I have recently come to believe that I am somewhat cursed. A few weeks ago, I won tickets for a special preview screening of The Illusionist at the NFT which was followed by a Q&A session with the lovely Edward Norton. Unfortunately, as I had prior arrangements, I had to pass the tickets onto my friends. Then I managed to wrangle a pair of preview tickets for the following week, only to be informed at the cinema that the print was terrible quality and would I accept some complimentary guest passes by way of apology? (Mais oui, naturellement!) Then, this morning I got a text from M inviting me to an Amy Winehouse gig that was being filmed for the BBC at Porchester Hall. I was sorely tempted to accept but I once again had prior arrangements for a word games night (which I have dubbed in my head as Scrabble my Boggle!) and I am also going to see her on Friday already.
However, one free thing I did manage to attend was the preview screening for Becoming Jane tonight.
When I heard about this film last year (through my infatuation with James McAvoy), I had quite earmarked it as a must-see for this year. Ignore the outraged cries of Austenites, protesting that Anne Hathaway couldn't possibly portray the terribly English Jane Austen. It's understandable, anyone who saw The Prestige and witnessed Scarlett Johansson's performance would assume that most Hollywood starlets would have trouble with perfecting the accent as well as delivering a solid performance. (For the record, I think that Scarlett is all ornament, no use. She was great in Ghost World but it's all been downhill from there. I like to think of her as the second generation Kirsten Dunst (if you substitue Ghost World for The Virgin Suicides)) To my eye, Anne Hathaway has the perfect English Rose look - she's more Lizzie Bennett than Jennifer Ehle or Keira Knightly and who ever doubted she could act? (You have to admire any actress who could keep a straight face whilst wearing some of the wigs required in Brokeback Mountain.)
Becoming Jane is...solid. James McAvoy is all puppy-dog charm, hops and skips and Anne Hathaway is the epitome of the spirited heroine that is so often attributed to Austen's novels. Throw in the ever fabulous Julie Walters and James Cromwell and the cantankerous-old-lady reliable, Maggie Smith and it has that gloss all over it that screams "quality Sunday night BBC adaptation". The problem with Becoming Jane is that it doesn't really seem to take off, it just meanders along and then slowly comes to a stop. You only need to see the Joe Wright adaptation of Pride & Prejudice to see that the static style of the heritage films is not essential to filming a period piece. But really my problem with Becoming Jane is the lazy and clumsy way in which the script tries to tie in Jane Austen's flirtation with Tom Lefroy with the genesis of Pride and Prejudice. I don't want to come across all strident feminist but I hate the way that a lot of female authors get mythologised. (If you were to believe the popular imagination then the Brontes roamed free on the Yorkshire moors and Jane Austen spent her days promenading down the genteel streets of Bath.) In terms of literary analyses, female-penned books are much more likely to have a biographical analysis than male-authored texts. It all goes to discrediting the talent and literary merit of female authors and their works. And for all of Jane's passionate protestations in the film about the popular 19th century perceptions of the novel as a female past-time, her argument is undermined by the narrative.
It seems to have been quite the week for cultural disappointments. I went to see The Science of Sleep on Sunday afternoon and whilst it was kitschily adorable and as eccentric as you would expect of a Michel Gondry film, it did stray into obtuse art-house noodlings at some points. Then yesterday evening, I went to see Les Miserables and failed to care about any of the characters or understand why it was the longest running West End show. On my way to the theatre, I was also confronted with the disquieting sight of Daniel Radcliffe's naked torso ten feet high on Shaftesbury Avenue. 'Twas not what I wanted to see on an empty stomach I tell you dear readers.
However, one free thing I did manage to attend was the preview screening for Becoming Jane tonight.
When I heard about this film last year (through my infatuation with James McAvoy), I had quite earmarked it as a must-see for this year. Ignore the outraged cries of Austenites, protesting that Anne Hathaway couldn't possibly portray the terribly English Jane Austen. It's understandable, anyone who saw The Prestige and witnessed Scarlett Johansson's performance would assume that most Hollywood starlets would have trouble with perfecting the accent as well as delivering a solid performance. (For the record, I think that Scarlett is all ornament, no use. She was great in Ghost World but it's all been downhill from there. I like to think of her as the second generation Kirsten Dunst (if you substitue Ghost World for The Virgin Suicides)) To my eye, Anne Hathaway has the perfect English Rose look - she's more Lizzie Bennett than Jennifer Ehle or Keira Knightly and who ever doubted she could act? (You have to admire any actress who could keep a straight face whilst wearing some of the wigs required in Brokeback Mountain.)
