MORE THAN A MONTH?!

Go ahead and call me a slacker.
Go ahead!

Slacking on the internet - well, I can't really call that such a bad thing. I've been indulging myself in copious amounts of movie watching**, walk-taking, book writing, and music-listening. And if it's been a month and a half or so, then let's call it... five bottles of wine, a couple of daiquiris, and one extremely over-done Fourth of July.
I think there was a toga party in there somewhere, as well as the realization that I can (somehow!) pull a 900-ish pound cart uphill for about 200 feet by myself.
(I don't actually look like a She-Hulk in real life, so that was as much of a shock to me as it would have been to anyone else.) (Unless I do look like a She-Hulk in real life and don't realize it. Anyone who knows me - opinions?)
And reading, of course. Of course I've been reading. We might have established this previously, but I basically get paid stupid amounts of money to sit around and read.

I'm going to be honest - this probably all just has something to do with the fact that it's been so warm out. Winter beats the living fuck out of me, emotionally, so... as much as I hate being outdoors and being exposed to the sun, it would practically be criminal of me to squander winter's antithesis.

Seriously, though, there's been so much writing. The book that I've been working on intensively for the past year (and on and off in various iterations for the past... six?) is nearing what I'd consider to be completion.
You have no idea how fucking pumped I actually am about the fact that I can at least consider the beast to nearly be finished - publication thereof be damned.

So... that was the barebones status update. Regular posting should resume in the near future.

**Obviously, I've watched more than two movies in the past month and a half - that's just far too many movies to hyperlink in one fragment of a sentence. Let's be realistic here.

Where the fuck have I been, anyway?

I think it mostly boils down to the fact that it's summer, honestly. Doing things outside in the sun kind of kills my tendency to sit around and type about my weird little obsessions.

Pretty much any time I AM spending indoors is dedicated to Finally Finishing My Goddamned Book (It's Only Been Five Years Now, For Fuck's Sake).
That, and I finally decked out an office for myself to work in - I've got a kick-ass desk, my stereo, a lamp, all my books, my knick-knacks, my violin, my posters, a giant chunk of lead crystal hanging in the window... this place just needs a futon and another bookshelf and my den will be complete. (I'm told that I'm not allowed to call it a Man Cave because I'm not a man.)

There are certain things I do know, though. I've read 31 books cover-to-cover since starting my new job in February, 99% of which I completed during working hours.
I'm going on a small book-buying/possible futon-purchasing spree tomorrow.
I love summertime, sunshine, and all things not involving the winter.
At some point this week, I may go see X-Men: First Class. I'm told that it's relevant to my interests.

I may or may not be around more often now that my office is done.
TIME MAY TELL!

Nonsense, and stuff.

I'd like to speak, briefly, about the fact that I sympathize with Alan Moore on an creative level.

Does he use rape as a plot device somewhat too regularly? Yes.
Is he capable of waxing poetic at extrrrrrreme length (unitentional pun?) about drawing boobs? Yes, yes he is.
Have some of his comics been creepy as fuck? Again, I can only agree.

But at the same time...

'From Hell' was a good movie, but as an adaptation, it really blew.
'V for Vendetta' was an alright movie, but they butchered THE FUCK out of the adaptation process.
'Watchmen' was a glorious technicolor wonder, and while I'd certainly call it the most faithful of the films, certain things... maybe didn't need to be altered, or left out.

The absolute prime reason, though, that I sympathize with him as a creator?

Is the fact that this:

fucking beautiful example of storytelling, which obviously took a great deal of care on Moore's part** was shot, shat upon, kicked a few times in the ribs, and thrown through a turbine with a generous accompaniment of utter rubbish to produce this steaming pile of disgust:

and that I had to remain stoic when my stepmother told me how much she loved it "because it was fun".

There was something that set this post off.
I can't remember it now.

OH WAIT NOW I REMEMBER!

The complete omnibus of The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen is out this fall.

** I'm not trying to say that any of his other works didn't take a great deal of care. What I'm trying to say is that it takes a decent amount of talent and deliberation to carry on convoluted storylines about other peoples' characters. Throwing a bunch of random elements into a stew isn't going to work unless you give a shit about it being palatable, let alone fine dining.


I'm also not trying to lessen what a horrendous botch From Hell was, adaptation-wise. I'm just pointing out that it was a quality botch, rather than a crime against humanity. V for Vendetta was only a mild crime against humanity.

This is a post. Make of it what you will.

I was going to write something really, really long and detailed about filmed adaptations of literature.
I was.
I just don't think I have it in me.
I don't have it in me for a whole hell of a lot this week, though. Maybe next week? Maybe in a few days?
That post is coming. Just... not tonight.

I do have something I want to say about books, though, having gotten myself mot of the way through A Storm of Swords. (That's book 3 of A Song Of Ice And Fire, for those of you keeping tabs.)

I think I officially want to hug George R. R. Martin.

Not in a sexual way.

Allow me to explain, and come with me for a moment on a flight of fancy, because I like to imagine that this is what happened.

He woke up one morning, took care of necessaries, and got himself all psyched up for an action-packed day of sitting around writing A Clash Of Kings.
He sat himself down in front of his (typewriter/word processor/computer/notebook/tablet and chisel), took a sip of his tea, and dove right in.
Five lines later, though, he stopped suddenly.
He looked out the window, and a smirk formed on his lips as a mad glint overtook his eye.
Fuck this shit, he thought to himself. I have this brilliantly crafted world populated by these carefully-wrought characters who have built this intricate and devious web of political intrigue amongst themselves, and... just fuck this. I'll finish writing this story, but I am going to make them cringe like nuns if they want to find out how it ends. I shall test them. Yes. This is what I shall do.
And, with a quiet chuckle, he carried on with his day.

