Decided to combine several trips into one on Saturday, so off we went early to catch a session, finally, of Skyfall down at the Dendy. Could have done without the noisy popcorn perfume people, and the movie had been hyped beyond belief, but you know me, if it's a Bond film, I'm happy.
And it was a good Bond film. And a surprisingly introspective one at that, playing out more like an episode of Spooks (although it really reminded of an episode of some ITC show I know but dashed if I can remember which one, oh, for shame, fading brain, but definitely in the Department S, Avengers, Saint, Professionals type arena). Certainly it set out the mish. state. and I do hope we get at least one more outing with Dan, especially now we've got all the old gang together, as were (but only if he promises to be s flirty with RF as he has been previously - grin).
The bit in the ring with the komodos, though, a bit Chuck, no? I have no problem with JB taking a leaf from the book of Charles Carmichael. Others might, though.
It was a gorgeous looking film, and I'm not just talking Brit boy totty, though that ain't bad, either. It was just so beautifully filmed, with all the lovely colours and scenery, set pieces and lighting. So many of the middle Bonds looked like bad American tv shows, like really, really bad, so it was a delight and relief to see the impressive visuals back, the stuff that made me drool over the 60s Bonds to start with (shamful to say, but it is true I squeed far more over seeing the Ken Adam's sketches in that IWM Bond exhibition than I ever did seeing the badly botched Sistine Chapel restoration - by a very, very, very large margin).
The music was on form, there was actually a plot, and there was the old Aston, at least, for a bit (still chuckling over the jector seat joke). Loved the London-centric scenes (again, giving it a Spooks sensibility) and I was pleased that my inner tube map still survives enough in the old nog to know exactly where they were heading without having to have it explained to me.
The quality of thesps they'd roped in, and the performances they gave, again, such an improvement on a great many Bond's past. I mean, Dan and Ben used to be art house darlings, and now they're in a Bond film? It probably explains why it was on at the Dendy: they saw the usual suspects (Daniel Craig, Ben Whishaw, Judy Dench, Ralph Fiennes, Javier Bardem) and assumed it was an art film, not a Bond film. I do like it when actors take it seriously. It helps sell it, you know? (I mean, fancy me reaching for the tissues in a Bond film, but there you go).
And as for those reviews about Silva. Really, those reviewers clearly haven't read the books (tsk!). I could give you a long list of actual textual flirty bad guys before I started on with the subtextual and film ones. Even Dr No gets a bit flirty across the dinner table (and checks out a sleeping Bond) in the first film. As DC's 007 says, so not his first time. Heh.
But yeah, loved it. Bond film. Happiness. I don't think there's anyone who quite adores them the way I do. At least, no oone I know does. One of my earliest memories is of Dad letting me stay up to see the end of Diamonds Are Forever on telly.
Then we rolled from the chocolate cafe to the very nice and completely deerted bar that served the most fabulous prawn martinis (stirred, not shaken, mercifully) which was a take on the old prawn cocktail only in a martini glass (and we'd just been to a Bond flick so we had to) with mango, chilli and lime and it was fabulous. We followed up with lobster and chips, because it said lobster and chips on the menu, and I was of a mood to have my annual lobster treat. That was good, too. Okay, maybe not transcendentally fantastic, but at least I wasn't paying fresh lobster prices for perma-frost frozen lobster (boing!), and it was pretty darn fresh anyway and just the shot.
We sat, chatted, listened to the oddly soothing and ecclectic playlist, and waited until it was time to move onto the House. Oh yeah, the track Silva played on the abandoned Japanese mining island, the only other place I've heard that is on Himself's ipod. Make of that what you will.
Anyyway, onto the opera house to sit on the steps and not watch the sunset (it was cloudy) as we waited for the bing to signal the doors had opened. Morrissey at the Opera House. Yes please. And it was great. Wonderful. I was having so much fun, alas, the cramps hit me sideways again and there was a large section I was just getting through (and trying to manfully hang onto the lobster and chips) but I was back in time for the last few songs, and he finished off with How Soon is Now, so squee.
I enjoyed it, and for someone who professes to be such a miserable inept nobody of unhappy, non romantic airs, he certainly had the rock god thing going for him, more than anyone I've seen in years. Blimey. Ah, the confounding paradox that is Morrissey.
Mercifully the whole Meat is Murder thing isn't putting Himself off roasting a turkey (not the velociraptor of last year, but not a budgie either), and, in point of reply, most of the footage that plays out in that clip is illegal in this state anyways and he couldn't show me anything that'd shock me after going through the image library the other day and like the Herald review said, always a good toilet break song.
In fact, Himself was so wicked that when I sat down for a cuppa on Sunday, with Poirot on the telly (good old 13th St, always screening Poirot when I'm having a brief tea break, and it was an old one, with his bitch Hastings in tow) and I was bemused by one charcter who was wearing two animals sewn together hastily as a coat, and Himself snarked that a good furrier should be able to preserve the startled expressions of the creatures when they were shot. Ha hah ha.
Sorry, Morrissey. In deference to his sensibilities, I did don the respectable grey cardy, and not Mr Frisky (my vintage mink stole), which would have gone so well with the wonderful black dress that I'd picked up in Melbourne and had decided to wear (so Sixties). Oh well. One of these Mr Frisky is going to get a run.
But yes, that was Saturday. Sunday I spent most of the day, from 5am to 11pm, on my hands and knees scrubbing and cleaning and washing and the whole deal, just so I felt I could enjoy this week without the bathroom sink giving me the hairy eyeball, if you know what I mean (men, of course, suffer no such pangs of guilt).
And now you find me upright in the office. Well, I'd been up all night with cramps anyway, and here at least is air con, my teapot and Yorkshire Gold. It's not so bad.
Have a good one.
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