Becoming Jane is...solid. James McAvoy is all puppy-dog charm, hops and skips and Anne Hathaway is the epitome of the spirited heroine that is so often attributed to Austen's novels. Throw in the ever fabulous Julie Walters and James Cromwell and the cantankerous-old-lady reliable, Maggie Smith and it has that gloss all over it that screams "quality Sunday night BBC adaptation". The problem with Becoming Jane is that it doesn't really seem to take off, it just meanders along and then slowly comes to a stop. You only need to see the Joe Wright adaptation of Pride & Prejudice to see that the static style of the heritage films is not essential to filming a period piece. But really my problem with Becoming Jane is the lazy and clumsy way in which the script tries to tie in Jane Austen's flirtation with Tom Lefroy with the genesis of Pride and Prejudice. I don't want to come across all strident feminist but I hate the way that a lot of female authors get mythologised. (If you were to believe the popular imagination then the Brontes roamed free on the Yorkshire moors and Jane Austen spent her days promenading down the genteel streets of Bath.) In terms of literary analyses, female-penned books are much more likely to have a biographical analysis than male-authored texts. It all goes to discrediting the talent and literary merit of female authors and their works. And for all of Jane's passionate protestations in the film about the popular 19th century perceptions of the novel as a female past-time, her argument is undermined by the narrative.
It seems to have been quite the week for cultural disappointments. I went to see The Science of Sleep on Sunday afternoon and whilst it was kitschily adorable and as eccentric as you would expect of a Michel Gondry film, it did stray into obtuse art-house noodlings at some points. Then yesterday evening, I went to see Les Miserables and failed to care about any of the characters or understand why it was the longest running West End show. On my way to the theatre, I was also confronted with the disquieting sight of Daniel Radcliffe's naked torso ten feet high on Shaftesbury Avenue. 'Twas not what I wanted to see on an empty stomach I tell you dear readers.
Poor you and your luck. But I get the impression that Mr Norton would be very small in real life, not just his hands. And I'm sure he cares deeply about his Art in an over-earnest way.
You'll be pleased to hear I frown severely in the direction of man-cardigans. I like clothes that can be zipped, buttoned, fastened, tied, far higher up to protect my delicate chest from the elements and demons seeking to pluck out my heart. I'm not sure about dressing like Mr Wolf, but it does seem that red trousers are this season's big thing. Could I compromise and dress like this, or are black wellies and hoola hoops too last season?
Actually I think my main fashion look for this year will be straight hair, short fringe, women's clothing, hairy chest, and CHACUN A SON GOUT written around my throat.
The Magic Position artwork would be good for a blog, with a nice merry-go-round feel ably symbolising life in its eternal meaningless brightlycoloured repetititition. But I do like the eyes, which don't give me nightmares (unlike most eyes).
They should really have done Becoming Jane in the style of David Cronenburg's Naked Lunch; I don't know how that would have worked, since giant cockroaches don't feature too largely in S&S, but it's the only film about a writer which isn't unfeasibly dull. Writers are dull. Especially if they write fiction, which tends to be made up. Rant over.
Ick, is your curse continuing? Were you cruelly deprived of pop diva-ishness (divanity?) on Friday? I think we are going to have to stage an intervention or kidnap. Do you have a cage suitable for holding Amy Winehouse? You'd probably need one of those bottles for rabbits/hamsters to drink from, so you could regulate her gin intake.
Unrelatedly, I would like to dye my hair hair red, but since my face tends to go quite red a lot of the time, whether through exertion, embarrassment, or being too stereotypically Scottishly stingy to pay cloakroom charges, I would probably look like a tomato. If I could look like a flame or other cool red thing, I'd be happier, but no. I'll investigate the Victorian undertaker look, even though I can't help thinking that The Horrors are just the Hives in a different vessel. It's all just garage rock to me.
