mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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all things bright and beautiful

First I have to tell you about the silly celebrity sighting before this week drags me down any more than it already has. It was quite simple, really. I was in the city to see a play and loitering around QVB, very bored by that stage, having found all the shops I liked boarded up and having taken my notebook to three lacklustre coffee shops by that stage (I had to get in early before the buses cut out) and I was heading out the door, then decided to turn back and have another look at the one shop that was open (and just as well, because what I'd been looking for was only put on the shelves then).

Anyways, as I turned there was young Mr Daniel MacPherson, his usual cheery, gorgeous self, in the process of doing a stage bow right in front of me with all the flourishes, as the punchline to some joke with his friends. It was nothing, of course, but I was tickled. Ah, the dear boy, just as silly off stage as on.

Anyhoo, I was off to see 8 at the Town Hall, just to see a local version, see Dan, buy a ticket, that sort of thing (unlike the Vogon captain, and how I feel often at my lowest, just because I'm miserable and alone doesn't mean anybody else should have to be). It's a matter of law, and even though I don't have any equality in practice, and they talk about rounding up people like me and putting us in camps, I hate to see others suffer injustice. And so.

And it was good. I'm not just saying this, but aside from a few glitches, the Oz cast seemed much more rehearsed and professional, much more relaxed, and much more about to spin the lines their own way. Magda, as you might expect, brought the house down. A fine performance, and way, way, way better than the LA one. It really was. I certainly found it far more entertaining and much funnier, as some of our well trained comedians let rip. A little less earnest, though no less serious in intent, perhaps? Such a bare boned script perhaps served the Oz actors better, far more used to wringing juice from a lemon (see also local productions). Or, they were just better because they're better. It could be that simple.

So that was Saturday. Sunday it was off to the theatre again, sort of, as we rocked along to an encore screening of Frankenstein at the local, braving both the uncomfortable seats and the mass of giggly Cumberbitches. Despite that, it was good, damn good. Benedict was the monster, and, I must say it, I feel he does the better monster, but after being called 'monster, monster, monster' on the bus yesterday I am always going to side with the monster. I know the raging pain and anger of trying to reach out, only to be beaten back with flaming torches and pitchforks. It does darken the heart, somewhat (and don't even get onto the whole rejected by my mother who couldn't bear to be in the same room as me thing).

So yeah, digging the monster, digging BC's monster especially for the nuances he brought, the delight, the curiosity, the malice. Third time around, I loved it more than ever. Well, the first time, though live, wasn't an optimum viewing experience, and the others, oh well. But this time, oh man, I was in there, hanging on every word, every gesture, every idea. Maybe it's because I'd re-read the book and a great deal of critical analysis about it (ie, done my homework). Maybe I was still thrilled at seeing those pages in the NY Library, with all the crossings out and notes. Maybe I was just in the right mood. Maybe Benedict's performance really is that great, especially when seen from right up close.

I loved it, and it's still haunting me, two days later. The mark of great, classic theatre.

So that was great. We went for churros and hot chocolate aterwards, because it was cold and grey. It was raining when we emerged and the rain just started getting worse and worse and I was lucky to get a taxi, because when I was doing the washing up I'd left for myself (no thanks, past me) it came in really dark, with scary clouds that gave both me and the birds fright, but luckily just meant buckets of rain and nothing worse.

Oh yes, that morning it was a bit grim and grey, so I'd made it a bit cheery by pulling out the tea set and putting on the Miss Fisher soundtrack. Nothing like a nice cup of tea in a pretty cup and old timey music to cheer one up.

We also had an obscene amount of sushi in a very short time, basically descending on the local sushi train like locusts because we were pressed for time (bus was late). It was nice and the Peanut Gallery chose well.

Saturday morning, unlike the rest of the city, was dry, so I even managed to get the mountain (actual, no exageration) of washing done and mostly dry. Also, as Monday was wet from start to finish, and my alarm clock isn't programmed for public holidays so off it went, I caught up on some telly and then typed and typed and typed some more, with only a break for lunch and another break during a very boring Hex while my poor wee PC struggled with some system updates that meant it couldn't open notepad whileit processed them (notepad!) and then it was back to work, even during an eisode of Buffy that is still funny and more amusing than it might have normally be, just because it was also about unorthodox uses for spare body part ('Uncle Ewan!!!', as we quote from the play).

That was pretty much it. Typed through The Bleak Old Shop of Stuff, which did have me laughing, though Dickens is a very easy target, imho, typed through Twenty-Twelve, which was aso hilarious, in a far more cringeworthy fashion (recognised several well known types and set ups from my own daily worklife experiences, oh dear). So spot on, oh dearie me.

