There were snacks, though.
And cake. Surprise cake on Tuesday. I was off sick from ---, and even though I had --- and --- it wasn't happening because, oooh, not good. Spent most of day trying to sleep, and when I finally staggered as far as the couch I found I'd slept through cake being baked (I didn't think I was asleep but I slept through that). Apparently the lemons I'd aquired were gettin' on, so lemon iced tea cake it was. That was nice.
TV? Hardly anything this week, except Hell on Wheels, which I find strangely compelling. Oh, and the Newsroom. It's been absolutely wretched this season, and it has caused me great pain and distress to see a formerly beloved show flopping about limply like a dying fish, crushed under the weight of mandated retooling. And then Jane Fonda showed up. And saved the day. That was...magnificent.
Now, if only Leona/Jane could show up on some other shows I watch and kick some annoying little weasels to the curb, life would be so much better.
Meanwhile, on White Collar, well, I was overly confident in my ability to tape it. PVR worked okay, but it was on late, like really late, so even allowing my usual fifteen minute fudge, I missed the end. Fortunately I had, ahem, a backup to re-watch, but still.
I sulked the only way I could, by turning onto Soho and watching, well, White Collar. They're playing S3, which I've also only seen the once (because it's harder to give myself permission to sit down and binge than say, lookit, it's on telly, for some reason, I still have that mindset, but we don't have Hulu or Netflix here). It was the Neal plays substitute teacher one, flimsy on plot, but lots of Bomer pretty, as always.
Mind you, it's a sloppily made show. Last episode they had me smirking over the timer which for some reason was using semicolons, and this week there was film crew big time in the leadlight windows. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.
Me, I'm just frustrated that it's always one step forward, two back for Caffrey. Every time he gets closer to Peter, or any one, or enthuses on plans that don't involve larceny, and he gets dragged back into some evil scheme (and the whole stolen art plot was evil) that totally alienates any new alliances he might have made. It's quite distressing, really. Either that's the plan, or the writers are too afraid to let the show grow the way it wants.
Also, the plots, so threadbare and retreaded. I blame an XY heavy writers room. I heard somewhere there were a lot of women writers on Maverick, and it had a lightness of touch, a charm, that White Collar lacks. Seriously, only watching for the Bomer pretty some days/most days.
Since I had the dvd player warmed up, I also rewatched last Sunday's episode of Ripper Street, only the dvd version, because, omg, the Ten version is ripped to pieces. They're doing that thing that they've done on other shows, where, to make room for an extra 12 minutes of ads (well, it was 12 more minutes than the US/UK last time I checked), instead of slicing scenes here and there, the editor takes a set against a certain character and excises each and everyevery scene in which he appears to make up the time, plot and narrative be damned.
To my horror, the character they've chosen to excise is the wonderful, sleazy, action man of science, my beloved Captain Jackson. Mr Sexposition. The object of the the blustering and improbable hero worship of Reid, who can't afford the old .25% PA wage increase for poor old Drake, yet somehow has found the funds to build a shiny temple of death to his American god. Well, you can call it a morgue, I'm going to call it a shiny temple of death, because it's just such a votive offering, it really is.
So, yes, my most favourite new character on tv all year, and EvilChannelTen decides to cut every damn scene he's in, and, as he's the Mary Sue of Science and Everything Else in the show, it makes not a lot of sense without the Captain Jackson Explains scenes.
Would that the evil editor (and really, can they butcher other people's shows willy nilly like that? And there was nil will on the Ten edit, the prudes) would turn his scissors to other shows, but they'd probably cut out my favourite, sidelined enough as it is boy. I just know it.
Most frustrating. I love Matt and Jerome, always have, probably always will, so I'll still watch, but man, give me my Captain Jackson, dammit. Yes, Reid moons over him like a mad bull in season, ditto the demonstrations of Jackson's many vices, all very amusing, but dammit, man, that's half the fun.
