mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

popcorn and prejudice

The big yellow rubby ducky has gone from Darling Harbour. Weep. I'm quite and surprisingly verklempt about it, the vanishing of a rather large and foolish yellow duck, but the sight of its big round yellow head every morning gave me a smile, especially this week, when I've had little to smile about.

Monday was a disaster from start to finish, especially when I realised, several hours into my morning commute, that I'd hadn't zipped the back of my dress all the way up. I've finally failed dressing myself in the morning. In my defence, it was cracking early and I was desperately unwell, but still, as I've learnt from bitter experience, there's no excuse.

Staggered through the day from one outrage to another (Pulcinella, who can't even use Word or the phone, has been promoted above me and I must now bob and curtsey, my worst nightmare, or one of them, the subconcious has been pouring them on in nightly nightmares lately) until I went of to see Django Unchained. QT was supposed to be there, but why would an American ever show up for an event for which I had a ticket? Perish the very thought. Too busy sunning himself on a Mexican beach, we made do with John Jarratt and free popcorn. And even my free popcorn were the lumpy bitter dregs of popcorn detris. Sigh.

Still, as I sat there, in misery, trying to digest the indigestible kernels of bitterness, I tried to make the best of it (I must admit I was disappointed, I'd been looking forward to it for weeks). And then the film started. I put away the inedible popcorn and I sank into my red velvet seat in happiness. Because it was a proper western. Because I giggled from the very first frame. It was so a mash-up of just about every western they'd played in Fox Classics, and I wondered what my Dad would have made of it. Certainly, during the sillier scenes, which almost recalled Blazing Saddles, quite a bit I should think. There were so many perfect scenes, that leg humping homage QT does with his genres, but it was such a glorious pastiche, I really was quite in love with it.

Christoph Waltz has never been lovlier, and if those idiot black t-shirted boys didn't know exactly what the go was from the moment the dentist's wagon first rocked into view, well, for shame. I knew. I was squirming with delight. I've seen John Henry Holliday, Dentist, listed in an American census online. That wagon was straight out of something I've seeb, and have on dvd, I'm fairly sure. I was pleased. QT was ticking all my boxes.

Oh yes, there was what the SMH called gleeful violence and destruction, but it's almost always an underdog with a legitmate grievance, and you don't get much more grievance than slavery as practicised in the Americas. At least my American branch of the family weren't just ribbon wearing abolitionists, but picked up a young boy, abondened in the streets still in shackles, on the way back from the war (he ended up marrying into the family and owning his own farm, and, okay, died drunk and singing out a rebel yell, but his grandson fought in WWI). I figured what was on screen was there to shock, and it did.

Mr Di Caprio put in an insane moustache twirling turn as the wicked villain of the piece, my beloved Mr Goggins was woefully underused (imho, but I have a thing for Boyd, and very disturbing it is too, but there it is, I'd rather watch Boyd than Winchesters, I discovered last night when I had to choose) and Mr Jackson was the vilest creature I've seen on film this year, and that includes goblins and trolls (another aside, I was amused during the Hobbit class when the tea urn discussion turned to whether the goblin king was more Les Patterson or Sandy Stone in the fillum. Heh).

So yeah. Violent and nasty? Sure? Too clever and silly for it's own good? Certainly. But it was the best Tarantino film I've seen yet, and aside from the misjudged and self indulgent cameo, was a film by a filmaker at the height of his powers. Sure, it wasn't a soggy Speilberg epic, but it'll do me. Especially as I was so miserable. Nothing like a few righteous comedy slayings to cheer a gal up.

Friday, and there was mr Gaiman. Well, first there was work, a ride on the monorail (first and last) and dinner, and then there was Mr Gaiman. Live and in person (because he's not American, cf QT, MB) and singing the theme from Fireball XL5. No, really. He also talked of ducks (demon and otherwise), porridge (and cybermen) and read from two stories, neither of which has been published yet (typical, using Oz audiences as crash test dummies). He was wonderful, funny, inspring, this man I have adored for half my life now (from comic shops to the recital Hall).

Here is someone else doing the old Fireball XL5 Theme song:

Sunny Saturday, elated and inspired by Mr Gaiman, I woke and reached for the workings to start off with some typing, but there was a knock at the door. It was two members of the constabulary come to caution me in my pyjamas. Apparently one of those cunthammers who keep parking in our driverway on bin night had their car damaged, as was bound to happen sooner of later as the truck tries to get at the bins they've pretty much parked on top of, as is their way, but everone is dead set I did it, as a deliberate act, despite having gone to bed before the sun set on bin night because I was ill. Because of the way I look, because it was my driveway (and you parked in it because?), because I've not kept up with the weeding in the front yard (small wonder as every time I'm out there I am verbally or physically abused by the neighbours) the police reckon I did it, absolutely, and only lack of actual evidence has kept me out of gaol.

Anyways, it's been three days of constant terrifying persecution based soley on the fact that I am hideous, and therefore clearly guilty with anyone with eyes. The fact that all I did was stagger home so very ill (dizzy and sick and in pain) and go to bed without even watching any telly means nothing.

So to say I'm upset, never want to write, type, read, go out, garden, think or feel or breathe again is an understatement. Everyone in the world hates me and wants to destroy me. And my feet hurt - I had to walk back home with bare feet over broken glass and they're cut up and festering. I cannot go on, not with everyone (work/home) out to get me. I know they just want me to move so they can put a block of flats where the house is, but they've finally really got to me, you know? I've had it. I just want to curl up and die. Would that make you happy? Would you stop, then? Why won't you leave me alone? I get up, I go to work, I pay taxes, I recycle, isn't this enough? I know, it's burn the witch time. Go get your matches, I'll wait. Put me out of my misery. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. I have really, seriously, had it this time.

And I had such a lovely time at the Gaiman recital...

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30 August 2010


September -

October 2010


November 2010

Daily Telegraph

6 January 2011

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September 2010



December 2010



December 2010


Tags: alexander skarsgard, books, christopher pine, film, justified, links, magazine scans, matthew bomer, neil gaiman, supernatural, tony curtis, vincent cassel

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