Typed still through a fair whack of the Tony Awards, which I enjoyed, but I must have dozed off during James's moment in the sun (thank goodness for YouTube) and was kept up late by noisy neighbours and nosy possums at midnight, all put out by the weather, it seemed.

Woke up with a deep sense of dread, but I'm going to pretend it's just a wee bit of an anxiety attack brought on by making myself crashing tired (even though typing up until 9pm was fun, after 9pm, not so much) and the weather and the way the press are so gleefully rubbing their hands for blood re the oncoming sackings. It's bloody miserable how turning up every day and dutifully empying your inbox, and even swinging the occassional innovation or cost saving, just doesn't cut it any more. Perhaps why the Bleak Old Shop of Stuff waasn't as funny as it could have been. Like is just a touch too Dickensian for me right now. Would very much like to inherit an expectation right about now.

Meanwhile, it's now official, a dingo ate the baby. This means Oz's band should have, in point of law, been called Dingoes 'Allegedly' Ate My Baby. Funny how the Americans seem to find it all so hilarious, when it was a very serious and difficult thing here (and god forbid we should laugh at anything similiar over there).

Anyhoo, was indeed watching Buffy last night, because old Buffy episodes on wretched wet days are good for the soul, and this was the one where we first meet Spike, so, classic. Seriously, has there ever been a finer tv creation than Spike? And I'm talking Spike as he was first introduced, not the neutered kitten he became (and even then it was a far more interesting struggle to watch as Spike tried to go straight than any other so called bad boy on tv these days, and that includes Mr Northman). I honestly can't think of any other tv character with the same sort of impact, who isn't based on book or film (which rules out Sherlock or any of the Game of Thrones gang, True Blood, etc). Actually, there's only one I can think of. The boy in the big blue box.

But yeah, Spike, so classic. All punk and crazy love, all violence and destruction and yet taking time to notice Buffy's doilies. All swagger and yet so reliant on Angel and Drusila. Ah, Spike, still a fascinating creature, all these years later.

Also caught up on Grimm, which is a touch, more than a touch, derivative, but that's okay, part of its charm. Watching the so called Bigfoot rampage about, I was wondering if the DoP wasn't familiar with, ahem, earlier tv Bigfoots, or indeed The Hulk or Nightstalker (to which Grimm owes a great debt, it's there, in its DNA), because, my gosh, it was very evocative of those shows when I was watching it (and Nightstalker was just running on SciFi, yes, still SciFi out here, just the other month, so it's very fresh in what passes for the grey matter these days).

I guess that's why I like Grimm. My inner seven year old just thinks it's the neatest. When I was seven, I was desperate for shows like Grimm, but they were thin on the ground, and I wouldn't have been allowed to watch 'em anyway (fortunately I had access to tv speakeasys - grin). And that probably says everything you need to know about my drug of choice. TV = forbidden pleasures, shameful, sinful secrets, transgression, rebellion and disobedience. And I'm not just talking about watching True Blood with the curtains open. Smirk.

Also, my Maverick dvd arrived. Oh, happiness. Oh, boys.

Oh, there are tiny silver drops all along the dark, bare branches of the tree outside this window they've stuck me at. Yes, I'm at a window seat in the corridor, completely sidelined and not invited to the important meeting. Sure, I'll be able to afford food next week. Sure. The worst of it, I could do all their jobs, I have the certificates to prove it, but they just don't like me. Story of my life. So out of here. But for now, tree pretty.

Any ideas on what I should do now, though? Because I'm only coming up with nunnery or world's oldest and ugliest hooker. I need help.

Speaking of nunneries, they were digging up one on Time Team last night (while I was messing about with dinner and yes, nothing more closely resembling a pub quiz team scrabbling in the dirt than Time Team). So they were complaining that it was hard to guess the layout of the building remains as there was no 'strict nunnery template', and the Peanut Gallery immediately pipes up with 'I thought Strict Nunnery Template was a concept album from 1967...'. Okay, so you had to be there, I snorted my tea, just a bit.

He's always doing that. Someone will say 'donkey tonsils' on tv and he'll be off, citing the imaginary band's discography, their most notable performances, a particularly shaming review in NME, that unfortunate incident that was in all the tabloids, you know, the one with the three hookers, the politician and the circus elephant...

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Matt Bomer
Tags: benedict cumberbatch, buffy the vampire slayer, daniel macpherson, grimm, james corden, jonny lee miller, theatre

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