenplay, who is to say) but again, not really concerned when watching Michael and Viggo zing back and forth like champion chessmen (or perhaps fencers?).

Anyhoo, there were a few funny parts, and I liked it well enough. The Q&A afterwards with producer Jeremy Thomas dragged on a bit, but I was tired, and he had a lot of friends there, so the Q&A tended towards the esoteric, but he did mention Hiddleston is now doing the Fassbender role in that vampire film he's working on. The rest was mainly anecdotes for films I've not seen and no stories from films I had, to my personal frustration.

After that it was home again with a sweetie cab driver who also wanted to discuss deep philosophical questions (ack, enough, my head hurts) and no sleep as it was as hot and steamy as. First day of summer, for sure.

Oh well, at least the butter chicken made me happy and very scribbly. I was still going when the lights went down. Finally, some motion out of this damn fic, even if I am squeezing it like a lemon now. Dance, monkeys, dance. Funny that Matty's gonna be on Glee, but perhaps the most inevitable and least surprising thing that's going to happen all year. (Update: He's going to be singing Duran Duran. I am going to have to put paper down).

Re the fic, I seem to be being trumped everywhere, which I totally deserve, due to my slowness (but hey, lucky to get twenty minutes, at most, a day to spend on it, so you know, it is having to be built one pebble at a time), both by the show, other films and tv and, dammit, even real life which totally put the kybosh on the piece I'd polished up ready for posting. Twixt save and send real life happened and I thought better of it, missing my chance to be prescient, I would have been seen more roughly as too soon.

I've also been severly beaten to the whole kidnap plot, though mine does end a little darker, just a touch, and also the faux Moriarty, which was there from the start (since I can't do Holmes fic I originally stuffed the stories with unwanted plot bunnies from there) but at least they haven't done the Neal sets Peter up big time plot (where Neal, in jaded bunny boiler mode*, uses every instance of Peter looking the other way, lying, covering up and destroying evidence to protect Neal as proof of Peter's corruption, throwing in a nice serve of harrassment on the side).

Then there's the whole spanky Fassbender bit. The character of Arkady has always been a bit kinky, intended as a darker version of Peter, keeping Neal literally on a short leash, but since I decided to recast him in my mind's eye as extraordinarily Fassy like, well, it looks like I picked up the idea the other night, not watering the garden two years ago (and being very surprised at just what pops into my head while pouring water on the lemon tree, still half asleep from the draconian Sunday only watering hours).

Oh well, should have made my deadlines, but you know what? Nah. I'm still having fun, spinning it out, twisting it and mixing it up, and the one good horoscope I read that did not predict doom, hard work and suffering, as always (which is why I hold no store in them, except when they confirm what I want them to confirm, because my monkey brain is wired that way) said I should ignore deadlines to do the job properly and well. So I am. Besides, I don't know if and when I'll ever see series three. Next year? Never? Kinda burns, but there it is. I guess it makes it easier to ignore the show and just use the basic and shallow template they provided for my own twisted ideas.

Oh, the frangipani envy, it must have been wild. The very next day after tweeting the photo of my beloved frangipani, which I'd grown for years from a tiny twiglet, and it finally flowered, at last, at last, and then while I was a work a freak wind must have blown up and kicked it over and completely destroyed it, so I wasn't even allowed to wallow in twenty four hours of frangipani goodness. Whimper.

Meanwhile, rainy as, which is great, because it's another long walk to the theatre...


And so to the theatre. Never been to the Carriageworks again. My how Redfern has changed. The people there were so WASPy and haughty they refused to make eye contact, let alone answer my humble queries. No seats either but they had these caravans there as an installation, showing videos of the old indigenous inhabitants before the clearances, just so the hellishly snobby white folks could feel a bit edgy in their new gentrified enclave. Anyways, it was as good a place as any to take refuge, so I did. Very cosy in fact. I'd love an old cravan to go hide in and scribble.

Anyhoo, the play. Oh. My God. That was impressive. It was based on the Greek story so there was going to be sex, death, rape, murder, incest and cooking, but yikes, that was intense. The action all happened in a bare white box in a series of quickly cutting scenes as we stagger from one trauma to another.

Scenes that are going to stick with me forever were the scene with the strap on and the unfaithful wife with the taped up mouth, which was played as darkly funny and there was tittering over the Hollywood blow job in the ladies loo afterwards, and, oh my god, the rape and then that last scene, the dinner that starts with Thyestes is sitting at the table happily reminiscing and ends with him violently vomiting spag bol all over the stage having just been told he's been served a dish of his own murdered children. Those Greeks, you don't get that on Masterchef.

The other scene that stuck was the scene where Thyestes is just sitting there, having gone mad, and there was an audible sob from the back of the audience. But the thing that was really discussed in low murmurs (the seats were really crammed so we were all in reach other's laps which just added to the claustrophobic atmosphere) was how on earth they'd managed to get that piano to suddenly appear on stage. I love theatre trickery.

So yes, funny, brutal, sick and horrifying but oh my, electrifying.

Speaking of theatre, the 1789 NSW performance mentioned here in this article about Mr Gatiss, my direct ancestor (grandpa x whatever) was involved in the production thereof. Nobody has older theatre roots in this country than me, darlings. And so Sydney, we had a theatre built and running while church services were still beiing conducted under flapping canvas - chortle. Priorities, we have them.



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* Well, he's not exactly good at letting go is he? Consider Kate and her complete inability to be shot of him.

Tags: film, links, matthew bomer, michael fassbender, sherlock, the avengers, the church, theatre, vincent cassel, west side story, white collar

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