I think I was very lucky to get to see Winehouse before her apparent heartbreak and breakdown. I think you're right and we need to enlist an elite team of pop stars to hunt down and capture Winehouse. And make her refund your travelcard. Those plastic tie things are good fun. I'm jealous of you and your exciting work environment. Though I'm not sure how suited they are to tying people up. I'm sure Amy Winehouse could chew through them. Probably best to tie her up with her own hair, which looks thick enough to blunt the sharpest knife. But truly your work is a palace where all things are available, from fancy dress to restraints. Do you have plastic tags long enough for a wrist or ankle? Please experiment on yourself if you're bored at work.
I think you're secretly turning into a goth, with your love for pale men with the appearance of self-harmers, your moody black and white photo of yourself, talk of being cursed, and you were mentioning The Horrors recently. Though I thought you liked nice wholesome blokes like Gary Barlow too. And I'm sure you could take James McAvoy home to meet your parents (except perhaps in faun/fawn guise).
Luckily I hadn't rushed into any Patrick Wolf-esque styling at the weekend. I was too lazy to get any form of haircut, still less to dye it red, buy red clothes, and acquire a merry-go-round to pose upon (though there's a nice space in my living room that would be great for a small carousel; can you fit a wooden horse on a treadmill if you don't have room for the full merrygoround?). So I guess I'm going to have to find someone else to style myself after. (Possibly not Mr Tumnus.) I'm not going to buy a mandigan, though, even though I'm sure one would communicate my sensible and stable nature.
I hope your curse is lifted soon. Maybe you should sacrifice something. A banana perhaps (though it's apparently unlucky to cut a banana, so maybe you'd have to throw it into a volcano, rather than slitting its throat on a stone altar. I'm spending my time at work reading about bananas.)
I'm glad you're preserving your sunny disposition despite recent provocations. Goth is such a cliche these days. Although most goths I've met are actually surprisingly cheerful, and quite a few like Take That. I may have to rethink my ban on the Mandigan, having found the world's coolest man. I'm not sure if the showgirl is an essential part of the costume, though. It certainly beats the alternatives: I really don't want to model myself on Russell Brand. My hair is far too short, to begin with, and talking like that gives me a sore throat.
I look forward to your top five, whatever it is you are enumerating. I hope scrabbling your boggle does not prevent its appearance.
I think that was Frankie Howerd behind the fashion icon in the mandigan, though the photo had no explanation. I thought his mandigan looked like it was cut from a particularly hard stiff blanket rather than cardboard. But either material would work. I'll probably still stick with hoodies though. Ahem, I mean, I'll stick with fashionably-cut tweed three-piece suits from Saville Row. Or possibly velvet.
Sadly I missed Cheryl Cole on Comic Relief Apprentice; I hope this doesn't mean a move into from pop into business (unless she wants to copy Adam Faith by being a pop star, actor, businessperson, newspaper columnist, TV presenter, and then denounce Channel Five on her deathbed. I can't think of any other pop stars with equivalent business acumen, aside from Dolly Parton and her theme parks, which I'm not sure how closely she's involved in, whether she sits at the controls of the rollercoaster or sets the prices of the candy floss.)
The full name of David Bowie's first son was Duncan Zowie Heywood Jones, though he goes by Duncan these days; are you more or less likely to marry Bowie senior now?
Sadly I'm not sure if Scooch's success can be blame on rigged phone-votes (though Terry Wogan reading out the wrong name was pretty suspicious). I think the British public are just idiots, plain and simple. I'm sure the patriotism of Scooch's performance will win hearts and minds from Rekjavik to Yekaterinburg. We so need to be invaded. Maybe they could have sent Tara P-T, and inadvertantly stranded her in Lappland.
Oh and "forced" to watch Making Your Mind Up? Yes, I'm sure you had no choice at all in the matter. Pfft. I think they should get John Barrowman and Mel Giedroyc on the X Factor.
The mancho looks supercool, and I'm sure very practical if you're a cowboy who tends for sheep and has to manufacture all his clothes using sheep byproducts and crochet hooks. Which isn't a rare occurence. http://whatnottocrochet.wordpress.com/ I'm sure has many other excellent garments
Well, I think I can believe you were somewhat mislead. Although I hope you recovered your remote control in time to watch worthy BBC2 documentaries or whatever. I undeniably agree that Scooch are Steps for people not intelligent enough to like Steps. I don't think Rachel Stevens is a valid solution. I think we should have imprisoned Fearne Britten until she started singing spontaneous songs of birdlike beauty. I can't continue on this theory too long but you have to listen to the French eurovision entry and then either judge that we are superior or change your name to Hogne-Angne and emigrate.