"That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain" - William Shakespeare, Hamlet
I guess I could address why some loveableable rogues appeal, and others are just villains, but it's a personal thing. I think it takes a certain twinkle, and, for me, lines that will not be crossed, and loyaties that cannot be disregarded (no matter how much bickering and banter may occur otherwise). A certain willingness to do good or be good, despite whatever flaws or temptations they may have. Not irredeemable. I could mention upgoing and downgoing and the hero's journey and all that, but you know what I mean: not a complete dick. Dodgy, yes, but honourable, when it counts.
For me, Jackson has that. The Maverick boys, too, and the brothers Winchester, Mr John Smith, that smuggler Solo, the crew of Serenity, Raylan, and even Boyd, weirdly. Bohannon, sometimes, more often than not. Caffrey? No. Rarely if ever. Too shallow, too willing to cut and run, too easily influenced and giving in to his darker angels, too easily bought.
I guess I like a good guy living wild, but loathe a bad boy pretending to be civilised and charm. One is a wayward rogue with a heart of gold, the other is a stone cold psychopath.
The point is, there are serial killers, vampires and other monsters on tv right now with a stronger moral code and a firmer grasp on what is good and right than young Caffrey. And that's not edgy, it's just evil. Wallowing on a tropical island funded by blood money, leaving everyone hung out to dry? That's just wicked. No matter how pretty he is. Mad, bad and dangerous to know.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
BBC - Poetry Season - Poems - The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Film or theatre? Nope. At least, not yet.
But I did pop out at lunch to go see Selling Dreams: One Hundred Years of Fashion Photography and Australian Glamour: Model, Photographer, Magazine up at the State Library. Almot disapointing small, but also lunchtime dooable, and quite nice pics. Not enough, for my liking, and I was really in the mood to see more Sixties models standing in oddly strained and angled poses in very quirky fashions. More Sixties, less Eighties and Nineties (but hey, that was my motto during the 80s and 90s). Coulda done with more Thirties, too, oh, the glamour.
anyway, that was an hour plesantly spent away from the --- and indulging in admiring composition, contrasts, surrealism and crazy poses, as well as suffering severe fashion envy.
Poor old muggins was wearing her sacky printed rayony thing, and a slightly battered felt hat that looks sort of Thirties but is just cheap factory made thing that I must have bought off some market somewhere (my hats toppled off the wardrobe the other day, and feeling guilty over never wearing them in this city, I decided it was Friday hat day). Oh, and a bright yellow bag from Coles. People stared, but not in a good way. I don't care, at least, today I don't, not really. I'm too much a monstrosity to wear anything nice, no bias cut silk gowns for me, so I figure if I want to dress like a crazy bag lady, so be it (I was going for boho, but I'm pretty sure I only hit crazy bag lady).
Sigh. Still, peppermint tea and a bit of a turn about a gallery. But then the --- hit the ---. Sigh.
But then there was film/theatre. As they had promised me, in writing, The Globe On Screen actually screened in my hometown, thus saving me a six hour round trip to the eastern suburbs. You might not care, but to get Henry V and the washing done, well, it worked for me.
And it was fun. They've actually got cushions now for the world's worst theatre seats (how very Globelike), the cafe served a decent shiraz and, the dvd skiddin all over the place notwithstanding (tsk tsk), it was pretty cool.
I always love The Globe performances, and they even manage to wring every chance of a bit of end of the pier humour out of the histories. Never again will I be able to hear the line 'a touch of Harry in the night' without smirking. Oooh-er. Highlights had to be the leek, and the king corpsing, but it was so much fun, mighty battles fought on stage, the chorus impeaching us to imagine impressive Fx, because the location budget was rained out - smirk.
That Jamie Parker is a bit of all right, too.
I liked it. It'll stand happily with the Sir Ken version and the one with Hiddles.
Home in time for tea (huzzah) and scanning (done but not finalised, alas). Thank you Globe, for bringing Shakespeare to me.
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