That's the only logical explanation I can come up with for the end of the second book and the majority of the third.

And you know what?

 

Anyone who can just straight-up pull some of this weird shit out of thin air, toss it in, and still have me completely plowing my way through the actual story without being too bovvered about it... that takes skill.
He's probably aware of that fact, and just doesn't even care.

(Mr. Martin, if you're reading this? You're one of my heroes now, and also a fabulous troll king. I mean that in the best of ways. Any confirmation or denial of my suspicions would be appreciated.)

The point to this? I keep trying to decide if I actually want to find a way to watch A Game Of Thrones. (I'm violently allergic to paying for cable.)
It looks like it's really well done, and I've heard a number of good things... I just don't think I could stomach it if they tone down the more disturbing moments in the books.

Which, I mean... makes me sound a little bit twisted, sure, but you have to understand that when it's not people (killing/plotting to kill) each other, it's become this hilarious-yet-vomit-inducing horror-show, and I can't get enough.

On a final note, I recommend Texts from Westeros to anyone who is even passingly familiar with the series. (Though I've not watched the series yet, I know who the actors are supposed to be, so it's still magically hilarious.)

In which Turtle is my hero.

This has been one of the worst days that I can personally remember having had.
Fact.
Am I going to detail it here? No, because that would be shitty of me.
Suffice it to say, I've spent 24 hours crying on and off.
Mostly on.

I'll be okay. Really, I will. Everyone will be okay. Things have been dealt with, and life will move along. Wrong things might even be fixed, though time's gonna tell on that much.

But Turtle is a fucking superhero.

I came home from work to find that she'd made me a pie.
A pie. For me.

A pear-Gruyère pie.

Just for me.

Let me tell you something, internets:

Pear-Gruyère pie is just as head-splittingly amazing in real life as I always thought it would be.

Turtle is my favorite person in the whole wide world right now.

 

Think of her as an even hotter version of Anna Friel, and you've

got a rough idea.

So I guess what I'm trying to say here is that cheese baked into pie crusts could solve all major global crises. MAKE THIS HAPPEN, PEOPLE.

Remember how awesome Kenneth Branagh used to be?

He was.
I mean, nowadays, I think the best thing he's actually managed was (essentially) playing himself in the Harry Potter films. Thor wasn't that bad, either.

But... he used to kick ass at directing, and even managed to act well from time to time.

***

Dead Again is a very, very strange mystery film about reincarnation. Aside from his own performance as a private detective, we're also treated to:
- Emma Thompson as an amnesiac whose only memories... are of a past life
- Derek Jacobi as a hypnotist/antiques dealer
- Robin Williams as a foul-mouthed former psychiatrist
- Andy Garcia in... one of the most stomach-turning performances I've ever seen

It's basically one of the best things I've ever seen in my whole life.



Here, he offers up some of what he does best: Shakespeare. Blah, blah, blah, Henry V, blah blah blee. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, thank you.

I'll admit that there are some blatantly corny moments in this one, but it's still fantastically awesome. I mean, aside from Keanu Reeves being EEEEEEEVIL (or maybe Keanu Reeves being evil just helps it. I can't decide! I don't know, though. I think if a person is named 'John the Bastard', they're... kind of predisposed to being... a bit mean-spirited.)
Brian Blessed is loud (even as an inconsequential side character), Robert Sean Leonard's eyebrows are enormous (His character's only purpose? Eyebrows and stupidity.), Michael Keaton is fucking crazy as Dogberry (this man should only do comedy, ever), Emma Thompson is Beatrice, one of the most fantastic snarky ladies on the planet, and Denzel Washington is wonderfully smarmy as Don Jon.
My Mom and I have probably watched this 40,000 (or maybe 12) times and it never gets old. Ever.



Oh, Branagh.
What, what, WHAT WERE YOU DOING?
Look at your life. Look at your choices.
I like Helena Bonham-Carter and all, but...
Well, let's just say I think know where your career started hitting the skids.

Even if Robert deNiro was fuckin' awesome as The Creature.
(I'm not hyperlinking you to Robert deNiro, though. If you don't know who that is, there's no help for you.)



Maybe he knew his talent was tanking. Maybe he just recklessly burned it all out by powering through with this thing. Time may only tell.
1996's Hamlet is just... overwhelming. It's so on-point in every regard that it's difficult to try and write about coherently.

The weird visual mish-mash of criss-crossing anachronisms melds together into perfection. The costuming, the sets, and the color composition of the whole thing are all stunning.
Every shot is perfectly framed.
This owes a lot to the way it was filmed. Most films (before the advent of digital filming, of course) were done on 35 mm film (the same width as camera film). This particular film (all four hours of it) was done on 65 mm film.
That doesn't make the picture itself bigger; it makes it possible to capture wider, more inclusive shots. (It also makes for higher image resolution.)

I can't find fault with anyone's performance. It's a very, very long movie in its entirety (as the complete, full text of the play was filmed, which is quite unusual for adaptations of Shakespeare), and in view of that, the emotional nuance needed for the scope of the thing is incredibly well-realized. (In stage adaptations, that tends to get lost in view of the fact that it's more important for actors to exaggerate a bit in order for their voices and gestures to be seen and heard properly by the audience.)

Not only that, but in the style of his better movies, it's utterly jam-packed with blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameos.

So... nearly everything he's done since Hamlet has, indeed, SUCKED... but I'd say that's one hell of a ($18,000,000) magnum opus all in all.

Brian Blessed is the loudest man known to humankind.

And he's also one of my heroes.

Go watch Black Adder. Seasons 2 and 3 are admittedly superior, but they do not feature His Royal Loudness at any point.

I don't know what this has to do with anything, aside form the fact that if you don't know who Brian Blessed is, I think you've had a sad life and that you should educate yourself promptly.